“Definitely rain check.” He runs a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. “Do you want to... I don’t know. Get dinner? I could cook. I’ve got a little space here at the nursery with a kitchen. If that’s not too forward.”
“You’re inviting me to dinner after I just stuck my tongue down your throat, and you’re worried about being too forward?”
“I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
“Dinner sounds great.” I smooth down his collar, which definitely didn’t need smoothing. “Lead the way.”
Chapter 12
Theo
Icouldn’t wait.
Lucas came home from his date glowing. Actually glowing. He found me in the kitchen and told me everything—the pen name, the books, the fact that she’d written us into her stories for a decade. Three alphas and an omega who returns to her small hometown.
“Scarlett Monroe,” he said. “Look her up.”
I did. By three in the morning, I’d read all four books. I could hear Lucas still awake in his room down the hall, probably doing the same thing.
By sunrise, I’d made a decision. I’d spent a decade holding back, being patient, waiting for the right moment. The right moment was now.
I asked Lucas for her number over coffee. He gave it without question, along with: “Don’t overthink it. Just ask.”
So I did. And now she’s standing in my greenhouse, surrounded by winter blooms, looking at me like I’m someone worth looking at. Telling me she wrote those books because she couldn’t stop wanting what we almost had.
I’ve imagined this moment for ten years.
I didn’t imagine the part where she’d kiss me first and I’d nearly combust.
We walk from the greenhouse toward the cottage, her hand in mine. The snow crunches under our boots and her scent surrounds me—honey and citrus and something sweeter underneath. Arousal. Want. My body responds without permission—pulse pounding, every alpha instinct I have screaming to pull her back into the greenhouse and finish what she started.
Ours. What’s ours. She belongs to all three of us.
But right now it’s just me, and I’m focusing very hard on walking in a straight line.
“You okay over there?” she asks. “You’re gripping my hand like it might escape.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re doing that thing where you clench your jaw.”
“I don’t have a thing.”
“You’ve had the thing since ninth grade. You did it whenever you were trying not to say something.” She squeezes my hand. “What aren’t you saying?”
I take a breath. Let it out slowly. Try to think about anything except how good she smells, how much I want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in.
“I’m trying very hard to walk to my cottage instead of dragging you back to the greenhouse.”
“Oh.” Her scent shifts—honey and citrus going warm and thick. “That’s... good to know.”
“Is it?”
“Very informative.” She’s smiling. I can hear it in her voice. “I appreciate the transparency.”
“I’m working on asking for what I want. Apparently it involves confessing my every thought like a lunatic.”
She laughs. “I like it. Keep going.”
