"You're still on the floor," he points out, already carrying me across the open space toward what appears to be a gourmet kitchen. "And your dress is too nice to be sitting in dog hair."
He has a point. The D&G did not come cheap, and I'd rather not spend the rest of the evening picking Malamute fur off the lace.
He deposits me on one of the high-backed stools at the kitchen island—a gorgeous slab of black marble veined with gold that probably cost more than my annual salary. The kitchen itself is state-of-the-art: professional-grade appliances, copper pots hanging from a rack above the center island, a wine fridge built into the cabinetry. It smells faintly of spices and coffee, layered beneath his ever-present scent.
Someone here actually cooks. That's... unexpectedly attractive.
"Let me get you a cleaning cloth for your face," Tank says, already moving toward a drawer.
"No, you don't need to—" I start, then pause, realizing what I'm about to say. The words come out anyway, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter has officially clocked out for the evening. "I mean, I'll get sweaty anyway."
The moment the sentence leaves my lips, heat floods my cheeks. I can feel the blush spreading down my neck, probably reaching my chest, because I am an adult woman who just implied that I'm planning to engage in sweaty activities with a man I met approximately two hours ago.
Tank goes very still. His back is to me, one hand frozen on the drawer handle, and I can see the muscles of his shoulders tense beneath his suit jacket.
Great. Excellent. Wonderful. Way to play it cool, Rosemarie. Really nailed the sophisticated seductress vibe there.
I huff out a breath, squaring my shoulders. "Well. If that's what we're doing." A pause. "Even if we'renotdoing anything... frisky... I truly do love dogs, so please don't think I need to be 'cleansed' or anything. I'm not high-maintenance about pet interactions."
Why am I still talking? Someone please make me stop talking.
Tank turns to face me, and there's something in his expression that I can't quite read. Relief, maybe. But beneath that, something deeper. Something that looks almost like hope.
"You like dogs," he says, and it's not a question.
"Ilovedogs," I correct. "Haven't been able to have one in... a long time. But yes. Big fan. Would definitely let your giant fluffball tackle me again if that's what makes him happy."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Not one omega has ever liked my dog."
He says it like a joke—light, casual, throwaway—but I catch the hurt buried in the depths of those words. The history behind them. How many omegas has he brought home, only to have them reject Sasha? How many potential connections have ended because his dog was "too big" or "too much" or "too something"?
I think about the omegas who must have wrinkled their noses at the fur on the furniture. Who complained about the size or the slobber or the sheer presence of an animal that takes up as much space as a small couch. Who saw Sasha as an obstacle between them and this Alpha rather than a part of the package deal.
I think about how lonely that must have been. Finding connections that fell apart the moment someone met your best friend. Learning to brace yourself for rejection before it even happens.
Their loss. Anyone who can't appreciate a giant cuddly fluffball is clearly not worth keeping.
"Well," I say, meeting his eyes. "Today's your lucky day."
Something shifts in his expression. Warms. The tension in his shoulders loosens, and when he takes a step toward me—then another—there's a new energy in the air. Something that crackles between us like electricity before a storm.
"Maybe it is," he murmurs, closing the distance until he's standing directly in front of me. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that his scent wraps around me, overwhelming and intoxicating. Close enough that when he leans in, his lips brush the shell of my ear.
"You don't need to fuck me if you don't want to, Sweet Valentine."
His voice is low. Rough. The kind of sound that vibrates through my chest and settles somewhere much lower. But there's sincerity in it too—genuine concern that I feel pressured, that I'm here out of obligation rather than desire.
Sweet Valentine. That's... actually adorable. In a gruff, military-man kind of way.
I smile, feeling my nervousness dissolve into something more playful. Moreme. "Oh, I'm your 'Sweet Valentine' now, huh?"
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and there it is—the ghost of a real smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That would be the best way to describe it. Since I somehow brought an omega home from a Valentine's mixer."
I giggle—actually giggleagain, which is embarrassing but apparently unavoidable around this man. "Don't you think it's a bit early for Valentine's talk? It's the first week of January."
"The moment the stores start putting the chocolates out," he says, his voice dropping into something warm and almost teasing, "I'm all game in the realms of love."
Oh. Oh, he's smooth. Smoother than I expected from someone who looks like he could bench-press a small vehicle and responds to the name "Tank."
