Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

O wen

My alarm blasts a fanfare in my face at 8am and I drag myself from my bed, pulling on a pair of boxers and stumbling into Daxton’s room. I yank back the shade and let the Rockview sunshine flood his room.

“Get up,” I bark.

He’s sprawled out on his front, his face buried in a pillow.

“Fuck off. It’s a Sunday, and it’s insanely early,” he mutters.

“And we’re meeting Harper at ten.”

He rolls over, glances at the clock on his wall, and then peers up at me through sleepy eyelids.

“That’s two hours away.”

“Yeah, but you need to shave, man, and iron a fucking shirt.”

He blinks at me. “Why?”

I scratch at my beard and shuffle from one foot to the other. “We need to make a good impression.”

His sleepy eyes narrow even further. “Why?”

“Because it’s fucking Harper, Dax.”

Daxton rolls up to sit, smooshing the pillow against the headboard.

“Exactly. It’s Harper. We don’t need to impress her. There is no reason to impress her.”

He glares at me and I give him the finger and leave the room.

“She’s my fucking sister,” he calls after me.

“Step-sister,” I call back as I stride into Wyatt’s room next. He’s already awake, sitting up in bed, reading a novel. Or maybe poetry. Who knows with Wyatt?

“Two hours. We have to be at Harper’s in two hours.”

Wyatt picks up his wristwatch from his nightstand and examines the face. “Correct.”

“Then get up and get showered.”

Wyatt spends a phenomenal amount of time in the shower. Honestly I have no idea what that dude does in there. Perms his pubes? Plucks his ears? Who knows?

“You seem uptight,” Wyatt observes.

I pick up a bottle of aftershave from his chest of drawers and give it a sniff.

“I don’t want us rolling up looking like a bunch of hillbillies.”

“We never look like a bunch of hillbillies, Owen.”

“Just wear something smart, not that stupid Star Wars t-shirt.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It doesn’t say sexy, mature alpha.”

“Are there going to be other omegas there today we need to impress?” he asks, brow crinkling.

“No, just Harper.”

I walk out before he can grill me further and head straight into the shower.

At 9.30, I go knock on Dax’s door again.

“Are you ready?” I ask, opening the door before he answers.

To my surprise – although perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised – he’s shaved: face baby-smooth, dark hair styled, and he’s dressed in a pair of chinos and a casual button down – both ironed, the shirt tight enough to emphasize his biceps and his pecs.

I nod. “Good. You look good.”

“It isn’t for Harper–” he starts to say.

“Whatever,” I tell him and scoot round to Wyatt’s room next. There’s no Star Wars t-shirt in sight and I let out a sigh of relief. In fact he’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a white pressed t-shirt, looking a lot like James Dean even with the glasses.

“You ready to go?” I ask.

“We don’t need to be there for thirty minutes,” he informs me.

“The traffic could be bad.”

“It’s Sunday morning. Harper won’t appreciate it if we’re early. Women never do.”

Like he would know. “It’s better than being late.”

Five minutes later, we’re piled into my truck and driving over to Daxton’s dad’s place.

“Try to play it cooler than you did yesterday,” I say, hands on the steering wheel.

“Can you stop being so fucking weird about this?” Daxton mutters.

“You have to concede it is pretty weird,” Wyatt says. “We’re about to receive dating advice from your step-sister, a girl we spent seven days rutting–”

“It was her mom’s idea,” Daxton mutters.

“That woman is as keen to see us settled as we are,” I say.

“Probably because she doesn’t want us sniffing around her daughter,” Daxton says, directing the comment at me. “I’m telling you, Owen. She isn’t the girl for us. It’s too … messy.”

“Think about the impact on all our careers if it became known that Daxton was sleeping with his sister,” Wyatt adds helpfully.

“Step-sister,” I correct, but in my heart I know it doesn’t matter. It’ll still qualify as a scandal big enough to bulldoze all our careers, especially mine. Understandably, parents don’t want perceived perverts treating their children. My shoulders slump. “Okay,” I concede, “you’re right.”

Beside me, Daxton nods. “I’m glad we’re in agreement. We’re pack now, which means Harper is as much your sister as mine.”

“Step-sister,” I say weakly.

“She’ll help us find an omega – one who is right for us – and then that will be the end of it.”

Reluctantly, I nod, feeling decidedly less enthusiastic about this trip than I did one minute ago.

Daxton’s stepmom greets us at the door, along with the two pathetic excuses for guard dogs.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, as we pat the dogs.

“Always,” I say with a smile.

“Come on into the kitchen then,” she says, waving the dogs back to their baskets. “Harper hasn’t emerged from upstairs yet. She passed out very early last night. I think the flight and the party exhausted her completely.”

“Is she awake? Should we come back?” Wyatt asks, concerned.

“No, no, she’ll be down.” Melanie waves her hand and marches to the coffee pot, pouring us each out a mug. “Now, what can I get you boys? Bacon? Eggs? Pancakes?”

“Pancakes!”

I turn my head. Harper is hovering in the doorway, wearing a light summer’s dress this morning.

“I haven’t had one of your pancakes, Mom, in years. They’re the best,” she tells us.

“I’d better try one then,” I say.

“Right you are, then. Pancakes all round,” Melanie says. “I’ll make them. You lot go off to the lounge. You’ll be comfortable in there and Ethan won’t disturb you.” She hands Harper a fourth cup of coffee and ushers us all out. “Oh, the dogs are not allowed in the lounge. Don’t let them sneak in.”

In the lounge, we each find a seat on the couches, then we look at each other, sipping our coffees. It feels awkward, like a job interview or an oral exam.

“How’s the jet lag?” I ask her.

“Awful!” she says. “Don’t tell Mom but I was up at 4am raiding the fridge.” She lowers her cup to her lap. “How was your surf yesterday afternoon?”

“Garbage. No waves.”

She nods and then we’re all quiet again, back to sipping our coffees. Eventually I decide one of us has to talk.

“So how do you think we should get started?”

Harper swallows a mouthful of coffee. “I was thinking you could tell me about what you’ve been trying so far. What you’ve been doing.”

Daxton lets out a puff of air like reliving it might be agonizing. “Is there any point? It hasn’t worked.”

“Exactly, it hasn’t worked so it would be helpful for me to know what exactly you’ve been doing that has been failing.”

“Not failing,” I point out, “just not succeeding.”

“We’ve been to a couple of those alpha and omega events,” Wyatt says.

“Oh, I hate those things.” Harper pulls a face. “Mom forced me to go to a ton of them when I first presented.” Then she seems to collect herself and adds, “But they’re really great ways to meet people.”

“Are they?” I say flatly.

“Sure,” she says, unconvincingly. “I met one of my best friends, Molly, at one.”

“Is she single?” Wyatt asks, hopefully.

Harper shakes her head. “Sorry, no, happily packed up. But she met one of her alphas at one of those events. Most of the available omegas in the city attend those things. What events have you been to so far?”

“A dinner dance,” Wyatt says, “and also a speed dating event.”

“And?” she asks. We stare at her blankly. “What happened at those events?”

“Nothing much,” I say.

“Did you meet anyone you liked? Did you swap numbers? Arrange any dates?”

“We met the sweet omega we told you about,” Wyatt tells us, eyeing me and Daxton, clearly unsure if he should be divulging this information.

She smiles at us. One I don’t find very convincing. “And you took her on some dates?”

“Yeah, we took her to our favorite beaches, and she spent the whole time complaining about the sand,” I say.

“Well,” Harper says, shuffling on her seat, “omegas can be very sensitive, especially when it comes to their skin. Some omegas genuinely can’t stand the feel of sand between their toes.”

“Can you stand it?” I ask.

“I love the beach,” she says, smiling more genuinely this time. “I really missed it when I was in Paris. But,” she adds, quickly correcting herself, “I really hate the feel of cotton wool, and starched sheets and woolen jumpers when they’ve gone all hard and bobbily and are no longer soft. It makes my teeth hurt. Did you ask the omega what she liked before you took her out?”

“She said she liked surprises.”

“Urgh, I hate when people do that,” she leans forward on her seat, “especially when they moan about the surprise afterwards. Just tell me what you like, what you want.”

“Exactly!” I say.

She takes a gulp of coffee, then adds: “But lots of omegas can find it hard to be so direct. They need help to express their wants and their desires.” Her cheeks heat. “They need to feel safe and secure to do so.”

“Safe and secure,” I repeat, my voice rumbling in my chest. Daxton fires me another warning look. But I’m too focused on Harper. Are those goosebumps on her arms?

“How can we go about making her feel that?” Wyatt says.

“You’re alphas. You pretty much project it,” Harper mumbles. She clears her throat. “But maybe a little encouragement to express those wants and desires would possibly help.”

Harper never had a problem vocalizing her wants and desires. And, damn, was it sexy?

“Did anyone bring a pen and paper?” Wyatt asks.

“What for?” I ask.

“To take notes,” he says.

I shake my head.

“Hang on,” Harper says, placing her mug on a side table. “I’ll go get some.”

Once she’s left the room, Wyatt says, “This is actually useful stuff.”

“What? Hearing that omegas are sensitive? Didn’t you know that already?”

“I did, but I didn’t consider the impact of that when planning dates.”

I huff and sink back into the couch.

Harper returns several minutes later and passes a pen and a piece of paper to Wyatt. He snaps off the lid and starts to scribble away.

“Do you have any suggestions for date ideas?” he says.

“Hmmm,” she muses, tapping her finger against her pouty lips. “I’d avoid the cinema. It doesn’t provide much opportunity to talk and get to know each other, and besides which, you could get the film choice wrong and seriously upset her. Dinner’s always good but you need to check about food allergies and what she likes to eat and also it’s a bit …” She shrugs her shoulder.

“A bit …” Daxton says, the first word he’s spoken since we started this tutoring session.

“Everybody does dinner for a date. It’s not very original. A little cliché.”

“Then what would you suggest?” Daxton asks with a little irritation.

“Breakfast or lunch or maybe a picnic somewhere–”

“Just not at the beach,” I say.

She giggles. “Yeah, not the beach.” Her eyes float to the ceiling and I remember it’s what she does when she’s thinking. She curls her hair around her ear. “But I’d be tempted to go even more original. You’re never going to be able to compete with those billionaire packs, not when they can whisk omegas off in their private jets or book out an entire restaurant or–”

“Okay, we get the picture,” Daxton says flatly. “It’s clearly a lost cause.”

“You have other things to offer.”

“Like?” I ask, sitting up straighter in my seat.

Harper picks up her coffee and takes a long sip.

“What I’m saying is, you need to be more creative. Take her on a star-gazing date up on the Rockview cliffs, or take her to the Rockview museum, or take her roller skating along the beach. I don’t know, something fun.”

“Is that how your ex-boyfriend wooed you?” Wyatt asks her, peering through his glasses at her.

I try not to face plant into my own palm. Especially when Harper’s cheeks glow with embarrassment.

“No,” she says finally. “He was pretty useless at the whole wooing and romance thing which is why he is my ex -boyfriend.”

I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “Will you be looking for a pack now you’re back in Rockview, Harp?” I say, totally ignoring the death stare from Daxton.

Her cheeks turn tomato red. “No, I think I’m going to take some time to just be on my own.”

“Good,” Daxton snaps.

She swivels her head to look at him. “Good?”

“Yes,” he says, looking just as uncomfortable as she does. “I think that sounds sensible.”

“What sounds sensible?” Harper’s mom asks, walking into the room.

“Not dating for a while,” Harper says. “I think I could do with some time on my own.”

Her mom shakes her head. “The best thing to do after a disastrous relationship–”

“Disastrous?” Daxton growls.

“–is to get back out there. I don’t think it was sensible dating a beta, Harper–”

“–Beta?” I ask.

“–what you need to do is find some nice pack who will treat you right and spoil you rotten. Don’t you think so, boys?” she asks, addressing the three of us.

“Certainly,” Wyatt mumbles.

“I wouldn’t know,” I mutter.

“Sounds like a bad idea,” Daxton grumbles.

Harper’s mom smiles. “Pancakes are ready.”

We follow her back into the kitchen where she’s laid out an actual feast including a stack of pancakes probably higher than the Eiffel tower, plus fresh fruit, syrup, and bacon.

“Wow, Mom,” Harper says, pulling up a chair and dragging two pancakes onto the plate in front of her.

Melanie takes the seat at the end of the table and watches as the rest of us follow Harper’s example.

“So what have you covered so far? Has Harper proven useful?”

“Very,” Wyatt says, chewing, “we’ve been discussing dates.”

“I told them they need to be creative if they hope to be successful.”

Harper’s mom nods. “Do you know where your dad took me for our first date?” We all shake our heads. “The old, deserted pier down on Stone Beach. The sky is beautiful down there at night-time and if you’re lucky, you can see the dolphins.”

Harper leans her chin on her hand. “That sounds really romantic, Mom.”

“It was,” she says, pinching a strawberry from Harper’s plate. “I think that’s been your problem, Snuffles. Sure, Laurent had all that French sex appeal–”

“He did?” I say.

“–but was he romantic? Did he buy you flowers? Hold your hand when you went out for a stroll? Did he leave you little notes around the house?”

“I’d rather not talk about Laurent,” Harper mumbles.

“So would you advise us to be doing these things for the omegas we date?” Wyatt asks, swinging his gaze from Harper to Melanie.

“The problem is,” I say, “that we have to get a girl to agree to go on a date with us in the first place.”

“Well, surely that’s easy enough.” Melanie laughs.

“It isn’t.”

“They’ve been going to those omega and alpha events,” Harper explains.

“Oh, those always sound so glamorous,” her mom says around a mouthful of fruit.

“Hmmm,” Harper says.

“When’s the next one?” her mom says next.

“Next weekend. It’s a cook out at Pack Roller’s lake house.”

“That sounds fun.” She nudges her daughter. “You should go along Harper.”

“Me?” she says, almost choking on her pancake.

“Yes, you. It’s the perfect place for you to meet a pack and you could help your brother out while you’re there. You know, give him a few tips. Introduce him to a few of the girls.”

“I am not going,” Harper says firmly, stabbing her strawberry with her fork.

“It’s okay, Melanie. We don’t need Harp’s help.”

“It would be a great opportunity to meet new people,” her mom says, clearly not prepared to drop the idea. “Molly’s all settled down now with a new baby and a step-daughter. Jenny is engaged. It would be an opportunity to meet some new omega friends as well.”

Harper screws up her nose. “Most of the omega women in this city are stuck up.”

“Harper,” her mom says, making eyes towards us.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “that was unfair. Not all of them are. I’m sure you’ll find one of the few exceptions.”

“With your help,” Melanie says. “That’s decided then. The boys can escort you, Harper. And maybe you alphas will find a nice omega and Harper will find a new friend, or a pack, or both.”

Harper screws up her face and skewers another strawberry with a fair bit of force.

“Also,” Melanie continues, completely oblivious to the unease around the table, “Harper could put in a good word about you. Talk you up a little. Tell all the omegas how good you are.” Harper grimaces but her mom doesn’t notice. “You boys are new to the city,” she dips her head towards her step-son, “well, most of you are, and maybe the omegas are therefore a little cautious about you. There’s so many rumors circulating about unscrupulous alphas and devious types.”

“That sounds like another good idea,” Wyatt says, pushing his glasses up his nose and adding it to his list.

Harper’s mom peers at her watch. “I have my yoga session in twenty minutes. I’d best go get changed. Eat as many pancakes as you like, everyone, and help yourself to more. Harper cooks pretty good pancakes herself.”

“They’re called crepes in France. And they’re not as good. Too thin.” She holds up one of her mom’s pancakes.

“You prefer them thick do you?” I say, with a wink that earns me another disapproving look from Daxton.

“When it comes to pancakes, yes,” she says, smothering hers in syrup. “They also don’t have much maple syrup in France.”

“France sounds like it sucks. Why did you stay there so long?”

“Let me see,” she says, licking her sticky fingers, “the culture, the art, the fashion, the food.”

“The sex appeal,” Daxton mutters.

“You just said they had no maple syrup,” I tease.

“But they do have baguettes and cheese and red wine and the best cakes.”

“Maybe we should go one day,” Wyatt suggests.

“But no packs,” I highlight.

“Well,” she says, chewing, “there are, but it’s not like here. I guess it’s hard to meet them. I guess those stupid events are quite handy. I just wish they weren’t so snooty.”

“Do you have any tips for the events?” Wyatt asks, picking up his pen again. “Anything we should work on?”

“Your listening skills.” She bites right through a strawberry soaked in syrup and most of the sauce dribbles down her chin.

“Not our conversational skills?” Wyatt asks, making a note.

“No, listening. Too many men talk at women, rather than actually asking them questions about themselves and hearing what they have to say.”

“Won’t they want to hear about us?” Wyatt asks.

“Yeah, sure. But if you want to stand out, actually show you’re more interested in her than you are in yourself.”

“That means no more complicated explanations about coronary angioplasty, Wyatt.”

“It’s interesting,” Wyatt says, earnestly.

“It’s gruesome. Remember that omega who actually turned green in front of our eyes and had to dash off to the bathroom?”

“I think that was the oysters.”

“It was your story.”

Wyatt looks up from his piece of paper. “Well, you might want to lay off the stories about the sick kids.”

“Oh, Owen, you don’t.” Harper shakes her head.

“Girls lap that stuff up.”

“You made that girl at the bar cry.”

“But did you see the way she looked at me?”

“What? Through her tears?” Daxton says.

“Keep it light-hearted,” Harper says. “Don’t show off. Girls see right through that. Be genuine.”

“Genuine?” Daxton says, lowering his fork. “How the hell do we be genuine?”

Harper thinks about that for a minute, then shrugs. “I guess you’ll have to work that bit out for yourselves.”

She laughs, and I’d forgotten how beautiful she looks when she laughs like that. It’s something you want to be around. All of a sudden next Saturday seems a long, long time away.

I have a feeling Daxton is thinking exactly the same way because he’s staring at her, entranced. Then he snaps out of it and peers at his watch.

“We’ve got to go,” he says, pushing back his stool.

“We do?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, “low tide in five minutes.”

“You don’t want to miss those waves,” Harper says, poaching another strawberry.

Wyatt and I rise from our seats and all three of us stroll towards the door. In the doorway, I hesitate.

“This was really helpful, Harp.”

“Good,” she says, licking her fingertips.

“Actually, thinking about it, we’d benefit from another session before the cookout,” I say, ignoring Daxton’s evil looks. “A chance to practice our listening and small talk skills.”

“Oh,” she says, shuffling on her seat. “Don’t you have work?”

“We could come after work – say Wednesday at eight?”

“I’ll probably be asleep. This jet lag is a killer.”

“Even better then. We’ll help keep you awake. It’s how you get over jet lag. Trust me,” I wink at her, “I’m a doctor.”

And then I’m barreling the other two out the door before anyone can argue with my plan.