“Yes, please. Can you choose something? I’m not really great with wine. My packmate usually handles that.”
I try to focus on the menu to find something he hasn’t ordered. Then my eyes pop wide at the prices.
I catch him looking at me over my menu. I want to hide for some reason, but I can’t. I’m here on a mission, so I fold the menu shut.
“I think you’ve ordered enough for the whole restaurant.” I try to make that sound sexy, but I’m not sure it’s working.
“Oh, yeah, I didn’t really eat after training today and with all the puking…” He freezes and then squeezes his eyes shut.
“Is puking a hockey thing?”
“Can we pretend I didn’t say that? Just chalk it up to your beauty and low blood sugar?”
Beckett is so… earnest. He’s talking as if he means every word, rather than slathering compliments on you to make what they do next okay. Every emotion he has flashes right across his face. The waiter returns with wine and does that whole thing with giving the alpha at the table the first sip to see if it meets his approval. I thought they only did that in the movies. The wine passes and our glasses are filled.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Beckett says, his voice low. “I don’t really know how to tell if a wine is good, but if you try to skip this step, the servers get all weird. Liam is the one…”
I smile, and it’s only a little forced. Beckett isn’t the point here. He’s the tool. This would be easier if he didn’t smell so good.
He stops me with the glass halfway to my lips to touch his glass to mine. The soft chime sounds magical. I notice his knuckles are all busted. My heart starts pounding in my ears. Reed’s knuckles looked like that from time to time.
“Who did you hurt?”
Some weird emotion flashes across his face that I don’t really understand. He carefully puts his glass down, and doesn’t look at his knuckles. When he lifts his head, I know he’s going to lie.
“It’s part of the job. Not really a big deal.” But it’s a big deal to Beckett.
“You beat people up for a living? I thought you played hockey.”
“Well, yes. Fighting is a part of hockey. I’m a defenseman, that’s what I do. This happens sometimes.”He flexes his hand. “We wear a lot of gear. Sticks, facemasks, blades, teeth, they can all get in the way.”
“Why are there fights?” The second the words come out of my mouth, I regret them. I’m supposed to be seducing him, not interrogating him. “Don’t mind me, I don’t actually know anything about hockey.”
He tilts his head like a puppy, as if that is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.
“How did you get hooked up with Marilyn?”
Turn on the charm, Ash.
“Oh, you know, Marilyn and I go way back. She mentioned you and showed me a picture. You were just so handsome.” I flutter my lashes. That’s what omegas are supposed to do, right?
The smile is back on his face. But not the typical alpha one that lets you know he thinks he’s hot shit and better than you.
The waiter is suddenly right there. “Lobster for the lady. I brought you clarified butter and lemon,” he explains as he arranges the plates. This is more than Beckett ordered.
“Compliments of the chef.” The waiter beams at Beckett. “He remembered how much you liked the spicy salmon and crispy rice from the summer menu. He said to tell you Bugrov deserved to be ground to dust.”
Beckett is visibly uncomfortable and masks it by snapping his napkin open.
The waiter is beaming, oblivious to Beckett. He opens his mouth, but I cut him off.
“Could I get a coke, low ice? Two lime wedges, on the rim not in the glass?” I rattle off this bratty beta’s drink order. She comes in every Tuesday like clockwork and has regular meltdowns over citrus in her drinks. I don’t even like lime. I don’t know why I did that.
Beckett lets out a breath, and his shoulders relax just a touch as the waiter steps away. He nudges the plate toward me, as if itoffended him, and takes one of the dumplings instead. I glance at the table next to us. The man’s plate is piled high with thick-cut French fries that he eats with a knife and fork. I thought appetizers were finger food. I guess this place didn’t approve of eating with your hands.
I cut into the lobster and dip it in butter. When it hits my tongue, I hold back a moan. By the time I look up, Beckett is already through his dumpling, and the last bite of the crab cake is making its way to his lips. His really pretty, plump lips. I lean forward. The lighting in here is soft, kind of dark actually. The smudges under his eyes aren’t shadows. I have enough experience with black eyes that I should have clocked it right away.
Fights. He gets into fights as part of his job. A shaky feeling starts in the center of my chest, and I want to rub it out. The French fry guy and his date keep leaning in close to whisper and throw glances at Beckett. Weird.
