Chapter 23
ADAM
Two weeks passed us by in a blur of blissful honeymoon-phase feelings and sweet kisses. Fletcher fit me so perfectly, in every way. The sex had only heightened the relationship—and it was a relationship, even if it needed to be a secret one for now.
I wanted Fletcher Rose in my arms, and in my bed. To me, all that mattered was that the two of us fit together like pieces in a puzzle, interlocking perfectly. Fletcher was the key tailor-made for my heart-shaped lock, and it seemed to beat for the sweet little lynx Omega.
All we had was right now, and I was going to cherish that. I’d figure out how to handle my parents later. Hopefully much later. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Father’s bullshit anytime soon. I just wanted to be happy. Was that so much to ask?
I stood in the pantry, my hands on my hips, looking over all the nonperishable ingredients stocked on the shelves. What did I want to make for dinner tonight?
Fletcher was seated at the kitchen island, doodling in his sketchbook with one arm braced against the marble tabletop. I glanced over at him in time to see him furrow his brow and suck his bottom lip in between his teeth in concentration.
Why did he look so damn kissable?
I grinned. “What do you think about lasagna?” I mused aloud, if anything else, just to draw Fletcher’s attention back to me.
His head popped up. He tilted his chin to one side, then set his pencil down and closed the sketchpad. Hopping down off the stool, he padded over to me. He wrapped his arms around my waist.
“Depends,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Can I help you make it?”
It was my turn to bite my lip. “You want to help me cook dinner?” Sure, I’d been giving him tips here and there, since when he first moved in, he barely knew how to fend for himself.
Fletcher brightened, bobbing his head. His soft auburn curls bounced in place. “Please? Can you teach me? Is lasagna hard to make?”
“Not especially,” I said. “It’s just time consuming. You really want to learn how to cook?”
His cheeks tinted the faintest shade of pink before he nodded. “You make everything taste amazing, Adam. I would be honored to be taught by you.”
Be still my heart… My chest swelled with pride—and with adoration for this beautiful man smiling up at me. “Then I’d be more than happy to teach you.”
Together, the two of us gathered all the ingredients we’d need from the pantry. I had Fletcher line everything up on the kitchen counter, so it was easily-accessible, but out of our way.
Then I had him put a big pot of water on the boil. “Don’t forget to salt it.” He wrinkled his nose, but shrugged and tossed a bit of salt in the pot nevertheless.
I made quick work of cutting open the packaging on the ground beef and ground pork sausage, carefully transferring the meat to a bit skillet. I turned the heat to medium and grabbed a wooden spoon out of the drawer.
Soon, it was sizzling away.
“So, once the water comes to a rolling boil, we’ll add our lasagna noodles and boil them for just a couple of minutes.
The package says you don’t need to boil them at all, but I find it turns out better if you do.
Then, when the meat is cooked and the grease is drained, we can start assembling the lasagna.
Can you grab the cheeses out of the fridge? ”
“Sure.” While he did that, I grabbed my hefty metal pan and layered it with a nice coating of non-stick spray.
I finished up the meat while Fletcher boiled and drained the noodles, and then we were ready.
“It’s lasagna go-time,” I announced. Fletcher giggled. Noodle by noodle, I laid down the perfect base for our meat pie across the bottom of the pan. “Now add some meat. Good. And some sauce…”
“Now the cheese?” Fletcher chirped, holding up the container of ricotta.
I nodded. “But not all of it. We’ve got several layers to go.”
He dutifully doled out the creamy ricotta cheese over the lasagna, and I added a bit of mozzarella before the next layer of noodles. We repeated that twice more, with a hefty portion of mozzarella on top.
“Is it done?” Fletcher looked about ready to drool.
“Did you preheat the oven?” I asked.
“Yes, of course!”
“Good boy,” I teased, earning me another lip-bitten smile. I opened the oven, getting a blast of heat right to the face, and slid the pan of lasagna onto the middle rack.
Closing it back up, I set the timer for an hour. “Now we wait. Let’s clean up, so we don’t have to deal with the mess later.”
“Okay,” he agreed, and we made quick work of the dirty countertops and dishes. Fletcher loaded everything into the dishwasher while I wiped down the stove and counter, and our gazes met.
I nodded. He smiled, obviously proud of himself. Then he wandered back over to the island, hopping back up on the barstool—and the art—that he’d abandoned.
Curious, I joined him. “Can I see what you were drawing?” I asked, reaching for the sketchpad. Fletcher simply smiled and pushed it towards me, and it touched my heart that he trusted me with it.
I’d bought him the sketchbook months ago, at the beginning of summer.
That, and a set of nice drawing pencils, after I’d seen the ink scribblings on corners of napkins wadded up and tossed into the trash.
I wanted him to feel a little more at home.
When I’d handed the items to him, he’d lit up like a hundred-watt bulb.
I flipped through the textured pages, my gaze lingering on each and every drawing. Fletcher was good. These sketches were really good. They were messy and could probably be refined with a little work, but he had talent.
“What made you start drawing?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
He shrugged. “It was a way to pass the time?” At my confused look, he continued.
“Yeah, I know that sounds dumb, but it’s true.
In the orphanage, I spent a lot of my time alone, so I drew on anything I could get my hands on.
Books, newspapers, napkins, my arms and legs.
Eventually they gave me cheap notebooks and a couple of pens. ”
He rolled his lips together, scratching at an invisible itch behind his ear.
The humor had all but left his face. “I could draw and daydream and pretend I wasn’t waiting for the perfect family to walk through those doors and adopt me, because deep down, I knew it was never gonna happen.
I was too old to be cute anymore. Too scarred.
An Omega, when most parents wanted Alpha children.
The Alphas always got adopted first. So I counted down the days till I turned eighteen on notebook pages filled with pictures of daydreams that would never come true. And here I am.”
He smiled, but his smile was sad, and my heart ached at the thought of younger-Fletcher, lonely and forgotten, sitting all alone waiting for someone to come along and give him the love he deserved.
I leaned in and cupped the Omega’s face in both of my hands, guiding his gaze to mine before nuzzling our noses together. “Well, I think you’re wonderful, Fletcher. Your art is beautiful, and so are you. I wish I could erase the bad things from your past…”
I gently touched the cigarette burns on his hand, then kissed his lips.
“But I can’t. I can only give you right now. I can only make right now good—and right now, we have lasagna cooking in the oven for oh, about an hour…if you catch my drift.” My lips quirked into a half-smirk.
Fletcher giggled and threw his arms around my neck. “I see. You think we can make magic happen in about an hour?” he asked, his brows lifting.
“I’d be willing to bet money on it.” I kissed him again, and Fletcher sank into my embrace with a happy sigh.
By the time the timer on the oven went off, we were both sweaty and spent, but grinning from ear to ear.
Using oven mitts, I carefully pulled the pan from the oven. Fletcher hovered nearby, his eyes bright and locked on the bubbling mozzarella cheese.
“Oh my god,” he uttered. “It looks so good. It smells amazing! I made this?”
“You did.” Pride swelled through me at the way my Omega beamed. And when Fletcher did a happy dance, giggling all the while, my chest ached in the best of ways with the adoration I felt for this man.
Just wait until he tasted it. He’d have his second little-death of the day.