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My heart raced, adrenaline spiking. I pulled Philip closer to me, sniffing his jacket, desperate for a scent–that tantalizing hint of caramel that had nearly made me tent my dress pants at the gala. When Philip shoved me roughly away, I realized it was probably for the better. If he had smelled like her… I don’t know how I would have reacted.
“Blonde hair?” I asked, searching his face for confirmation. He nodded. “Blue eyes? Most gorgeous girl on earth?”
“Well, I don’t know if I would go that far, you know, Margaret and all…” he hedged, but his eyes were sparkling, and a roguish grin flickered on his face.
“Seriously, Philip,” I said, suddenly feeling uncomfortably emotional in front of my brother. “Thank you.”
“I haven’t even given you her name yet,” he said, reaching into his jacket for a business card. He passed it to me. The card read LARA STEVENS, EDITOR.
“This is…?”
“Turn it over.”
A phone number was scrawled across the back of the card in messy, looping blue ink. And a name: Elizabeth Booker. I traced my finger over the letters, feeling the slight indent where my omega had written her name.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, unable to tear my eyes away. I felt Philip’s broad hand clap my shoulder, squeezing slightly, then he swallowed the last sip of his whisky.
“Listen, Charlie,” he said, his voice more serious now. He placed his empty glass on the table with a soft thud. “I know you think this girl is your fated mate, but… Just keep in mind: she lied to you. ” He paused, grimacing. “And, well, she works atCityStyle.”
“So?”
“There’s a reason you’ve turned down a dozen interview requests from that rag, Charlie. You know they don’t always… respect people’s private lives.” I knew. Itwasa rag, a gossip magazine that was 50% bullshit puff pieces, 50% Best of the City awards, and 50% photographs of quote-unquotesociety.I also knew that Philip valued nothing more than his privacy. Well, except his family. The former was, presumably, why he was facing my potential wrath to warn me off of–ofElizabeth. The latter, presumably, was why he wasn’t just keeping her identity to himself.
It wasn’t going to work.
“Thanks, Philip.” I said, meeting his worried gaze. “I mean it. Thanks. But… I got this.”
He looked as if he weren’t sure, but he didn’t press the matter. “Sure, Charlie. Now…” his usually stern face cracked a smile. “Want to get Schezuan tonight? I would kill for some cumin lamb.”
Ella
Friday morning,I got ready for work carefully, dressing as professionally as I could given my limited wardrobe. Mostly I just wore jeans and a non-T-shirt top to the office–we were casual in the newsroom–but today, the clothes I generally thought of as “appropriate for work” felt too juvenile, too… collegiate. Theyweremostly left over from college. I had gotten a scholarship to the highest-ranking university around, Collingswood, and between that and my campus work-study job, I luckily hadn’t accumulated too much student debt by the time I graduated a little over two years ago. Even still, my modest salary as a junior employee atCityStyledidn’t leave me with much left over after rent and food and necessities, and I wasn’t fashion-conscious enough to spend my extra cash on clothes.
I finally settled on a pair of black trousers (half of the suit I had worn to interview for my position) and a peacock green cable knit cotton sweater I had gotten on sale at a designer outfit. The little horse wasn’t likely to impress a Prince brother, but at least I felt like I was trying as I slipped into my favorite pair of black, block-heeled pumps, grabbed my battered work bag, and headed out.
* * *
As the early-winter sun began to set, casting a golden glow through the office, my anxiety level spiked. I was going to interview Charles Prince. Charlie. My brain ran through the worst case scenario, as always. I would show up at his house, where he had agreed to meet me, communicating via Editor Stevens. He would look at me with a sneer of disgust, say somethingreally meanlike “oh, it’syou,” and slam the door in my face. He would call Editor Stevens and tell her that actually, he wasn’t interested in doing the interview, not with the sad excuse for a journalist that she had sent round, and I would never get another chance at a cover story again.
Because that was what was keeping me going, what got me up from behind my desk and down the stairs and out of the office and onto the street and into a cab headed to Charlie Prince’s townhouse:this was my big break.
Or, at least, my first moderately sized break. It was hard to consider even a cover story a big break when it was for a local magazine whose primary purpose often seemed to be providing advertising space for plastic surgeons and interior decorators.
But still. Cover story. Editor Stevens had told me, in her brusque, awkward way, that she thought I was doing well, and wanted to see me tackle a bigger story than the event write-ups and short pieces I had managed thus far. She thought that I, as an omega, should take this story about the Omegas in Tech non-profit and its omega CEO, Natalie… something. I checked my notes. Natalie Marke. I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt about that detail of my assignment, but I knew the editor, an omega herself, wasn’t trying to make me feel weird about my designation. That was all me, as usual. The woman had told me, if not in so many words, that she was proud of me and she wanted me to succeed.
I stepped confidently from the cab, therefore, upon our arrival outside a large brick row home at least as big as my entire apartment building. I climbed the short flight of stairs to the front stoop, looking for the intercom–I hadn’t checked to see what floor he was on, but his name would be listed, I assumed. I had just come to the conclusion that therewasno intercom when the door opened, revealing… Charlie.
His face looked how I felt, and for that I was grateful, since it seemed neither of us were up to actually speaking. His blue eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, curved into an almost-smile, as if he meant to say hello and got distracted. I could feel the breath leave my body as we stood, separated by the marble threshold of what I was slowly realizing wasnota converted apartment building. The buzzing in my ears was back, that rush of blood to my head and, as I inhaled his scent, to… other places.
Andfuck, hissmell. Juniper, and a citrusy scent that wasn’t quite recognizable as any fruit I knew. Not quite orange–tangerine? Clementine? I couldn’t tell, and I found myself leaning in closer, towards–
Toward Charlie. Charles Prince.My interview subject.
I coughed slightly, shaking my head, and stood back to see Charlie now smiling at me with none of the openness that had been there when he had first opened the door.
“Hello again,Ms. Booker,” he said, and I felt the color in my cheeks rising. Before I could explain myself–not that I had much of an explanation–he continued. “Thanks for coming by.”
He stood back from the door, ushering me in, and I stepped into a grand foyer. A large, elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling high above us, and a staircase swept up to the second floor. How many rows of windows had been visible from outside? Three, plus dormers on the roof, plus a half-basement? I tried to do the square footage calculation as Charlie led me through the foyer. Five floors, each the size of one or two apartments each was… big. Really big. It was impossible not to gawp as we entered a shining kitchen bigger than my entire apartment, full of unused appliances and gleaming surfaces. Did he have a cleaner or was he the neatest 25 year old I had ever met? Or no, maybe he never had to cook, he just ate at restaurants every day? He pulled out two stools from a massive marble-topped island, then crossed to a fridge. The glass front showed neat rows of bottles: wine and fancy waters.
