She jumps a mile when I move back past her. Admittedly, she was still locked in a face-off with Matty, so she didn’t sense me. Not that Matty and Valentine give a shit. Even before I can mutter an apology for spooking her, they’re shooting glares my way.
Making more noise than necessary, I move around her and start grabbing food out of the fridge. Now that she’s snapped out of being bedazzled by Matteo, I can feel her watching. She’s back in the game, back to being calculating in her caution.
While Layne was distracted on her phone call, Valentine, Matteo, and I had a lightning-fast discussion and agreed to keep our initial meeting with her light and easy. Later, we’ll get pushy, demanding answers about the bruises and the haunted look inher eyes. It’s easy to see that her trauma goes back further than what went down in the alley, and I want to know what happened.
I’m purposeful in the way I move, twisting to catch her attention. “Have you eaten?”
When she shakes her head as an answer, I point to the chair closest to the stove, indicating where she’s to sit. Not waiting for her reaction, I line up a row of items to be cut up, also setting up a knife and a cutting board. It’s obvious what I’m asking her to do, and she moves in close, seeming comfortable now that she has a task.
“I’m going to make frittata’s. Is there anything you don’t like?” I ask, washing a couple of tomatoes and the scallions. Keeping my gaze away from hers is a necessity. Otherwise, I’ll end up picking her up and plopping her on the island, demanding to know who is responsible for the look in her eyes.
She takes a second to answer, her focus split between what she’s doing and being overly aware of us. “Seafood.”
“No shit? I can’t stomach it, either. Matty loves it.”
Layne shrugs before picking up the knife and peeling the washed scallions I placed near her board. I can practically hear her mind at work. Her scent starts to break through the blockers she’s taken, and I try to keep a straight face when I finally figure out her scent—caramel. I watch her mouth to keep me on track, as opposed to chasing more of her scent.
“I’m allergic to all seafood.”
Her quiet, almost reluctant admission snaps me out of my scent-struck state. But she’s not finished speaking, and she rolls her shoulders, sitting taller, making it impossible to miss the importance of what she’s saying.
“I hate to be that person, but if any of this has touched fish or shellfish, I can’t eat it.”
In the space of a millisecond, and before I answer, I mentally backtrack what we’ve had in the fridge in the past few days. “Wow, so it’s a bad allergy, then?”
She lifts her chin, and there’s a flare of spice to her eyes—and her scent—as her lips pull together. “Had I known I was coming to visit, I would have grabbed my EpiPen and a bottle of wine.” There’s a healthy dose of sarcasm in her voice, but she throws me a cute-as-hell, coy smile. It makes me want to taste her lips, to see if they are sweet or spicy. I could do both. Easily.
Instead, I try to keep things light as I snap back. “Bit early to drink. Plus, we shouldn’t drink when we have important things to discuss.” I bend down, so she can see my teasing expression.
The flare in her eyes brightens, but I turn away, leaving her hanging as I whisk the eggs and set the heavy frying pan on low, letting it warm slowly. Much like I’m doing to her.
“Like?” she asks eventually, giving away her impatience.
“We talk business on a full stomach,” I insist, and instead of arguing, she gets busy. But I don’t miss her small huff of annoyance. It gives me another dose of her sweet scent, along with more confirmation of the chemicals hiding the depth of her scent.
The quiet we share should be full of peace, but my imagination runs wild, coming up with scenarios for why someone like her would choose to use blockers. It’s hard not to be suspicious as fuck. I get I’m an Alpha and she’s an Omega, so in terms of strengths and weaknesses we’re as different as chalk and cheese, but denying your very nature is dangerous, and no way to live. Luckily, for her I’m a problem solver.
Inevitably my focus shifts from trying to figure out problems and falls back to watching her. It’s easy to see in the way she’s chopping that she has helped in a restaurant, but she’s no qualified chef. Not that it matters in the least. While wework through cutting up what’s left, Valentine and Matteo both disappear then return within moments of each other.
Valentine’s phone rings, Vitale’s number flashing on the screen, but given the company, my brother ignores the call. Before Vitale can try mine, I quickly call Valentine, and he answers. We leave our connection open, so Vitale will keep getting the busy signal or getting diverted to message bank each time he calls. And he will keep trying, because he’s like that.
Valentine jumps on the task of making coffee next, and when our guest makes an offhanded comment that cappuccinos are only for tourists, he nearly burns his hand on the steamer. Back home, we know coffee etiquette, here, we’ve come to realize people barely know coffee, period. Unknowingly, she seals her fate as being ours when she looks at him with challenge in her eyes and asks for an espresso.
Valentine fights to maintain a mask of indifference, but his unique coffee scent fills the kitchen more than the coffee he’s making, also signaling his interest in her. I get it—she’s fucking stunning. Period. But aside from her looks, she exudes an energy that’s more than a little appealing. The glimpses into her personality point to her having an edge of sass, without being a stuck-up bitch, and a healthy dose of independence and self-confidence, all attractive qualities. Despite having spent so little time with her, I have no trouble deciding that she is the complete opposite of the Mafia princesses we’ve been successfully avoiding.
As I’m plating breakfast, Matteo reappears, dressed in a suit, ready for business—or pleasure, judging by the extra effort he’s put in to what he’s wearing. He’s certainly feeding the mafia aesthetic of being more machine than man considering he got injured earlier, but appearances are everything in our world although she’s a big motivator too. Layne doesn’t focus only on him. She stays in the moment, dividing her attention—tinysmiles, quick glances—to include all of us and we all get swept up in her orbit.
I divide the portions, and we sit down to eat. She doesn’t pick up her fork immediately; instead, she peers at the plate nervously before eventually looking at me. Doubt clouds her pretty eyes, changing the warmth and the caramel color to something I don’t like one bit. I regret the bark as soon as it leaves my mouth. “What?”
“Do you promise there’s no seafood in this?” Her voice is reserved, more nervous than it has been since she first walked in.
“Of course.” I answer as fast as I barked my question at her.
She looks down again before turning slightly in her chair to look directly at Matteo. “It would be an easy way to deal with the no witness thing.”
He nearly flies out of his chair, wincing afterward, in desperation to touch her. No shit, he’s totally struggling not to sweep her up in a hug, but he gets his need under control before nearly begging her to believe him when he answers. “Jesus, I assure you, we are not killing you.”
Layne’s eyes fall to her plate, and she takes a series of small exhales, like she’s coaching herself into deciding. Pretty quickly, she picks up her fork. “Okay.”
