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"Baby Love McKinley, you're not a goddamn idiot. Despite your unbelievable attempts to rebel against my authority, I know your IQ is not actually a negative number. Believe me, we paid the doctors a fortune having you tested."
My hands shake.
"They ensured us that you're—"
A deeply tanned hand grabs my phone. Riggs disconnects the call and drops the phone on the couch next to where I sit.
"What the fuck was that?" he growls.
"My father."
"Yeah, I got that. Fuck that guy," he hisses. He scratches at his bearded chin. "Damn, I actually wanted to take a swing at him through the phone. That might be a new record on dickheadedness."
Pulling me off the couch, he wraps thick arms around me, and I lose the little bit of composure I had.
"I'm okay," I whisper, more to myself than to Riggs.
I refuse to cry over that man. My father can go fuck himself with a gilded dragon dildo.
Riggs' pine scent unfurls around us as he holds me to his chest. A warm, callused hand rubs its way over my back.
He's excellent at hugs.
"Seriously, that douche canoe is your father?" he asks.
I nod my agreement.
"Next time you see him, you should kick him in the balls," Riggs says, running his hand over the back of my head.
I snort.
"Fingers crossed, I'll never have to." I sigh. "If I do, though, I'll definitely take it under advisement. Although, he's spiteful. He'd probably have me arrested."
"What a wanker," Riggs says in a British accent. "I heard Ryder call Lachlan that the other night. It seems applicable."
"Totally, he's a maggot," I agree, nodding into his chest.
"Tosser."
"I'll have to consult Saint. I'm pretty sure that's the extent of my British terminology," I say with a weak smile.
"Knob head." Riggs chuckles. "Daft bastard, nutter, dodgy fuck. Ahh yes, I did pick up a bit of the lingo when I was across the pond."
I stare up at him. I can't help the smile that crosses my face. The look he's giving me sends a shiver down my spine. He's a little rough around the edges, but something about him makes my heart flutter.
Which is incredibly stupid to admit.
Why do I do this? Let myself catch feelings for men that aren't meant for me…
Betas are meant for betas.
Alphas like Vince, Jude, Issac, and even Dexter are meant for omegas. Entertaining these thoughts is asking for heartbreak.
I swore to myself I was going to stop letting myself fall for the wrong kind of guy. And bam, I'm right back at it. Setting myself up for failure.
"Do you miss it?" I ask, trying to clear away those ugly thoughts.
"Some things," Riggs says, pulling us down on the couch. "The fish and chips, the flake you get in soft serve ice cream—"
