2. Sawyer

2

"… a

nd then Kade told me that if we ever have kids, he has some ideas for names…"

"Hm…" I'm only listening to Bee with half an ear, while wiping down the counter with a wet rag and lost in my own thoughts.

Kade is Bee's beta, by the way, and a friend of mine.

Just like Bee. A friend. I love her in a she's-so-cute-and-nice sort of way. She's a fun-sized bubble of joy and has become a good friend over the year since she crash-landed in the city and my life. She's an omega like me, though initially she thought she was a beta, and she's cute as a button, but I've never been attracted to her romantically.

No, instead she caught the attention of a local pack, the St. Laurent pack, and has been with them ever since. She used to work here, and when she quit, I thought I'd only see her in passing from now on, but although she has no need for money anymore, she still helps out here at the Café. She had stopped for a while, but now she's back.

And I'm grateful.

I mean, the Book Café is the place where all our common friends congregate, so that's probably why. The money I pay her can't be the reason. In fact, after she left, I'd tried looking for another waiter or waitress, but nobody had taken a bite.

"Sawyer?" Bee waves a hand in front of my face. "You keep spacing out on me and I'll start thinking that something's wrong."

"I'm fine." I look down at the counter. Is it clean? No, not clean enough. I need to disinfect it…

"Are you, though?" she asks. "Did something happen at home?"

"No. Everything's great."

She narrows her eyes at me. "Or is it a matter of the heart?"

I choke. "The heart? Of course not."

"I can see right through you, Sawyer O'Connell."

I widen my eyes at her, shake my head. "You slay me, Mrs. St. Laurent. When is the official bonding party again?"

"Don't change the subject, Sawyer, please. Is someone breaking your heart?"

"It's nothing of the sort," I assure her. "I'm not in love with anyone."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I promise. Cross my cold, dead heart."

Not entirely true. But enough of that. I don't want to talk about it.

Bee, though, doesn't seem to be reading the same script.

"Wasn't there a girl you were pining over?" she goes on, hitting the nail right on the head. Hard. With a sledgehammer.

Ouch.

I turn to pass my rag under the faucet, giving Bee my back, trying to collect my thoughts. Yeah, that girl… Blond hair in pigtails, dark eyes full of secrets.

She hasn't come around in weeks and I hate the knot in my stomach. It's half worry and half… something I can't even name.

Is she okay?

Did she move away?

Did she hate me hounding her and talking to her?

Did she find herself a boyfriend? A pack?

Why didn't she come back?

And now I sound like a whiny child.

People have lives, Sawyer, I remind myself. People have work and family and love interests you know nothing about. It's how it is.

Not knowing bothers me.

"Sawyer." Bee puts a hand over mine. I'm clutching the wet rag like I'm about to strangle it. "Relax."

She's been saying that a lot to me lately. Everyone has.

I'm relaxed. I'm just great.

"And stop cleaning that counter," she says. "It's sparkling clean. You'll wear the varnish down."

"Yeah, yeah…"

"We have customers," she says with a small sigh. "I'll go take their order. If you want to talk?—"

"I know. Thank you." I smile and she hurries away to welcome the customers I hadn't even noticed had entered.

So totally fucking relaxed.

Christ.

I turn off the faucet, wring the rag out, hang it to dry.

That's when I see the guy at the back of the shop, where the reading area is, reorganizing the books on my shelves.

And I see red.

The guy is standing close to the reading area, with its used leather chairs and small tables, a book in his hand. From his height and the width of his shoulders, he's definitely an alpha. He's gazing at the shelves as if considering where to put the book, and already he's made a mess of my perfect system.

"Hey," I start, "what do you think you're…?" I stop in my tracks, my voice catching in my throat as he turns around to face me.

Whoa. Who is this? How… how do you make a man so handsome? How…? Okay, my brain has ground to a stop, only firing random question marks at me.

Jeez…

The blond alpha standing in front of me is a goddamn vision. Any omega's wet dream. From his short blond hair to his frosty blue eyes, that cut jaw and high cheekbones, the broad chest and the muscular arms, a chest that promises to be sculpted as fuck, he's mouthwatering.

"You…" I start, lose my train of thought when he licks his lips. "You are…?"

"Kyrian," he says. He looks down at me from his considerable height. "And who are you? Do I know you?"

"I'm… Sawyer. I'm the owner of this place."

He arches a brow as if he doesn't believe me. "Really."

And that does it, ladies and gentlemen. My brain is pre-wired to see red when people dispute my abilities to do anything any non-omega can do.

"Seriously?" I snap. "You think I'd lie about that?" I grab the book from his hand—and it annoys me that I have to go on tip-toe to reach it. I'm not short but these alphas are fucking ridiculous. Ridiculous height, ridiculous muscles. "Give it here. Questioning me, really?"

"You really are the owner?"

I let out a very alpha-like growl. "Yeah."

I get that a lot, unfortunately. This mistrust when I say that this store is mine. I look every bit the omega that I am, and omegas are often considered incapable of running a business on their own. It annoys me and my patience is worn thin already these days.

But he only shrugs those broad alpha shoulders as if this whole convo that got my hackles up doesn't matter one bit. "I was only reorganizing the books."

"Yeah, don't… don't do that. Just don't." I carefully reshelve the book in its rightful place. It has a nice purple spine, so it goes in the purple section.

Ah. There. What a relief.

"I didn't realize it was such a big deal," he says, his voice deep and pleasant, although it says annoying things. "They seem to be randomly placed on the shelves."

"They are perfectly organized by color?—"

"By color? That's useless, isn't it?"

"The fuck." I splutter. "If you'd let me finish… They are organized by color, and size, placed at the exact same distance from the edge of the shelf… But also by genre, if you didn't notice."

And okay, organizing books on esthetic grounds may be useless in a café where customers are supposed to grab books off the shelf and read, then shove them back somewhere and go on their merry way, but this is… for me.

How to reconcile my need for order and the raison d'etre of this café?

"I don't care for books anyway," he says, driving the final nail in his coffin, handsome as hell or not.

"If you don't like books," I grunt, "then why are you here? Criticizing my shelf organization as if it's any business of yours?"

Fuck, I shouldn't be treating customers this way. I know it, and yet he's pressing all my buttons. Red buttons. Alert. Danger.

He says nothing. Doesn't react to my words. Which should be a relief, but feels like a dismissal.

Don't react, Sawyer, I tell myself. That's enough. Stop this right here. He's… gorgeous and just as annoying, but that shouldn't matter. None of it should.

A man who doesn't like books isn't my type of man, no matter how beautiful and sexy. That's that. I have, after all, my list.

The list of features my ideal harem should sport.

Books are at the top of the list. That shouldn't constitute any wonder for anyone who knows me. So this alpha… good riddance.

He's still gazing down at me, though, I realize, through the golden fringes of his lashes, as if… measuring me. Or waiting for something.

"Such an omega thing to do," he mutters eventually. "Typical. Organizing books by color."

And… back to seeing red.

No, it's not typical. It's not simply about esthetics. He doesn't know me, and it bothers me that he's drawing conclusions. Alpha-splaining.

It's… the way it looks. It bothers me when the colors are random. It makes me… afraid somehow. The lack of order. The lack symmetry. Of control.

It's something that sometimes takes over my life. The need for beautiful symmetries. Sacred geometries. Equilibrium, when it sorely lacks in my own life.

But I have learned to control the compulsion. Mostly. Like I said, these days I'm out of sorts. It will pass.

I open my mouth to tell him to mind his own fucking business, professionalism be damned—and isn't already too late for that, Sawyer?—when the door of the café dings and someone enters.

Someone who instantly has my entire and undivided attention, erasing the red tint from my vision and the urge to throttle a certain alpha from my mind.

She is here.