Her brow wrinkles and she nibbles on her bottom lip.
“See? She can’t even come up with a reason to call you that.” Odette is still here. Why won’t she go away?
Ren shrugs. “Okay, don’t take this the wrong way, but it's like… a pit bull that looks all tough and people are scared of them because they look like doggy bodybuilders. So their owner calls them Bruiser, hoping to reinforce that thinking, but really they’re just the sweetest, most loving cuddliest little puppy.”
“You think I’m a cuddly puppy?”
Another of those unladylike shrugs. “I think people look at you and see one thing and one thing only. And I think you’re so much more than that. Tough on the outside, a marshmallow on the inside.Bruiser.”
And I should correct her.
Should remind her that it’s Sir Ashbourne or Lord Grieves or whatever the hell my title is supposed to be tonight.
But she’s not wrong.
That is what people see when they look at me. A boxer. A fighter. Someone who earned their way with their fists. Theydon’t see what I’m like when I’m not in public, with my pack. Where I’m allowed to be something softer, gentler.
So, I hear myself say, “Call me whatever you want, Ren.”
Her smile brightens—fuckingglows—and I have to look away for a second just to catch my breath, before I’m right back to staring at her, unable to look away.
The other omega looks between the two of us, her irritation building and building until she finally mutters something about getting a drink, or a snack or some other bullshit I don’t give a fuck about.
She huffs when she doesn’t get a reaction from me and leaves us alone.
Fucking finally.
Ren arches a brow as she watches the other omega retreat, before turning and plucking a pinkish red drink off a nearby tray, almost pointedly, a small smile playing around those pink glossy lips of hers.
I watch, enchanted, as she takes a sip of her drink and then wrinkles her nose at it.
“Not up to your standards?” I can’t help but ask.
Her pretty multi-colored eyes flick up to me. “Oh, no its… it tastes fine.”
“But you don’t like it,” I press. Wanting to know why. Wanting to learn everything I can about her likes and dislikes, so I can be sure to always give her what she wants.
“It’s nothing. I just prefer a drink with bubbles.” She shakes her head at herself. “Basically if it's not coffee or tea, I want it carbonated. If I could get away with only drinking seltzer instead of water, I would.”
I glance around and find one of the resort servers lingering near the wall. When they meet my eyes, I jerk my head and they stumble forward. “How-how can I help you, my lord?”
“Do you have club soda? Or a seltzer?”
She tips her head, not meeting my eyes. “Of course.”
Ren’s eyes are huge as I pluck the glass from her fingers and hand it over. “Could you add some to this please? The lady would like it bubbly.”
Jesus, the lady would like it bubbly? What the hell is that? Why am I suddenly a complete and total smarmy bastard?
The servant whisks the glass away, while Ren just keeps staring.
Then she laughs. A full on belly laugh that cuts through the room, silencing most of the conversations as all eyes turn toward us. It’s nothing like the practiced laughs of the women I’m used to spending time with.
It’s so real, so true, and it lights me up on the inside, my stomach warm and fizzy… like I just swallowed a mouthful of the best champagne.
My own mouth twitches in response until I let out a chuckle. “What’s so funny, bubbles?”
That only makes her laugh harder, bending over with the hilarity. “I don’t know,” she gasps, wiping at her cheeks. “I think I just didn’t expect that from you.” She shakes her head and then says in a lower tone, mimicking me, I realize. “The lady would like it bubbly.”
