Chapter 3
THREE
MATHEO
The hummingbird hovers just beyond the reach of my lens, its wings a blur of iridescent green against the backdrop of wildflowers. I adjust my aperture, tracking the tiny creature as it darts from bloom to bloom.
Come on, little guy. Just stay still for one second...
My finger hovers over the shutter button. The bird pauses, its needle-like beak dipping into a trumpet flower. Perfect.
My phone rings, the sound echoing through the quiet forest trail. The hummingbird zips away in a flash of emerald.
Damn . I lower my camera and check the caller ID. Of course, it’s exactly who I think it is.
I tap the screen. “Hi, Mom.”
“Matheo, darling. How is my favorite son today?” Amara Gamba’s voice carries the particular lilt that means she wants something.
“I’m your only son, Mom.” I shift my weight, scanning the trees for any sign of the hummingbird. “What’s up? ”
“Can’t a mother call her son without an ulterior motive?”
I laugh, moving to sit on a nearby boulder. “Sure, but that’s not what’s happening right now. I hear it in your voice.”
“Always so perceptive.” She pauses dramatically. “I have a very important client with a special request.”
The sunlight filters through the canopy above, dappling the forest floor. I know exactly where this is going.
“Mom, we’ve talked about this. I’m not interested in being set up with one of your clients.”
“But darling, this is different. She specifically requested?—”
“I don’t care if she offered you her family’s net worth for the best alpha you have available.”
“How did you know she?—”
“Lucky guess.” I roll my eyes, adjusting the strap of my camera bag. “Look, just because I retired early doesn’t mean I’m unemployed and desperate for your matchmaking services.”
“You’re living off your investments and taking pictures of birds, Matheo.”
“Hummingbirds,” I correct her. “And I’m not just living off investments like some trust-fund brat.
I built a tech company from nothing, ran it for fifteen years, and sold it for enough money that I never have to work again if I don’t want to, while still retaining an ownership stake.
I am literally the living embodiment of the American dream. ”
“And yet it’s Tuesday morning and you’re alone on a hiking trail.”
I glance around at the serene forest surrounding me. The air smells of pine and earth. In the distance, a creek bubbles over stones .
“That’s by choice, Mom. I spent too many years in fluorescent-lit boardrooms. I’m enjoying the quiet.”
“Humans aren’t meant to be solitary creatures, especially alphas.”
“I’m not solitary. I have friends. I saw Cash just last week.”
“Cash is a beta who used to work for you?—”
“He worked with me,” I correct. “And I’ve known him since freshman year of college.”
“A friend or two doesn’t make a pack, darling.”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. My mother has been running Elite Comfort Services for thirty years. She’s matched thousands of omegas with compatible alphas, both for heat services and long-term relationships. She sees the world exclusively through the lens of her business.
“Mom, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need you to set me up with anyone. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own dates when I want them.”
“But this omega is perfect for you. She’s intelligent, ambitious, and absolutely gorgeous. Owns her own event planning agency. Very impressive.”
“Not interested.”
“She needs a pack for a wedding she’s attending.”
“A pack?” I laugh. “Now I know you’re desperate. What, did all your professional alphas call in sick this week?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I just thought you might enjoy the company.”
“So you’re trying to set me up as a heat-breaker? Mom, I’m your son, not one of your employees.”
“The polite term is heat companion, and heat-breaking is only one of many services that we provide here.”
I spot movement in the corner of my eye—the hummingbird has returned. I slowly raise my camera with my free hand.
“Mom, I have to go. There’s a rufous hummingbird that’s finally sitting still.”
“This conversation isn’t over, Matheo.”
“It absolutely is. Love you?—”
“Darling, wait. There’s one more thing.”
I grip the phone tighter, counting silently to three before responding. “What else could there possibly be?”
“Are you still planning to attend the photography exhibition at the Hartman Gallery on Friday? The one where they’re featuring your wildlife series?”
I stare at the fluttering hummingbird, willing it to stay put for just a little longer. “Yes, Mom. It is customary for artists to attend their own shows.”
“I was just checking, Matheo. No need for that tone.”
“It’s not a tone. It’s just—” I pause, watching a shaft of sunlight break through the canopy. The sun will probably set before I can end this call. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
“Good. I’ve told everyone all about it. Make sure you wear something nice. I have a few acquaintances planning to attend. Janine’s daughter—you remember Janine, don’t you? Her omega daughter just finished her master’s in environmental science. She’s very interested in photography.”
Of course. Another setup attempt, barely disguised as maternal support.
“Mom, I appreciate you spreading the word about my exhibition, but please don’t invite potential matches without telling me.”
“I would never.” Her voice rises an octave, the way it always does when she’s feigning innocence. “I simply mentioned that my son’s work would be on display. If certain people happen to attend, that’s hardly my doing.”
A squirrel darts across the path, stopping to examine me with suspicious eyes before scampering up a nearby oak. At least wildlife is predictable in its unpredictability.
“Right.” I run a hand through my hair. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Make sure you get a haircut before the show. When we video called yesterday, I thought you’d lost your phone in the woods and I’d been prank-called by Sasquatch.”
“Mom.” My voice carries a warning edge that even she can’t ignore.
“Fine, fine.” She sighs dramatically. “You know, I run the most successful matchmaking service in the tri-state area. Most alphas would be thrilled for a chance to hear my advice.”
“I’m not most alphas.”
“No, you’re not.” There’s a surprising softness in her voice. “You’re stubborn like your father was.”
The comparison hangs between us, unexpected and oddly comforting. My father died when I was twenty, but his influence on both of us remains profound.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As you should.” I hear papers shuffling in the background. “Well, I can’t spend all day on the phone with you, darling. Some of us have actual businesses to run.”
Jesus fuck. “You called me, remember?”
“Details, details. I’ll see you at the exhibition. Wear that maroon shirt I got you for Christmas—it brings out your eyes.”
Before I can respond, the line goes dead. I stare at my phone for a moment, then slide it back into my pocket with a chuckle. Thirty-nine years old, financially independent, and my mother still manages to have the last word.
I raise my camera again, scanning the trees for any sign of movement. Nothing. The forest seems emptier now, the spell broken by my mother’s call.
A flash of green catches my eye, and I swivel hopefully—but it’s just sunlight on leaves, playing tricks. The hummingbird is long gone.
I lower my camera with a sigh. Some moments, once lost, can’t be recaptured. I shoulder my bag and continue down the trail, already planning my next shot.
Despite what my mother might think, I don’t need anything more than I have right now.
I slip through the crowd, nodding politely at familiar faces while making a beeline for the storage room at the back of the Hartman Gallery. The weight of countless eyes follows me—some admiring my work, others probably admiring all the numbers they think are in my bank account.
A slender figure with honey-blonde hair turns in my direction.
The omega’s nostrils flare subtly—scenting me—before her lips curl into a practiced smile and her eyes light with recognition.
My mother’s friend Janine’s daughter, no doubt.
I duck into the back room just as she takes a step toward me, glimpsing her disappointed expression through the narrowing gap before the door clicks shut.
The silence envelops me like a sanctuary.
I lean against a stack of empty crates and exhale slowly, loosening my tie.
The maroon shirt my mother insisted on feels like a beacon, drawing every unmated omega in a five-mile radius.
Three hours of this circus, and I’ve heard variations of the same conversation at least fifteen times.
Your photographs are so sensitive. You must have such a nurturing soul.
I’ve always wanted to learn photography. Maybe you could teach me sometime?
Do you have a studio at home? I’d love to see it.
What they really mean: I’ve heard about your net worth and wouldn’t mind being the omega who tames the wealthy bachelor alpha.
I rub my temples, feeling a headache building.
The memory of those years after Dad died surfaces unbidden—working construction during days, bartending nights, attending classes whenever I could squeeze them in.
Mom needed help with the mortgage, with Dad’s medical debt, household bills, with keeping her fledgling matchmaking business afloat.
I’d pour concrete for eight hours, then mix drinks until two a.m., then code until sunrise, sleeping in one-hour increments between my converging responsibilities.
Those years taught me the value of my freedom. Once I sold my company, I promised myself I’d never again be tethered to anything that didn’t bring me joy. Photography. Hiking. The occasional weekend with the few friends I trust.