“This one matters to you,” he says softly. None of the others have a hope of hearing him over the music, especially not with all the weights starting to get thrown around.
I tip my head back and blow out a breath way too forcefully to be a sigh.
“Yeah,” I admit, though even that admission has me wanting to hide. “Yeah, this one matters a lot.”
“Marilyn has you going on a date with a virgin? That’s bold even for her. I hope she’s warned the Omega that you’re… a lot.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m no larger than you,” I mutter.
Ashton just arches an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m aware. I stand by my comment.” There’s a brief quiet. “I can’t believe you let Marilyn set you up with someone so inexperienced.”
It would be safer for Carys, for all of her concerns over the media fallout, if I let him think this was because of Marilyn’s meddling. Too bad my face doesn’t get the memo. The disgusted grimace flashes before I can keep it back.
“Marilyn had nothing to do with it,” I grouse.
Ashton sputters, completely shocked. His eyes widen. “So you just… ran into a virgin at the mall on our one day off in the last six weeks and decided going out with a nineteen year old who might not even sign the NDA was a good idea? Jesus, Rhett. That’s wild even for you.”
“She’s not nineteen,” I grouse.
Ashton snorts. “Oh, sorry, because twenty makes it any better. You know we’re all on tight leashes this year, right? Is this really the season to be fooling around with jailbait?”
I growl in frustration, my scent pulsing in a bitter warning. Carys isnotjailbait. She’s a damn college graduate and business owner for Christ’s sake. Both of which are more than I can claim since I went up for the draft when I was twenty. I’d even gone a year later than expected, waiting for a weaker total draft class to ensure I went second overall instead of top ten.
“She isn’t jailbait.”
The words are no better than a snarl, my lemongrass echoing my irritation. My hands shake with the sudden violent desire to punch Ashton for implying Carys is anything other than a goddamn goddess I don’t fucking deserve.
I stand from the bench and grab the water bottle I’d tossed carelessly when we started the bench presses. We still have another couple exercises before we’re finished, and there’s no way I’ll get through them this pissed off. I try to calm my breathing, but it doesn’t really help. Ashton follows after a moment, quiet as ever. His attention is like a scalding brand on my back, though, as I pick up the free weights.
“So she isn’t jailbait,” Ashton says after a moment, casually adjusting my form on one of the exercises that’s been added to our routine this year by the new physical therapist. “And she isn’t a blind date arranged by Marilyn…”
He trails off, clearly wanting me to finish the sentence with who Carys is. I bite the inside of my cheek. The silence stretches between us, and I start the exercise with my other arm. I’m still way too angry, his comment bouncing around in my mind.
Shit, we hadn’t talked about an NDA. It hadn’t even occurred to me that we might need one between the two of us. Not with her begging to keep it a secret for the time being, so worried about what will happen with my career—more than even how the attention and limelight will play out for her. She’s not even wrong about her fear, though. Ares will likely kill me when he finds out that I’m interested in his daughter. Will the scent match be enough? I’m not sure. Not that I honestly give a damn.
“I can’t tell you,” I say after setting down the lighter weights and grabbing the heavier set. “I promised her I would keep it a secret.”
Ashton raises an eyebrow, his shoulders dropping in surprise. “You promised her secrecy? I…” He grunts, one of those sounds that conveys frustration and disbelief, like when some asshat gets a rebound on him and it gets into the net. “You sure she doesn’t just want your money? This whole thing has red flags all over it, man.”
I glare at him. “She’s my scent match, Ashton. I’m sure.”
It takes Ashton a minute to absorb that, but then his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. I’d laugh if I wasn’t shitting myself over admitting I’ve found a scent match.
“You found a scent match? And she’s a virgin?”
I start the next exercise. Ashton leans against the rack of kettlebells, still calibrating around my confession. My thoughts drift to the reservation I made for tonight, the careful planning of dinner and getting there and back without—hopefully—garnering attention from unwanted cameras. I swallow down the sudden excited nerves crowding my throat.
“Yes,” I mutter, “and I have a very secret date with her tonight at one of the vineyards just outside of the city.”
I pause, trying to gauge his reaction. He still seems stunned more than anything. He gapes at me like I’ve just jacked off in front of him or something equally absurd. When he doesn’t say anything more, I just let my worry fall out of me in a rushed whisper.
“We have a date, and I’m picking her up in less than six hours, and now I’m panicking because I don’t know what the hell to do with a virgin to make sure she doesn’t hate the entire experience.” I groan. “I mean, yes, I do. Physically, I mean. I know to take it slow and check in and get her comfortable and to not try knotting her the same night we fuck the first time because I know that just makes the aftercare more painful for her. But, like, emotionally and shit? I’m flying blind here.”
I know as much about emotional aftercare as I do soccer. Which is a vague idea of how to keep the ball inside the field… and not much else.
“Wow,” he says. “Damn, man.”
I am so fucked.
