Yeah, right. No one needs an alpha like me.I don’t say the words, though; they just fester inside, like my parents taught me.
My mortification lasts another half an hour until prep is done; my grim mood lasts longer. Franco ties a black apron around his thickening middle and checks his hair in the mirror. It’s one of his habits that took me forever to get used to. When I asked why, he said that his omega loves his hair, so he always makes sure it looks good for her. The answer stuck with me for months. I dreamed of having an omega who still liked my hair after forty years and found myself yearning for something I’d never given much thought to.
My parents don’t even like each other, much less any parts of each other.
Mind you, they don’t like me terribly much either. Especially since I decided not to take over the family law business they co-own. Throwing my life away working as a chef in a dead-end town in the middle of nowhere is not what they planned for me.
But I’m the happiest when I’m cooking, and Franco and his weird little not-funny jokes have become the cornerstone of helping me discover what kind of alpha I want to be. He’s been more of a father to me than my own father. Patiently teaching me, smiling at my mistakes instead of yelling, welcoming me into his family.
“I doubt she even remembers me,” I mutter in exasperation.
Franco walks past whistling. “Well, judging from the scribbles all over her English homework, I’d say you made an impact.”
I drop the frying pan I’m about to put on the stove and curse. “She scribbled?” I ask hopefully.
“Aww, I really like how red you go over my daughter, young Elijah.”
I don’t pout or strangle him, but it’s a near thing.
“You’re mean, Franco.”
“Being mean keeps me young. I’m like a shark. If I stop snapping at things, what use am I?” he says cheerfully.
I cock my head to the side, trying to figure out what he’s even talking about, but my mind is full of Sofia.She wrote about me?
“Oh, look at that smile. Yeah, you are totally still hung up on her. But I have to tell you, if you hurt her, I will break all your bones and put you in the minestrone.”
Minestrone?
“I’ll behave myself. I promise.”
Franco turns, singing La Vie En Rose as he whirls away.
I set everything aside and focus completely on service, pumping the dishes through, one after another, while Franco serves and entertains the guests. The night drags, and, in every spare moment, I’m stuck thinking of her until I think I will go insane.
Has she changed? Will she remember me? What should I say to her?
“Ready to go home?”
I nod my head and follow him out to the road with the cake I baked in hand.
“Are you excited for the Pack Makers tomorrow?”
I stumble. I’d forgotten all about it. Drat. “Uh, yeah, I absolutely am.”
“You are a terrible liar. That will help and hinder you. If you are going to lie to your omega, you need to get creative. Instead of answering “does this make me look fat”, you can pretend to think and say, “well, I love it,but I was really dreaming about peeling you out of that blue number you wore last year”.”
I blink at him. “Does that work?”
“Like a treat. Of course, the trick is to mean it.”
I purse my lips and check the carefully wrapped box I’m carrying. Everything still looks secure.
We get to the house, and I see a strange rusted car sitting in the drive. It is ugly and looks like it’s ready for the junkyard, but everything in me hates that she was driving this unsafe vehicle. I growl at it, surprising myself.
“Hello the house!” Franco booms.
He dumps his keys, picks up a whiteboard marker, and scribbles a massive F in the middle of it. Under his supervision, I put a small x in the corner. But my eyes find the one that stands out. A heart with devil horns in swirling flourishes. It’s her. She’s here.
