Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

W yatt

The present

I open the drawer and scan my collection of spices. I’m cooking my famous green curry for the pack tonight. It’s the first home-cooked dinner we’ve had in days. Mostly because we’ve either been working late shifts at the hospital or out on dinner-dates with an omega.

Finding the pot of lemongrass, I pick it up and discover it’s empty. I groan and toss the pot in the recycling.

Owen – why the hell does he do that?

I search a couple of other cupboards in the hope of finding a stray pot of lemon grass, but when none are forthcoming, I admit defeat, switch off the stove and toss my apron onto the counter.

“Dinner’s going to be half an hour later,” I call out to my packmates, grabbing my keys off the hook and strolling into the garage where my pride and joy – my Aston Martin – is parked.

I’m at the store in ten minutes, finding a spot out front. The store is an artisan deli I discovered about a month ago. As well as selling freshly baked sourdough loaves, European cheeses and dried meats, it also sells a collection of international spices. And, hopefully, lemongrass. I can’t stand those mega-stores. Firstly, because all the different smells are too much for my alpha senses. Secondly, because there’s always someone who wants to stand and stare at the alpha. Despite there being a fair number of us in the city, we still seem to be a source of fascination to much of the population.

The people in the deli are more discreet, and the smells more natural. Take today, for example: the store smells of freshly picked peaches; ripe and juicy and smelling a lot like …

I halt in my tracks.

Harper.

Automatically my nose leads me in her direction, even if the rational part of my brain urges me to walk in the opposite one.

I conclude it would be rude not to say hello.

Just a hello.

It’s been two and a half weeks since we bumped into her at the beach.

I find her in the fresh fruit and vegetable section, bending over a selection of cucumbers. She has one cradled in her hands, squeezing it hard. My brain short-circuits, taking me to dark and dirty places.

I consider walking away, but my feet refuse to move. Instead, I watch as she runs her fist up and down the phallic-shaped vegetable (technically a fruit), humming under her breath as she does.

Then she spins around, spots me and gasps.

“Hi,” I say, eyes flicking down to the vegetable she’s still clutching, then back to her face.

“Wyatt.”

“I was picking up some lemongrass. I’m cooking tonight.”

My eyes flick a second time to the suggestive way she’s holding that cucumber.

Her gaze drops that way too, she gasps again, and drops the vegetable into her basket.

“Ten years ago, your repertoire consisted of omelets and noodles,” she says, cheeks rosy. “Now you’re cooking with lemongrass?”

I nod. “I’ve become a very accomplished cook.”

“Can you make lasagna?”

“Yes.”

“Tagine?”

“Yes.”

She taps her fingers against her pretty lips. “Green curry?”

“That’s what I’m cooking tonight.”

She laughs. “Wow. That’s my favorite.”

“Then you should come join us for dinner tonight,” I hear myself saying, the words rushing from my mouth before I can stop them. I almost knock my hand against the side of my head. What is it about this girl? She warps my senses, impacts my ability to think straight.

Her bright hazel eyes widen. “Oh,” she says and I fantasize about knocking myself about the head a second time. Harper made it clear to Daxton that she wants us to move on and find an omega. It makes sense – why else would she help us find one?

Besides, it’s the right thing to do. A relationship with Harper would be damaging – professionally, socially and most importantly for her family.

And yet, that non-logical side of my brain – the one that is all alpha instincts – doesn’t give a fuck. Harper smells delicious, looks delicious, is delicious.

Fuck curry for dinner. I’d like to eat her.

I wrestle past those thoughts and desires, and re-engage the rational part of my brain.

“Although, you’re probably busy,” I say, my throat tight as if I’m finding it difficult to say those words.

“Yeah,” she says, swallowing, a sadness flickering in her eyes before she replaces it with a smile. “I’ve actually got a job interview tomorrow – the Port Gallery. I should be home preparing but I hate interviews so any excuse.” She lifts her basket. “I’m actually surprised you’re even home tonight. Mom says you’ve been run off your feet with all these omega dates.”

“We have.”

“So,” she says, “any luck so far?”

I soak her in, all those curves, that smile, the way her eyes twinkle with mischief.

“No, not so far.”

She sighs. I assume that information is disappointing to her. She wants us tied up with an omega.

“That’s a shame,” she says, her voice sounding strangely flat.

She rearranges the fruit in her basket and I adjust my tie, noticing she’s caught the sun in the last few days, a cute bunch of freckles smattering her nose, the blonde in her hair even lighter – like sunshine.

“How about you?” I ask, struggling with what to say. I’ve always been better with actions than words, better with my hands – it’s one of the reasons I chose to become a doctor.

“Me?”

“Any luck with …” I swallow, “a pack?”

She moves the basket from her left arm to her right and fidgets on her feet. “Not yet.”

I wonder how that is possible. How an omega like Harper hasn’t been snatched up by a pack. Why she wasn’t snatched up long ago.

I wonder, why the hell didn’t we snatch her up long ago?

“Maybe I need some tips from you,” she jokes.

“You don’t,” I say. “You’re perfect as you are. More than perfect.” Her mouth makes that ‘oh’ shape and mine can’t seem to shut up. “In fact, if you weren’t Daxton’s–”

She shakes her head frantically and slaps her hand over my stupid mouth.

“Don’t say it,” she begs.

I gape at her. Her hand feels heavenly against my skin. Soft. Sensual. Tantalizing. I want her hands all over my skin. I want mine all over hers.

I take a step towards her, the distance between us shrinking, the store disappearing.

“If you weren’t my step-brother’s pack …” she whispers, that sadness in her eyes again.

Yes.

If we weren’t.

Life can be a real mean fucker. I should know that. I’m a doctor. I’ve seen it again and again.

I remove her hand gently from my mouth, cradling it in mine, turn it over and kiss the back of it.

“Good luck with the interview, Harp. I really hope you get it.”

Then I’m hurrying out of that store before my treacherous mouth does anything else stupid.

I’m halfway home before I remember I forgot the lemongrass. I’ve been too distracted reliving the last time I took her hand in mine … or more to the point, her foot.