29. Alessandro
Chapter twenty-nine
Alessandro
I sit on the edge of my bed, scrolling through social media in the early hours of the morning as dawn spreads her hesitant light fingers outside.
Normally I don’t spend much time on my phone, unless it’s talking to Mammina back home, in which case it’s hard to get off the call, but today I’m looking for something.
I cross my legs on the bed, the plain sheet draped across my knees as I lean back against the rough shed wall.
My algorithm brims with gardening and business topics, so I skip over to the browser and type “Willow” into the search bar. Not much to go on, but the filming equipment in her house suggested she does some pretty serious recording.
A lot of my clients in this district are famous people, including the city mayor, sports stars, company owners, and socialites. I’ve never investigated any of them before, figuring it wasn’t my business.
But everything about Willow draws me in and triggers my curiosity.
When I add ‘omega’ to the search terms, a profile picture pops up of the woman with her head tilted to one side, silver-painted nails close to her face, and wearing an open-mouthed, intrigued expression. Makes it seem like she’s staring right at me.
My heart leaps and I enlarge the image. Although clearly her, Willow looks different here. Her big smoky eyes and a leather-look jacket speak of confidence and sultry styling, without a trace of the uncertainty I’ve witnessed in person.
I slide away from the image so I can read the articles.
Willow Sheldon, CEO of Boss Omega and named in Forbes’ Richest Under Thirty, three years ago, is a social media influencer and entrepreneur who runs the Boss Omega brand which provides advice and education to empower omegas to find independence and financial stability.
Just reading the introduction makes me smile. Of course she’s helping others. Look at the way she loves her dog.
I follow a link to her main social media presence and find a page radiating professional charm.
Willow has daily videos of her in all sorts of locations going back years, with over two million followers.
When I click on some of her videos, her advice is upbeat and firm, encouraging omegas to rely on themselves first.
Most videos have thousands of comments, mostly from ladies, presumably omegas, who find her posts inspiring.
Life changing even. But my smile fades as I discover the vitriol alongside the rest. While most are from men telling her to fuck off and get back in the nest, some also come from women claiming the helpless omega energy is how omegas are designed.
“Scroll on if you don’t like it,” I mutter under my breath, disgusted. “Is that so hard?”
Cicadas chirping outside get louder, joining my protest.
Is this the silent burden Willow carries? People attacking her work and her opinions? Must be hard to put herself out there in the public eye so much.
I click on another video. The omega speaks so fluently, her gaze hitting the camera just right, so it feels like she’s talking directly to me. She’d fit right in on a big conference or TED talk stage, as compelling as she is beautiful.
One sentence near the end makes my ears perk up.
“You don’t ever want to completely rely on your alphas.
Even if they’re good, honest people, that much vulnerability is dangerous.
Trust me, I know.” For a split second, her gaze drifts, some memory poisoning the vitality insider her.
It’s gone as quick as it came, replaced with a bright smile and more good advice.
I ball up my fist. Her pain flows much deeper than I imagined, and at the source of it lies some fucking alphas who let her down.
Rage sends hot quivers through me. She mentioned this when I was at her house yesterday.
Alphas dropping an unwanted omega like steaming shit, I believe she said.
Did they beat her? Is that why she flinched at a dropped glass?
The phone quivers back and forth in in my unsteady hand. I drop my head and bite down on my forearm, using the pain to calm myself.
Breathe deep, don’t lose yourself, Alessandro. If I don’t calm down, I could get myself in trouble. I count each breath, letting the fury ebb away.
Gasoline and grass clippings permeate the air, a scent burned into my nose after two years of living amongst my work tools.
Sometimes I miss the sea air and fish markets of my pre-immigration days, not to mention my mother’s cooking.
And the near-intangible aroma of Italy’s earthen bricks and soil.
Maybe the hands-on connection to the soil is why I went into landscaping.
Which brought me to live here and ultimately meet Willow.
I check the time, growling faintly when I see it’s still too early to go around and work on her fencing.
Every minute of delay eats at me. Quickly I click the follow button, lingering over her profile image once more.
Even her picture inspires a fresh rush of heat inside my body, and phantom memories of her blooming omega scent. My dick hardens.
With a huff under my breath, I set the phone down and roll off the bed. At times like this, it’s best to run off the energy. Usually I don’t need to because I walk around gardens all day, but today I’ll be in her yard, talking to her.
I slip on some running shoes and slink out through the early-morning haze, headed for the nearby parkland. The other joggers out this early keep their heads down as we pass, absorbed in their earphones or thoughts as much as I am.
My interest in this woman borders on obsession; it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I can admire a beautiful omega, or woman, in the usual way, but with Willow, I’m desperate to know what she’s thinking behind that calm expression.
Every step pounds on the pavement as I run, ringing out like a bell. The day warms as the light strengthens, just like my attachment to the omega. I can’t get Willow out of my head and the more I think about her, the more my desire grows.
Three miles later, sweat drips down my ribs as I pause on a grassy spot to catch my breath. I wipe my face on the bottom of my tank top, the summer heat already radiating up from the ground. But it’s nothing compared to the inner heat broiling my heart.
“Fuck,” I mutter, fisting my damp shirt. “Am I in love or something?”
The moment I say it, the truth distills into a single, clear realization. Yes, I am in love. I fell in love at first sight.
I spin in place, digging both hands through my hair as the knowledge hits me in the chest. Falling in love at first sight is supposed to be a joke, a way of making long-term couples giggle while remembering their early days. Or teasing one into revealing who fell for the other first.
But the reality is far from a joke. I fell in love at first glance—and the omega I love hates alphas.
I swallow down a groan and force my tingling legs back in the direction of home. The vacant, uphill incline in the Warkow street mirrors my love life. Willow doesn’t need an alpha; she even spends her days telling other omegas why they don’t need an alpha.
Which means she doesn’t need me.
But my heart begs to differ. That momentary episode, the fear poisoning her omega pheromones, all mean she hasn’t healed as much as she pretends in front of the camera. It’ll be my job to let her know it’s okay not to be perfect all the time. My job to be her friend.
My steps slow as I reach the Warkow house and turn into the driveway.
The crunch of gravel underfoot sets my teeth on edge, each footfall too loud.
I do not want to alert the cougar that I’m walking past. Well, I’ve never known any of the owners to be early risers, so if I get going quickly, I should be fine.
The yard remains quiet as I rush over to the pool’s toilet block for a shower. After getting out and drying off, I listen intently through the door before stepping out with my towel around my waist.
Merda, I’m becoming paranoid now. I shake my head at my own silliness and cross the path to the shed. Looks like the madam has given up on tormenting me.
Or so I thought.
Miranda Warkow stands in my shed, looking through the few personal belongings on my bedside table. Her cream trench coat catches on my bed with every movement, the wide dark belt and high heels making her look ready to go out to a luncheon.
The sliding door slips from my hands, slamming on its rails. As she turns, the walls shrink, closing us in a tiny space where I can’t possibly avoid her. My towel brushes my knees as I backpedal, and the woman’s gaze sweeps down to linger on the rolled edge sitting on my hips.
She smirks.
Why the hell didn’t I remember to take my clothes with me and come back fully dressed?
“Good morning, handsome,” she purrs.
I swallow around a lump in my throat. “Good morning, Mrs Warkow.”
“Miranda, remember? I insist.”
I shake my head but can’t bring myself to say the words. She’s my boss.
Her tongue darts between her lips. “Feeling shy today?”
She sashays closer, hips moving in an exaggerated way.
When she’s within arm’s reach, I ask, “Did you need something, ma’am?”
“I think you know I do.” She reaches out and her fingers graze my abdomen.
I jerk back from her touch and step around my trailer’s tow hitch to put a barrier between us. Cold chills run up and down my spine. “I know this is your home, ma’am, but I am leasing this shed from you.” I clear my throat and stand taller. “From your husband.”
Please, Dio! Make her go away.
Her eyes flick up. Not quite a roll, but exasperation for sure. “You know, I really can’t tell if you’re playing hard to get or not. But I’ve got time.”
“I assure you, I’m not playing hard to get. While I’m grateful for your attention, I’m not interested.” I bow my head slightly, clutching my towel to keep it in place. “Accept my refusal, per favore.”
Please, woman! Before you destroy us both.