“I’m Kurt,” he says. His blue eyes are curious but guarded. His handshake is firm but not overly rough. Exactly what I’d expect of an Alpha meeting his kid’s lovers. He takes a half-step back and turns toward the third man.
“And I’m Phillip,” he offers. His dark hair flashes nearly maroon under the low lighting of the alcove.
Neither man looks anything like Cole. It’s easy enough to see the resemblance between him and Johnathan as he approaches. They have the same nose and jaw, the same eyes. Cole’s skin is darker, though, a warm olive instead of a golden tan. He must get his coloring from his mother—the Omega he never mentions. Charlotte had mentioned some of the articles floating around involving her. I didn’t blame Cole at all for not interacting with her.
Johnathan’s gaze is shrewd, soaking in every detail about us. Charlotte shifts uneasily, a sour edge creeping into the sage scent slowly pulsing from her. I grab her elbow in silent warning, and her shoulders tighten.
Cole twists toward her, a subtle shift of his shoulders. Jonathan pauses a few feet away, tucking his hands into his pockets. Instead of saying anything, Cole kisses her temple. The growing tension slips away from her body.
The man is quick to close the distance as soon as her scent loses the sour note. He holds out his hand to each of the women, introducing himself with an ease that signals just how often he’s meeting new people, before focusing on me.
“Marcus,” he says in his quiet baritone. It surprises most people when they first meet him that he’s so soft-spoken. Especially when the Omega they’d been matched with certainly wasn’t. But I’ve seen him command entire ballrooms full of people with that calm voice. I take his offered hand, and God help me, I’m back in LA at that fundraiser three years ago.
“I didn’t realize you were no longer with the philharmonic.”
“I took a position with the New York Philharmonic just over two years ago,” I explain.
“Ah. Congratulations.” His smile is genuine, lighting his eyes. “I’m sure you’re a phenomenal asset for them.”
I shrug off the compliment. “It’s the people I oversee that really do the work. I just turn in the reports every quarter.”
And that’s not even wrong. I might attend all the fancy events, might try to learn the wealthy benefactors that fund the arts in New York City by name, but it’s the team underneath me that does the heaviest lifting.
“You know each other?” Megan asks, clearly shocked.
Johnathan drops my hand and turns to her. As he does, he grips Cole’s wrist, the movement so fast it must be innate, something they do all the time. Cole’s small shake of his head is even more subtle. It doesn’t match the sudden rush of anxiety through the bond. I palm the small of his back again.
“My entire job is convincing wealthy people to donate their money to the arts, Megs,” I say dryly. “First in LA and now here. Of course I’ve met and talked with Johnathan Fallon.”
Megan stares at me, practically dumbstruck. Johnathan laughs, the sound light and airy like his son’s.
“Let’s sit and eat.” He gestures to the table behind him. “We have all night to learn about each other.”
As we settle around the table, Cole’s chair closer to mine than is really necessary, Cole clears his throat. “It’s an event of my dad’s where I met Marcus, actually. A fundraiser for some music nonprofits that help at-risk youth in LA.”
All three of his dads tense at the mention of the event. Confusion rises in me followed almost instantaneously by worry. No one says a word until the waiter comes and takes our drink order. As his dads are giving theirs to the young woman, Cole leans into me.
“Sienna did something really awful to my sister Violet there this year. It’s not about you.”
I force the worry down until he can’t feel it.
“So, Megan, Cole tells me you’re an ER nurse?” Kurt asks.
She nods and gives a bit more detail. We dissolve into amicable conversation, no real awkward lulls or uncomfortable comments. Just like with Cole, being around his fathers is easy. Natural. I squeeze his hand as the food comes. He glances at me, a happiness lighting his eyes. And then I feel it in the bond: the weightless feeling of his joy.
Twenty-Nine
COLE
Settling into life with Pack Harper is easier than I could have ever dreamed. By Wednesday, it feels like I’ve lived here for months instead of less than a week. The three of them are like a perfectly coordinated dance, each moving around the others with ease and grace. And, by some miracle, I blend into the movements, too.
Mornings are the lifeblood—Megan prepping her lunch while Charlotte braids her hair and packs her bag with her pointe shoes and dance outfits. Marcus always goes for a run, timing it so he can say bye to both women before they leave before six to catch the proper public transit. And then Marcus and I have an hour to ourselves before he has to leave, too. An hour he’s spent the last two days using to acquaint me with various pieces of furniture throughout the house.
Just the reminder of how he’d bent me over the side of the sectional and took mesoslow and deep this morning has my blood heating. An answering pulse through the bond gives me his reaction to where my thoughts have gone.
With a small smile, I load the last of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, grab the shirt Marcus had left on the counter and Megan’s sweatshirt from the ground, and then carefully navigate the stairs to my room. I press Megan’s sweatshirt to my nose, reveling in her raspberry scent, and then leave both pieces under one of my pillows.
Is it weird and borderline demented I’m smuggling their clothes so I have their scents constantly in my nest? Absolutely. But the warmth and happiness I feel surrounded by the lovely blend of scents is enough to have me not questioning it. At least, not too much.
