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I huff. “I know you met yours, but that doesn’t mean I have one. They’re very rare.”
“Not as rare as you think. My mate’s best friend and his best friend’s parents are fated mates. So, not too rare. Just touch, yeah? And let me know what happens, hm?”
“Yeah, sure.”
We hang up and I sit back, having a lot to think about. What are the chances I have a fated mate? Almost none.
Again, the next morning, Dylan sings good morning in my ear. I smile slightly and tell him I’ll be there in an hour. I repeat the same things from the day before, except I have the whole fated mates thing hanging over my head.
Trotting down the street, I try to talk myself into touching Dylan. I’m not sure how to even touch him. Does it have to be skin to skin? Can I touch him anywhere? Should I just randomly touch him?
Ugh. All the analyzing is making my head hurt. It’s already ball-shriveling cold. I don’t need more to focus on.
I’m greeted to loud holiday music when I open the bar door. I cringe, but focus on the sweet voice of Dylan, which dials down my irritation. Why does this tiny omega get under my skin? Could Rome be right?
He glances up and smiles, skipping around the bar. “You’re early.” I look at my phone and see that it’s only nine forty-five.
I grunt. “That a problem?”
“Not at all, Grumpy Scrooge. I have your breakfast here. You’re not opposed to having loaded hash browns two days in a row, right?” I shake my head. “Okay, good. Give me a minute. I put them in the oven upstairs.” He trots off and I follow him with my gaze, still trying to come up with a plan.
Fuck it. I’ll just wing it, I guess. Let it happen as it may. We have to shake hands or brush against each other at some point, right?
Dylan comes back down quickly, two take out containers in his hand. He opens mine and sets it in front of me. When he hands me a fork, I hold my breath, thinking this will be the moment we touch, but he just slides it in my hand and sits beside me. Oh well. There’s still time.
We eat quickly and in silence. Dylan keeps giving me questioning looks, and I fight not to fidget under his gaze. I don’t want him to think I’m up to something, even though I kind of am.
When we’re finished, we load up boxes in the bed of the truck and hop inside, heading over to the booth site. It’s less muddy today, having dried more through the night, but there’s still snow all around. Dylan parks us next to a snowbank and I look at him with a raised eyebrow. He just shrugs and I shake my head, not sure I want to know the inner workings of his mind just yet.
I hand Dylan the lightest box and grab a few heavy ones from the back. He eyes my arms and again, I raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re strong, Scrooge.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
“You work out a lot, huh?”
“Very little, actually. Though it should be more. Do you?”
He looks at me with surprise. I guess I haven’t asked him much, besides inquiring about his drinks. I tell myself to do better, even if he’s not my fated mate. Dylan is a nice guy. I can afford to be more friendly to him.
Getting his bearings, he clears his throat and says, “I run almost daily. I have to because of all those hash browns.” His eyes twinkle as he chuckles, some pep in his step as his booth comes into view. “This really is amazing, Scrooge. You might not like the season, but your eye for detail is pretty damn good. Just a few more things and we’ll be done. Want to pick where this stuff goes?”
I shake my head. “Since those are smaller decorations, you can stick them anywhere. My whole thing was making sure your larger decorations were symmetrical without looking cluttered. You have a lot of stuff here, Pickles. You want everyone to see it all.”
He places his box on the table and turns to me with his hands on his hips. “Why do you call me Pickles? What is that about?”
My face heats and I set the boxes down on the table. I know it was crazy when I thought of it and I hadn’t meant to say it out loud the first time, but it stuck after he didn’t understand. I thought his puzzled expression was adorable.
Shuffling my feet, I glance at him quickly. “I heard someone call you Dyl at the bar.”
He stares at me and blinks. Then blinks again. “Oh Gods. You are adorably lame.” He giggles, but I can’t tell if it’s at me or because of me. “I like it. I really do. No one has given me a fun nickname before.”
I refuse to admit how warm my chest gets because he called me adorable. I’m choosing to ignore the lame part.
I smile a little and we get started. It doesn’t take long since I’m taking directions from Pickles. He tells me where to put things and I do it. While we’re working, I’m thinking about how many times in the last few years that I’ve done something outside of work other than hanging with Miles and I realize it’s none. This is the first time in years I’ve done something that has nothing to do with the publishing house. Makes me wish Dylan had something else for me to do while I have these three weeks off.
Last holiday season, I was able to finish all the edits I had for the month and even called Stephan to help with a few of his. I was knee deep in my work, trying to keep busy as a distraction. But this year, I don’t have that option. Maybe I’ll see if Dylan wants to hang out or something.
Fucking Stephan getting in my head. I should have taken myself on that date like he suggested.
