Page 4 of Glitterati Omega

Rupert smacked his lips together. “I can see why you think a Chianti might be the way to go.”

“There are other varietals,” Winston admitted.

“I don’t like this one,” Morgan complained.

“Of course you don’t,” Rupert muttered.

“C’mon, y’all, we’re gonna go down to the cellar now!” the guide called, waving their hat. Then they turned and sauntered away.

Rupert glanced at Winston, a half-formed, harebrained scheme taking shape in his mind.

Morgan elbowed him sharply in the ribs, and he stumbled to a stop. Morgan glanced at Winston’s retreating back; he was apparently oblivious to the fact they weren’t walking with him.

Satisfied he was out of earshot, Morgan whirled on Rupert, almost jamming their finger up his nose. “Don’t,” they said, “get any ideas.”

“Ideas?” Rupert scoffed, looking away. “Morgan, I’m blond. You know I’ve never had an idea in my head.”

This time, Morgan did tap his nose. “I can see you looking at him.”

He turned to glare. “Is it illegal to look now? When did America become so oppressive?”

Morgan shook their head, their curls swinging. Their lips were pressed into a thin line. “Listen, Roo, whatever you’re thinking … just drop it. I asked you to come so you can help me pick wine, not so you can try to tap my friend, okay?”

Rupert sniffed. “Frankly, I’m upset you’d accuse me of such a thing,” he said, slowly unfurling as Morgan backed away from him.

“You are not,” they muttered. “Webothknow—”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Morgan, I promise you, I am not the omega I used to be.” He locked gazes with them. “I, Rupert L. Cullinan, solemnly swear I am not trying to get in your friend’s pants.”

“Seriously, Rupert!”

“I am being serious! What more do you want from me, Morgan? A signed affidavit?”

“I don’t know what that is!”

“I do, and I don’t know why you’d need one.”

They both paused and looked at Winston, who peered back, one brow lifted. “Are you two going to grace us with your presence in the cellar, or have we quite abandoned the tour?”

“I’ll grace you with my presence wherever you should request it, my good sir.”

“Rupert!” Morgan barked, and Rupert giggled madly, darting past Winston in an effort to escape Morgan’s wrath.

,

The rest of the tour had been a blur, which Rupert suspected meant he’d been drunk before the end of it. That meant he was hungover the following morning and, as a result, he was late to meet Alina at L’Atelier Wren for breakfast. Or brunch, considering the clock was ticking closer to eleven, and Alina had a pitcher full of mimosas sitting on the table smack-dab in the center of the dining room, surrounded by a sea of white tablecloths.

Rupert wobbled his way over, ruing the fact he’d decided to mix his pain meds and heels, then plonked himself down in the chair. Alina looked up at him, lifting her brows, then poured herself a tall glass. “I take it you’re not having one,” she said.

“Given that I had a good deal of wine yesterday, not nearly enough water, about an hour’s sleep, a hangover, and just finished the fentanyl lolly when I got out of the car, I’d say you’re correct.”

Alina set the pitcher down. “I thought you were off that stuff,” she said, leaning over the table, folding her arms. Her braids swung low, the beads in them clinking as she tilted her head.

He averted his gaze and looked instead at the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Even if Alina had not been a master chef, L’Atelier Wren almost could have kept its Michelin-starred status on atmosphere alone.

“I’m supposed to be,” he sighed. “It’s probably all expired anyway.”

“You still having pain then?” she asked, which was a refreshing kind of question—not the usualwhy are you still on thatoryou really do need to stop taking itsort of response.