Perfect Scent Match (Blossomverse Omegaverse)

Chapter 1

. . .

BEAU

What’s the best way to get out of a blind date?

Say you’re not feeling well?

No, too generic. Too obvious.

Act like you’re going and have “car trouble” on the way there?

Too much of a dick move, letting them waste their time thinking you’ll show up.

Maybe I could tell the truth.

Say, “Hey, sorry, my meddling sister signed me up for this service, but I really wasn’t looking for a scent match.”

Who am I kidding? Everyone loves the idea of having a scent match.

I just never expected the service to work. It’s rare enough to be unlikely, but common enough to always be a possibility if luck is on your side.

I don’t feel lucky. I feel old and tired, and like I really should’ve checked my closet before agreeing to a dinner date at a nice restaurant on fucking Valentine’s Day.

With a scowl at my lackluster appearance in the mirror, I rip my worn dress shirt off and toss it toward the hamper, where it lands on the floor beside it.

The scar from my shoulder surgery greets me when I glance back at my reflection, peeking out of my undershirt along with my overabundant chest hair.

My frown deepens.

This is a terrible idea.

I pull my phone out of the pocket of my too-loose pants, purchased for a funeral at least five years ago, and, after resisting the urge to send a cancelation text, call Nadine.

“You can’t cancel.” My sister’s voice is sharp as she answers the phone.

“Canceling would be better than going like this,” I groan, also forgoing any sort of greeting.

“Like what?” Nadine scoffs. “Like a whiny baby, and not a grown-ass alpha who has the privilege of taking his scent-matched omega on a first date?”

“No, like an alpha who doesn’t go anywhere besides work, the rink, and the shelter.”

I’m back at my wardrobe, futilely carding through my clothes hoping to unearth something that won’t make me look like a mess. Worn out flannels, stained t-shirts and an abundance of gym shorts are all that greet me, taunting me with my lack of style or social life.

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, followed by a dramatic sigh. “Beau. Sweet, beautiful, dumb baby brother.” I can practically hear her eyes roll. “It’s 7:30 am. Thanks for waking me up, by the way. I was having a really steamy dream about Manny’s pack.”

I grimace. “Gross, I don’t want to know about your sex dreams. Especially if they’re about my teammate.” Nadine is crushing hard on a bunch of the guys in the community hockey league I play in, but Manny is her favorite.

“Like you haven’t dreamed about it either. The man is fine, especially in his hockey gear. Oh, that’s an idea! Wear your gear. Hockey players are hot right now.”

That pulls a snort from me. “Hockey gear that, and I quote directly from you, ‘smells like Satan’s asshole’? The idea is for my date to swoon because they’re into me, not because they’re passing out because of toxic fumes.”

Nadine laughs, and the tension that’s been buzzing in my chest eases a bit. There’s always been something about my sister’s laugh that can pull me out of a funk. Even during the darkest times, her laughter was one of the few signs that maybe life wasn’t complete and utter shit devoid of meaning.

“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that your date isn’t until tonight. Go to the fucking mall on your lunch break and buy yourself a new outfit.”

“I took the day off,” I admit.

It feels ridiculous that I took the whole day off because I knew I’d be spiraling too hard about my date to focus. But not focusing can get you hurt or make you break things when you’re a mechanic.

“Well, there you go! Get some nice clothes that weren’t purchased a decade ago—don’t forget new shoes—and go to a barber.”

I run a hand through my hair. “What’s wrong with my hair?” I might not love much about my appearance, but my hair has always been one of my nicest features.

“Not your hair, dude. Your beard. Not everyone is into the viking mountain man look.”

“Not everyone is into my look in general,” I mutter.

“Stop it. You’re handsome. And if this omega is your match, then looks won’t matter much. Your scents will tell each other that you’re fated to be together.” Nadine lets out a dreamy sigh.

“We won’t be able to smell each other,” I remind her. It’s common courtesy to wear scent neutralizers when out in public spaces, and even if it weren’t, I checked the box in the scent-matching service’s survey that indicated I wanted to have a scentless first meeting.

God, what was I thinking? My scent is the only thing I have going for me in this situation.

At the time, I was worried about popping a knot the second I smelled my scent match. But an inconvenient boner sounds a lot better right now than an inconvenient appearance and personality.

Nadine’s voice softens. “Sweet, wonderful gift to all omegas, who would be so lucky to have an alpha like you as their scent match, I can hear you worrying.”

I huff at her compliments. I know she only tells me those things because she’s my older sister and my best friend. She’s not objective, but her love still feels nice.

“What are you worried about?”

A lump forms in my throat, and my legs feel too shaky to hold myself up. I move to my bed and collapse back on it, letting out a heavy sigh. “Everything.”

My scent match taking one look at me and running the other way.

Them not running and pretending to like me for the sake of politeness.

Thinking that, against all odds, this omega is my match, starting a pack together, and then being abandoned when it turns out I’m too broken.

Again.

Fuck. I swipe at the tears welling in my eyes, hoping Nadine can’t tell I’m crying. She’s dealt with my tears too many times, and I don’t want to worry her.

I’m doing better. The meds are helping. I’m crying, but I’m okay.

“I’m sorry,” Nadine murmurs when I’m unable to speak without betraying my lack of composure.

“I pushed you to do this. I just…You deserve this, Beau. You don’t believe me, but you’re so lovable.

If I ever meet any of those jerks in a Nesting parking lot, I’m going to kick their asses for making you think you’re not enough. ”

A weak laugh bubbles out of me. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve read that the best goals are ones that are specific and measurable.”

I laugh harder, but the worry remains. “I don’t think I can go through that again.”

“You won’t,” she says, voice adamant. “I’m not excusing their behavior, but they were young and dumb and hormonal. Maybe this omega won’t be right for you, and that’s okay. Someone, or multiple someones, will be. But you’ll never find them if you don’t try.”

Her words settle into my chest. They’re nothing I haven’t told myself already. That my therapist hasn’t reminded me of. But once again, Nadine has some kind of magic that makes my stubborn, scared brain listen. It’s why I even agreed to try the scent-matching service in the first place.

“Okay.” I sigh and sit up, grabbing a tissue to wipe my nose. “I’m okay. I can do this.”

“Fuck yeah, you can. Now go make yourself pretty for your omega. And call me once the date is over! Unless it goes really well and it isn’t over until tomorrow, in which case just text me when you’re not in the thick of things to say that I was right and that I’m the smartest and best sister in the world. ”

“That’s not going to happen.” It’ll be a miracle if I make it through this date and my scent match wants to see me again.

“Weirder things have happened. Try to have some fun.”

“I’ll…try.”

Nadine snorts. “I’m hanging up now. Love you.”

I smile at her blunt goodbye. “Love you, too.”

After a harrowing trip to the mall and a stop at the barber, I’m back in front of the mirror, inspecting the results of my efforts.

They’re…not terrible.

I hadn’t noticed how scraggly my beard was getting, so trimming that up on its own makes me look more put together.

Paired with the dark wash jeans that cost more than they have any right to, and a charcoal sweater, I don’t cut too bad a figure.

Thank goodness the restaurant we picked from the list of options is fairly casual. I’ll fit in fine.

Everything is fine. I can get through this, say I did it, and then go back to my loner alpha life.

The tiny flame of hope in my chest that life hasn’t yet fully extinguished flickers, reminding me that this could be a good thing. That a scent match could be the start of something amazing. A life where I have an omega, and maybe a pack, and we’re all happy together and someday have kids and…

Shit, nope. Stop. No point in imagining that.

I scrub a hand over my face and exhale, but it doesn’t dispel the expanding sensation of potential in my chest. It reminds me of when I met—

Nope. Definitely not thinking about that.

I’ve got half an hour to kill before I need to head out, because I got dressed and ready too soon.

I fix my hair unnecessarily in the mirror, check that my descenter is working despite my nerves, then bring up the text thread for the hundredth time today to make sure I have the time and location right.

I do. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

Not wanting to go down a dark spiral of rumination, I pull up my email. It’s mostly spam. Companies bombarding me with last-ditch efforts to buy for Valentine’s Day.

My alpha really wanted to get a gift for my date tonight, but it’s against the scent-matching service’s policy.

Probably for the best. If I’d bought something, chances are I’d be too embarrassed to give it to my date.

It’d end up buried in my nightstand, an expensive reminder of my failure to go with the set of bonding rings still shoved in there.

I almost accidentally delete the one email that I’m actually interested in—a message from NestConfessions. Yes, I subscribe to a Slick model. I’m an alpha who, besides ill-fated brief attempts at dating, has been single for almost a decade.

The email wishes her followers a happy Valentine’s Day and lets us know that she’ll have a new video up tonight as a special treat.

It’s sad that makes me smile, but I’m a realist. Odds are tonight will be a bust, and even if things go well, there’s no way I’m not going home alone.

Now there’ll be something to distract me from wallowing in my disappointment when I get back.

With that pathetic thought, I close my emails.

There’s still time before I leave if I don’t want to get to the restaurant way too early, so I grab my e-reader and try to pick back up where I left off in the latest Moonblood novel.

When I reread the same paragraph three times, unable to focus on the words, I set the tablet down and groan, pinching my brow.

Okay, man, lock in.

I pull out the note I keep in my wallet. The one I’d die of embarrassment if anyone found out about. It’s well-worn from the years it’s been there, and the many times I’ve crumpled it up in frustration, then smoothed it back out.

I treat myself with loving kindness.

I deserve happiness and love.

This feeling won’t last forever.

I am a good person.

I am enough.

With a deep exhale, I put the note back in its place, check my appearance one last time, and head out the door.