Chapter Six

The way airports and travel had changed, I felt like I'd been living under a rock for a half century instead of about six years. Six long years, it seemed.

The entire process made me itch. The ceilings. The recycled, choking air. Taking my shoes off. Putting them back on. Put your things in a plastic container. Take them out. Spin around like a ballerina. Not too fast. No, that's too slow.

The only thing that got me through the ordeal of security was the hope that this weekend away would be good for me. Yes, there was the promise of an omega, a mate for me and my bear, but, truly, I needed some time away to clear my head. We had a busy season coming up at Sierra Adventures, and I had to have a level head.

Yeah, that's why I was going to all of this trouble.

For my business.

I let out a great sigh as the plane landed. I finally was able to release the armrests from my grip, seeing the imprints my fingers had made in the plastic.

"We landed," I said, complying with my brother's request for me to call him.

"Good. Your car is waiting outside." He proceeded to give me the license plate number of the car and the make and model. I asked him if he thought a random driver was going to pick me up and kidnap me.

Salem hung up.

I found the car, as promised, and the smiling driver loaded all my things into his trunk. Last time I'd caught a cab, the guy had a sour face and demanded a bigger tip. When I offered to tip this driver, I was told it was taken care of.

A short time later, I was in front of a large Victorian home, bags in hand, feeling out of sorts. This place was right out of a décor magazine or some website on design. And here I was, in my gray cargo pants, the kind with entirely too many pockets, and a casual white button-down shirt, rolled up at the elbows. My bags were older, the leather worn and unpolished.

I took a long breath and considered going home. The desert was the place for me.

"Hello!" bellowed an older man as the front door swung open. "You must be Bjorn. I've always loved that name."

I couldn't help but smile. The man was twenty years my senior, at least, but his joy and excitement made me feel like I was visiting an old friend instead of intruding on the home of a stranger, my only invitation in the form of a letter with a wax seal. "I am. You must be Franklin."

Taking the steps two at a time, I walked up, noticing the blooming red flowers that perfectly complemented the brightness of the paint.

"The one but not only. Come in. Let me get your bags for you."

I scoffed. "You will do no such thing." I felt as though we were instant friends. He had such a welcoming smile and an endearing way about him. When I walked into the home, it smelled of brown sugar and vanilla, as though the walls were made of freshly baked cookies.

"Your room is upstairs on the right. Come meet me down here for a snack once you freshen up. I used to show my guests to their rooms, but my knees are acting up today. You'll have to forgive me."

"Of course." I took the key from him and walked up the stairs. A huge stained-glass window embellished the midway landing and, at the top of the stairs I found two rooms, one to either side. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach at the thought. The omega I would be matched with might be behind that door. He might be here already, waiting for me. But Franklin would've said something, right?

Showered and feeling more like myself, I bounded down the stairs, eager to find out if an omega was there. My bear knew the possibility and wanted to burst from my human skin and search the place for him. He needed to chill.

"Franklin?" I called out with a twinge of hesitation. I'd only met the older man a few minutes before, and I was in his house, calling him by his first name. He had introduced himself that way.

"In the kitchen," he said. The kitchen. Didn't know where that was in this big, yet intimate home but my nose led the way.

"Anything I can help with?" I asked.

"Yes, but first, take some cookies. My late mate's favorite recipe."

I glanced at the large plate of saucer-sized treats. "Cowboy cookies. Those are my favorite."

The older man with kind eyes chuckled. "Around here, we call them ranger cookies, but I suppose the recipe is the same. I always add a bit of this and that, making each batch special."

"What's the secret in these?" I took one from the platter he offered.

"Brown sugar cashews."

I took one bite and swiftly came to the conclusion that Franklin had magic that went beyond setting up mate matches.

The man could bake.

"You said you had something I could do?" I asked, taking a second cookie.

"I do." He smiled, showing straight teeth. "There's a pit out back. Could you get a fire going for me? I usually end up cheating and putting one of those ready logs in and lighting it up."

Most people did. "Let's call it a shortcut. I noticed you're making some vegetable kebabs. Are you intending on cooking over the fire?"

"Yes. Does that make a difference?"

I shrugged. "A little bit. I'll go get it started."

I had made it only a few steps when Franklin called out to me, "By the way, Bjorn, Lennon will be here soon."