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I zero in on a man in the centre of the group. Tall, with wide shoulders and muscular frame that makes his white business shirt snug around his biceps, dark hair lit reddish by the sun, and an incredibly handsome face.
Matiu.
His eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses but I still see the moment he notices me, his long stride faltering enough for the beta man beside him to look between us and ask “A client of yours?”
“Nah.” The slightest breeze blows up the street from the ocean, sending a wave of berry-scented omega pheromones in his direction. I know this because every alpha in the group—four men and two women—reacts, heads turning, eyes snapping up from the ground, though every one of them bar Matiu dismisses my presence quickly, the first of the group passing me by on the sidewalk. It’s the polite thing to do, after all, part of the social contract between alphas and omegas that transcends borders and cultures.
But Matiu remains focused on me. I watch him take a deep breath, and then he smiles, though it seems strained. “I’ll be in shortly,” he tells his colleagues, and they continue on with a handful of curious looks, footsteps fading as they all round the bend and leave the two of us alone.
Time stands still. Everything is quiet. My heart beats rapidly in my chest.
When the slight breeze turns I finally catch his scent, muted behind a fading layer of neutraliser, and it’s not what I was expecting at all.
Peppery and sweet, layered upon a fresh earthiness like nothing I’ve ever smelled before. He smells like nature itself. He smells amazing. So good, so perfect for me that I perfume, slick pooling in my underwear.
He’s my scent match, but he’s not the scent match I’ve been chasing. There’s no pine, no salt. I don’t know what to do with this information.
Two scent matches? How are they connected?
“Hi,” I squeak, because I have to say something, and the little speech I rehearsed in my head over and over again this morning has disappeared into the ether.
“Kia ora,” he greets me, his tone wary. My heart sinks at the slight frown on his face. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it. “Did the heat clinic release my details to you?”
“What? No, I… Oh my god. No. No, there’s no heat clinic, I only arrived in the country yesterday,” I blabber in explanation as it dawns on me what this must look like. Here I am, his scent match, turning up outside his workplace with luggage like a crazy stalker ready to move into his house. He doesn’t know how I found his business card. Most alphas register the scents with heat clinics at some point in the hopes that their omega scent match just happens to use the service, but matchmaking processed through heat clinic services are still rare and unregulated. I can absolutely understand why a lawyer of all people would jump to the conclusion that a clinic had breached his privacy.
“I found this in my hotel room this morning,” I tell him, pulling his business card out of my pocket. He takes it, nostrils flaring, his frown now even more pronounced behind his sunglasses. It still carries the pine and salt scent of my original scent match, and I’ve got no doubt that he’s recognising it himself. “It was tucked in the pocket of this suit jacket,” I add, unzipping just the top of my suitcase and pulling the suit jacket out. “This was left in the closet of my hotel room. The scent on this… he’s my scent match, I can tell. I knew that if I took this to the hotel reception they wouldn’t give me his details, and they would probably ask to keep this, but I found your card in the pocket and was hoping that maybe this jacket was yours. But it’s not, obviously. But your scent is… I mean you’re wearing a neutralising spray right now, aren’t you? But I can still tell, your scent is also a match for me, which is crazy, because what are the odds? But is this problematic for you? Whoever he is, he had your card. I’m assuming you recognise his scent? Is he a client of yours? I’m sorry, I know this is a lot, I should’ve worked out another way, I just didn’t think email would even get past the spam filters and I didn’t think it was a good idea to call your firm and try to say this stuff over the phone, but I’m only in the country for four weeks and I didn’t want to miss what could potentially be a life-changing opportunity to meet someone important.”
He stares at me wordlessly.
“Sorry, I’m going to stop word vomiting now,” I blurt.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Elizabeth! Sorry, I should have led with that. You can call me Lizzie.” I hold out my hand for him to shake, overwhelming relief washing over me when he takes it. His hand is warm, dry, and absolutely dwarfs mine.
“Matiu. But I’m guessing you already know that. Those are some pretty mean detective skills you’ve got there.”
“Thanks.” I let out a slightly unhinged laugh. “I’m sorry again for approaching you at work, I feel bad—”
“It’s fine. It’s totally fine,” he reassures me. “You caught me off guard, that’s all.” He looks over my shoulder, in the direction of his work. “Why don’t you come in for a bit? We can talk about things.”
“It’s not too weird with your workplace?”
He shrugs. “They’re going to talk shit about us either way. I bet you a hundred bucks they’re in there right now trying to guess who the hell the pretty omega with the suitcase is. But maybe zip that jacket back away; they don’t need to know all the ins and outs.”
“So it belongs to a client?” I do as he says, shoving it back into the top of my suitcase.
“No. He’s a colleague from the Wellington office.”
“Oh. Ohhhh. Okay, I get the need for discretion. They would recognise his scent?”
“Some of the alphas I work with would, yeah. I’m not a fan of being the centre of workplace drama.”
“Neither am I.” Or I wasn’t, back when I was employed.
“Here, I'll take that.” Matiu leans forward, our hands brushing as he grabs the handle of my suitcase. This close, his scent is much stronger, the peppery hit going straight to my hindbrain, and I sway towards him, barely resisting the urge to rub my face in the crook of his neck.
I want to wear his scent all over me.
