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His features darken even more, but his gaze strays to all the rollers and supplies. “What are you making?” It’s a simple question meant to distract me.
Welcoming the change of subject, I glance at my supplies and bite my cheek. “Oh.” The perfumes I make are meant to help omegas, but the one on my wrist did nothing to soothe the ache. If anything, it made things worse.
When I don’t respond, Austin grabs a roller, a citrus and spice perfume, and uncaps it, bringing it to his nose. “Wow. That smells great.”
Irrational jealousy spikes through my system, and I snarl, grabbing the roller and putting it back where it belongs. “These are for my customers, not you.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Okay, sorry for touching it.” He rests his hip against the counter and studies me. “So, you make perfumes for omegas?”
“And a few alphas.” I search for any hint of amusement on his face, but he simply studies the vials with a little more curiosity. “When an omega or a pack loses someone they love...or if an omega’s alphas are on a trip”—or otherwise unreachable—“the perfume is meant to help ease their pain. It’s not a substitute for the actual person, by any means, but the scents can be soothing.”
But apparently not, if emotions are strong.
“That’s incredible. And you have a lot of customers?” There’s no sign of mocking. Austin is genuinely interested in learning about my little business.
“More than I expected, honestly.” I gesture to the packed box that’s set to be picked up tomorrow morning. “It’s not always an omega in need. That’s a wedding party favor—the couples’ scent bottled up for the guests. I’m not sure I get why they’d want to share that, but it’s none of my business.”
“And this?” Austin grabs my wrist, the one with the mimic of his scent, and brings it to his nose. His lips brush over my skin on accident, and he takes a breath.
My heart skips and panic jets through my system. Muscles tense and ready to run, I tug on my arm, but he doesn’t let me go. He tightens his hold, brow furrowing, and inhales again.
Slowly, with my wrist still dangerously close to his mouth and nose, Austin’s gaze lifts, capturing mine. My throat goes dry, and I open my mouth to explain, but all that comes out is a soft sound. His eyes narrow, and he inhales again, lips caressing over my pulse point. God, his touch. Another desperate sound slips past my lips, and I could die. A growl builds in the back of his throat. I try to break out of his hold, but it’s impossible.
“What is this?” he demands.
“It’s experimental,” I say quickly, finally recovering. “Just a random scent I thought of.”
His eyes flicker with disbelief. “A random scent, huh?”
I nod. “I’m not sure it’s good.” The lie hurts.
Immediately, he drops my hand. Even though all I wanted was to escape his hold, disappointment tugs at my chest. He touched me. Again. Willingly. His lips brushed over my wrist, and even though it was an accident, the touch is branded across my skin. Just like our shared kiss all those years ago.
“What don’t you like about it?” he asks, drawing back a step, expression guarded.
“Um.” I lick my lips.Think of something, Quinn. Anything. “There’s something missing,” I confess. “It’s not quite right.” Musk, I realize. It needs musk. Not too much, just a hint.
“Maybe it’s all the descenting lotion you wear. Have you tried taking it off and seeing how it blends with your own scent?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
His face wrinkles in disapproval.
“I can’t let my scent determine what makes the perfume smell right,” I add. “It’s not about what I like.”
“But do you like that scent?”
I avert my gaze. “No,” I say quietly. The lie hurts, cuts to my marrow, a gaping wound. Austin grunts, but I can’t look at him, for fear of him seeing the blood spilling from my veins. Seeing the truth. I don’t hate it, not even a little bit, not even at all. I love it. I want more of it. I crave it.
As if echoing the hunger in my soul, my stomach gurgles, reminding me the bowl of cereal I had earlier wasn’t an actual meal.
“I’ll make some food.”
“You don’t have to. I have some granola bars that I can?—”
“I’m making food, Quinn,” he snaps. “That crap you eat isn’t good for your body. You can’t live off of granola bars and cereal.”
How does he know that’s all I’ve been eating? I glance at him, but he’s glaring at the phone on the floor again. “I’ll clean up and get out of your way.”
