3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Dayton
Fuck…I feel like I’m going to throw up. Why am I so nervous? Checking myself in the shop's reflection again, I shift on my feet, staring at the message I just sent.
Are you sure the address you gave me is the right place?
Cursing her in my head for not responding straight away, I look up again. If this person is really meeting me in this ritzy part of the town, in a restaurant like this, am I going to be completely out of place?
My entire outfit is a disaster. I’m glad I wore my fancy trench coat, but the patterned shirt might be too casual.
Was I always this lanky? My hair is somehow a mess, even though I barely have two inches of it. I should’ve taken my septum piercing out. He’s going to think I’m some punk—some idiot who tries to look hip to compensate for his withering youth.
I don’t even know how he looks. I should’ve made Mom send me a picture or something. This is ridiculous.
Of course it is. Thought you said you didn’t care. ;P It’s sooo sweet how anxious you get before dates. I really have a good feeling about this one!
Easy for you to say. You met the love of your life in school and stayed with her. Unfortunately, not all of us are that lucky. Not all of us believe in some fated mate, or pheromones magically bringing two people together. And even those who do don't always receive the privilege.
Life is hardly what we want it to be.
Once I notice the time, I feel the contents of my stomach—the croissant, coffee, and a pack of strawberries I had at work—threaten to spill out. I hurry across the street, to the restaurant a few buildings down. The city’s lights shine bright against the night sky. The air is as cold as I would expect for this time of the year, so I hope it is the reason I’m shaking, and that it will go away once I get in.
The restaurant, Brickland Grove, has an impressive array of decorative, dry grasses and flowers twisting all around the entrance, making it seem like some luxurious jungle. After all these years of working hard, I thankfully make just enough to afford to eat at a place like this, but it definitely wouldn’t be my first choice. I hope the drinks are good, at least.
Standing in front of the entrance, I purse my lips and draw in a deep breath. The low whistle I make is my stupid way of calming down, and it works, mostly. Determined to not stall any longer, I grab the door and…push instead of pulling.
The host near the door sees me struggle and quickly jumps in to open it for me.
The date didn’t even start and I already want to end myself.
“Sorry. H-hi,” I mumble, trying to make my voice deeper and more stable than it is. People like me don’t go to places like this. One glance and I see fancy couples and groups, all holding themselves like royalty, drinking expensive wine and exuding the confident aura of privilege. “I’ve got a reservation. Hall, I believe.”
The man is good at hiding whatever judgment he must have made about me—he’s probably paid well enough to not care. Nodding, he steps to his terminal and taps on it a few times while I anxiously run my eyes across the room.
There are a lot of people. Unsurprisingly, a pretty heavy mix of pheromones, too.
It might be mostly a stereotype that alphas are always successful, rich, and confident individuals in society, but every stereotype certainly does come from somewhere and has some truth to it.
“Sir?”
I blink, quickly shifting my attention back to the host with a polite, tight-lipped smile.
“Follow me, please.”
I’m thankful for not having to face him as he turns and leads me to the back section of the restaurant. Come on, I try to psych myself out in the last moments I have.
It’s not like this is your first date. Or your first date that is most likely not going to go anywhere. It’s fine. It happens—it happens to me more than anyone I know. Should be used to it by now.
Was it the late-night scrolling through the dating app that got me this low, or the melancholy-filled leafing through the family album I progressed to afterward? Sitting on the couch with a bottle of wine at midnight and thinking about how I most likely won’t get to have the family I always wanted probably wasn’t the best activity the day before this date.
“Your table.” I wasn’t even paying attention to where we were going, so when I blink and look up, the sight of the man already sitting at the intimate table tucked at the very back of the restaurant takes me back.
I just stare at him for a moment, lips parted. He is cute. I know I can’t be too picky, but Mom had set me up with enough guys that were nowhere near my type before to not get my hopes up. This one…yeah, he's handsome alright.
Quicker to act than me, he jumps up to shake my hand. He stands tall, maybe an inch or two over me, but that could be thanks to his polished, expensive shoes. Everything about him is clean, calculated, and just right. From those carefully coordinated dark shades he wears—his suit and the tie that matches his deep blue eyes—to the way his short, wavy hair is swept back and held by just the right amount of pomade. As I run my gaze over his freshly trimmed beard, so perfectly full most men would be jealous, I notice his nervous smile and snap into the moment.
“Thanks,” I quip to the host as he’s stepping away, having left two menus on the table. “Hey. Rowland, was it?” I brave meeting his eyes again, this time sounding a little more put-together.
Managing to steady my hand, I reach for him. His grip is firm but brief.
“Yes. Nice to meet you. You must be—”
“Dayton. Nice to meet you too,” I blurt, interrupting him rudely. I curse myself in my head while on the outside, I flash him an awkward smile and take my coat off before we both sit down.
He’s got a glass of what looks like whiskey in front of him already. Maybe he’s nervous, too. God, I hope so.
The table is in a pleasant spot, I must admit. I still hear the commotion from the main area, but the calm, atmospheric music back here takes precedence, creating a comfortable mixture of intimacy and an effortless, social atmosphere.
“Is this your first blind date?” he asks, voice low and somewhat reserved.
Shaking my head, I chuckle. “Oh, no. You’d…think I would get better at this by now,” I say while opening the menu to look busy. Checking if my self-deprecation worked, I glimpse one corner of his mouth sliding up.
“It really never gets less awkward, does it?”
Even though seeing the prices on the menu alone should have made my stomach even more distressed than it already was, the knot in my gut loosens instead. I cautiously raise my eyes up to him. He sounds understanding. Genuine.
Maybe this won’t be as horrible as I thought.
“Yeah,” I say, but the moment I notice he’s studying and judging me as well, assessing my value and compatibility, I feel the dread bubbling right back up in my throat.
“This, umm…it was my mother who made the reservation here. I know it is a bit extravagant. I’m more than happy to pay for whatever you get. Actually, I insist.” Though his voice is deeper than mine and has this glaze of confidence gained by the few years of life experience that separate us, I can tell he’s nervous.
“Thanks. I can afford it, but sure. This kind of place would probably be somewhere I would host a golden anniversary or something, not…a blind date,” I admit.
What am I even mumbling about? Do I sound ungrateful?
Rowland reaches for his drink. “Well, I suppose that’s what you get when you let your mother manage your dating life at thirty-eight.”
He’s trying to be candid, poking fun at himself. I can appreciate that.
Before I think of something witty and conversation-worthy to say back, a waitress comes by our table. “Hello, sirs. May I take your drink order, or have you decided on the meals as well?”
We look at each other, and I get some gin and tonic before we both pick the steak dishes. Unfortunately, once the woman leaves, we are left to our own devices again, and the awkward silence takes root once more.
“I was told you’re a data analyst,” Rowland says. Now that there’s no menu I can use as an excuse, I need to be a big boy and brave the brunt of his undivided attention. His gaze is careful, but something alluring draws me deeper, so I have to remind myself to look away periodically.
“Yes. I’ve been doing it for almost a decade. It’s pretty boring, I suppose, sitting at a computer and crunching data all day, but…well, it’s what I do best. What about you?”
He doesn’t even have to answer. The expensive watch around his wrist, the well-made suit, this restaurant. An alpha like him is far beyond my level. No way someone like this would be interested in me. There has to be some catch.
“I run my own company. It mostly revolves around stocks and…other boring business ventures. I work quite a bit. Something I do well, too,” he says with a playful smirk.
He sounds like an upstanding guy. So my chances of this at least being an enjoyable one-night stand are probably pretty low. For some reason, the thought weighs on me and makes me wish I had ordered something stronger to drink.
“You sound pretty well-rounded if I’m honest. What is a good-looking, successful alpha like you doing on a blind date arranged by his mother?” I know the question could be taken in the wrong way, so I observe his reaction carefully.
He raises his brows and blinks, but then his face returns to that reserved expression, complete with that faint, crooked smile. “Huh. Your honesty is quite refreshing,” he chuckles and swiftly takes a sip of his whiskey.
Am I making him flustered? There's a faint scent I keep catching a whiff of. It must be his pheromones, or at least I think it is him. People sometimes emit them when they’re nervous or high-strung. It’s barely noticeable, but smells like figs and tall grass.
I shiver. Can he…smell my pheromones? I used my best perfume, hoping to mask it as much as possible. But what is the point, really? If this were to go anywhere, he would need to find out eventually. And once he does, he’ll only be able to stand sleeping with me maybe once or twice before gradually pulling away. Just because of my stupid, shitty scent.
I’m tired of this recurring nightmare.
“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” he asks, voice tense with concern.
Lifting my eyes to him, I quickly shake my head. “No. No, sorry, I was just…” God, what am I even doing? “To be frank, I’m a little disillusioned by my romantic prospects and, you know, the future. Dating is supposed to be fun and easy, but it isn’t. I know this is the sort of heavy shit you’re not supposed to say on a first date but—”
“No. Not at all!” he blurts. I cock my brows in disbelief and meet his eyes. They have this spark in them now. “Actually, for me, this was…this is the last blind date I’m letting my mother push me into. Not because of you, of course!” Lifting his hands, he laughs, showing his perfectly straight, white teeth. “More like because there are far too many factors; too many hopes and disappointment to contend with. It’s…good to hear someone else express the sentiment without sugarcoating it.”
The smile he gives me makes my heart hiccup. His scent again. Oh no. Don’t fall for the pheromone-laced spell of any alpha that gives you the tiniest bit of kindness.
I don’t know what to do with myself, so I dart my eyes between Rowland and the glass of melting ice, gin, and tonic I’m nervously swirling in my hand.
I allow myself to flirt a little. To use that husky, raspy undertone I know can do the trick. “I find it really hard to believe someone like you hasn’t found anyone in all this time.” I still feel bad even considering seducing this poor guy. He seems too good. Too good to deal with an insufficient omega like me.
His hand tightens around his own glass, now nearly empty. “I think my ex-wife would have disagreed,” he says with a bitter smile and, for the first time, looks away.
A divorcee, huh? Not the worst thing in the world.
“I find it hard to believe someone like you has found no one in all this time.”
As he chuckles and clears his throat, he opens his mouth to move around the saliva pooling at the bottom, probably from the nervousness he's trying to hide.
I can’t help but wonder how he’d taste on my lips. Would it be similar to his scent?
Dayton…you haven’t had sex in far too long.
“Anyway,” I continue, trying to redirect my attention in a more productive direction, “divorce is common these days. It’s like, what, fifty percent of marriages or something? Half the people in my office are divorced. Often more than once.”
Rowland tilts his head, studying me. I really hope I’m not emitting my pheromones. I wouldn’t want to ruin this conversation. I’m actually enjoying being here.
“I suppose… She was a beta. My wife,” he clarifies, the spark in his voice dimming just a little. I raise my brow and stop playing with the glass.
It’s not like alphas and omegas being with betas is something unusual, but I wouldn’t say it is the first choice, either. Many firmly believe that no alpha or omega can find true happiness and satisfaction with a beta. He must have truly cared for her.
“Is that why you split up?” I continue poking at this scar he presented me, and find myself irresistibly interested in him. Even if he’s still nothing but a stranger. Just the freshness of not having to play this… courting game is thrilling. We’re speaking honestly now, and I love that. I want more of it.
Rowland’s eyes fall again. “At the risk of completely ruining my chances, she…found it a little too hard to deal with the whole second gender aspect.”
Suddenly, it’s like someone made a hole in my chest. His voice is so tender, like me poking at that scar just opened it raw, and I feel like an absolute idiot.
“I’m sorry, that’s—”
The waitress saves me from further embarrassment when she appears with plates of steaming food in both hands. We both order another round of drinks—this time, I get rum.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Rowland speaks again, this time sounding a little more upbeat. “Hell, it’s refreshing. Not having to tiptoe around the fact that we obviously have a bunch of baggage. We already established how pitiful our situation is.” He glances at me with a playful smirk. “Our mothers are probably more hopeful about us finding love than we are. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with you. You’re still in your prime, handsome.”
Butterflies tickle the inside of my stomach when he says it, just as he’s cutting his steak. I wish he had looked at me when he did, but I feel like it might have been too much.
“When it comes to me, it’s already pretty hopeless. Do you know what Androl Syndrome is?”
I purse my lips and frown. “It sounds vaguely familiar. Some condition an alpha can have, right?” Is he sick? Is that it? I stare at the plate in front of me and worry I won’t be able to eat any of it between the knot in my stomach, the butterflies, and the gnawing anxiety.
“It’s nothing life-threatening,” he adds swiftly. “In plain terms, it’s an overactive Venus gland.” There’s an echo of shame in his voice.
“I think I’ve heard about it before.”
“Yes. Some alphas like to use it as a biological, scientifically backed excuse for their less-than-admirable actions.” For the second time tonight, his proud aura weakens. His shoulders slump a bit, and his voice grows somber.
I remember now. I’ve read articles online of alphas claiming this condition that they couldn’t help made them more aggressive, more sexually frustrated, resulting in rape charges, domestic violence, and other crimes. I’m all too familiar with the excuses some horrible people use to do horrible things. Mom taught me since I was young that we’re no different from betas when it comes to morality and knowing right from wrong. Bad people do bad things. Pheromones, rut, heat—they aren’t excuses. We’re not animals.
But many like to see life in simple terms. In black and white instead of in many shades of gray.
As I meet eyes with Rowland, I understand why he’s suddenly so sheepish. In the exact same way that I understand some people look at me and see a submissive, weak sexual object. A stereotypical, bigoted image of an omega, and nothing else.
“It sounds rough,” I say softly.
Placing my knife down, I rest my free hand on the table and lean closer to him, using only the fork to poke around the meal I don’t care about eating. He looks up from his plate, and his brows twitch like he’s desperately trying to figure out what I’m doing. Why I’m not giving him the reaction he expected.
“It can be hard enough to handle the stuff we have to deal with normally. I can’t imagine my heat being worse than it is sometimes. I presume that’s what that is, right? Your rut being more intense—horrendous mood swings, brain fog, all that. I always figured it was pretty similar for both genders at the core. At least my ma described it that way.”
Speechless, Rowland darts his eyes over me. The waitress approaches with our drinks and he doesn’t even flash her a polite smile like he did each time before.
“Yes,” he finally murmurs, and I feel like my cheeks will visibly flush if he doesn’t look away, so I escape instead, quickly reaching for the glass to sip the rum that burns my throat. “There’s a lot of misconceptions about it, but yes, that is mostly what it is.” Rowland’s voice rolls against me. It feels like velvet. He sounds touched almost, and I’m not sure I can face that emotion right on, so I still keep my eyes down.
“It also causes an excess of pheromones, so please tell me if I emit too much or if it bothers you. I can take pills for it, if—”
“No. I can’t smell anything uncomfortable,” I blurt with a sharp head shake.
I can, but I don’t dislike it. The opposite, in fact.
What I fear more is that he’ll be able to catch my scent, and the entire bubble of this pleasantly unusual encounter will burst. Unlike Rowland’s, my condition isn’t open to misinterpretation or misunderstanding. There’s only the simple truth: that unlike all the regular alphas and omegas, my pheromones, which are supposed to entice and satisfy a partner, and most often smell of anything lovely, beautiful, or sweet, are the opposite of that.
My most fundamental way of pulling in and retaining the special person I should be evolved to match perfectly is…defective.
That’s why I’m alone and probably always will be.
I think Rowland notices my inner shift, but he says nothing. We spend the rest of our dinner chatting away in a more subdued manner—about work, the horrendous traffic as of late and how the fifth always gets bogged down the second it turns four, the investment schemes, and the abhorrent health insurance rates for the venus sexes.
Two hours later, before we leave, he insists on calling me a taxi. We wait outside the restaurant, and the crisp night air eats into my cheeks.
“I’ve really enjoyed tonight,” Rowland says, almost whispering. I glance up at him from studying my shoes. He looks so regal and dapper, standing there in his fancy suit, that I almost want to believe there is truth behind his words. Unfortunately, reality quickly slaps me in the face.
I also enjoyed it, a lot…but unless the date ends up with me in the alpha’s bed, I never even get a text back. It’s a simple statistic. Numbers, logic, years of experience. All of them clearly state that this isn’t going anywhere.
“Thank you for paying for the meal, again.” I muster up all the will I have to act like everything is alright for a while longer, so that he can remember me as a functional adult and not a quiet little pile of sadness. “You really saved me back there. I think my bank would have blocked my card if I suddenly charged so much on it.”
Rowland smiles in that sexy way I’ve been etching into my mind all night and nods. The gusts of cool wind do nothing to his perfectly sculpted hairdo—I almost want to reach in and mess it up a little, just to see how he would look.
“It was my pleasure, Dayton. You…seemed a little down, so I hope it was nothing I said or did,” Rowland says as he steps closer. The butterflies return once again as I draw in the faint scent of figs.
Oh, I hate myself for even making you think that.
“No, I— I had a really stressful week at work, that’s all. I’m sure you understand. I’m sorry if I wasn’t great company tonight. I’m sure a businessman like yourself can’t waste his time with just anyone, so thank you for…”
He makes another step toward me, and I freeze. Like a deer in headlights. Like I’m fifteen again, on the verge of my heat, and a boy I liked touched my shoulder. I stare at our shoes, the tips inches from touching, and then slowly lift my head. Rowland’s deep blue eyes hypnotize me. The warmth coming from his body radiates toward my skin.
“I was worried that tonight would be a disaster and a waste of time, but it was certainly not that at all. Like I said before…I think this’ll be the last date I will go on for a long while, so thank you for making it one to remember.”
Rowland’s so close. I can barely pull my eyes away from his tongue, sweeping his lips to wet them when he suddenly reaches for my face. I don’t move back as I should. Instead, I let him touch my septum ring. Not the move I expected, but—
“Ha,” he huffs in disbelief, voice raspy. “I haven’t even noticed it.” The thumb doesn’t linger on the metal for long. It glides down, over my cupid's bow, and finds its place pressed against my bottom lip.
It’s been so long since I felt this kind of fire burning at the bottom of my stomach.
He hesitates, still such a perfect gentleman, so I willingly open my mouth. Thankfully, Rowland has been on this earth for long enough to get the message. His lips press against mine before I even close my eyes, and our tongues twist together. The stubble of his mustache and his beard tickle. Holding back a satisfied groan, I draw in his scent and squeeze his wrist while his hands rest around my hips.
I feel like I’m melting. Like I’m losing control…
My eyes spring open the moment I feel him draw breath. He’ll notice my pheromones and this entire memory will become tainted. I begin sinking into panic when a car honks next to us. I tear away from him and jump back.
Capable of bearing his confused, wide-eyed look for only a second, I murmur a quick, “Have a good night,” and nearly run into the taxi. I shut the door behind me and tell the driver to go, head between my knees.
Fuck.
I cover my face and sigh. So that’s it. The best date I’ve had in years. Maybe there was something the universe wanted me to take from this. Maybe I should cherish this evening like Rowland, and just like him, maybe I should give up on this foolish chase of a perfect partner when I am so, so damn imperfect…
It’s better this way. I’m old enough to stop dreaming and start living in reality.