Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Then he said, ‘Listen here, you pompous arsemonger! I’ve been acting since before you were a wiggle in your daddy’s dangle-bags. I will not have you telling me who my character is.’”
We all bust out laughing at the dinner table as Asher tells us about one of his first acting gigs for a movie in the UK, adopting a boisterous old-man voice when he tells us what the other guy said.
“I was young, dumb, and thought I knew it all.” His head shakes as he smiles. “Arthur Edding was a legend, and after we wrapped that movie, I like to think I won him over.” A huffed laugh. “Or, at least I wasn’t such an egotistical little shit any longer.”
I grin over my wineglass at him. “I can’t imagine you not winning over everyone around you.”
He lets out a hearty laugh. “I’m a different man than I was twenty-plus years ago.” He smirks, those dark eyes going darker. “I’m an older and more experienced gentleman now.”
I snort a giggle, return his smirk. “Oh, I bet you are.”
And that’s enough wine for me. The alcohol warmed my body already, and I’ve been loose of tongue ever since it happened.
Down, girl.
Will smiles jovially. “I wish I had even a fraction of Asher’s stories to tell.”
“I’m sure you have a few bangers,” I tease.
He lets out a laugh. “Well, there was that time when I tripped at the fair and sent my ice cream cone flying through the air, where it landed on the most popular girl in school’s head in front of all her friends.” His expression is comical. “Fun times.”
I let out a laugh, head shaking. “First time I met Asher, I bumped into him in a hallway and sent his tea spilling all over him.”
“And the floor,” Asher adds helpfully.
“Yes,” I cut him a look. “And all over the floor. You’re the first person I ever met who walked around with a gallon bucket of tea in their grasp.”
He lets out a, “Ha!” before sticking another French fry—chip?—in his mouth.
Will’s gaze bounces between me and Asher, a bemused look on his face. “I’m glad that you two know each other. There’s a certain warmth that comes from old friends reuniting. It’s comforting.”
I smile at him, but there’s a certain tinge of sadness to his tone that I really want to prod at, but, despite the alcohol, I still have enough wits about me not to.
I don’t know Will well enough to question him, and I have a feeling that whatever dark cloud looms over his head is going to be tough to wrangle.
The next morning, I find myself at Cuppa again. I really like this little cafe.
I’d walked really slowly this morning, hoping that Asher might catch up with me, but he never did.
Today, I ordered a mocha latte with extra foam. The barista made a beautiful autumn leaf design on top, and I made sure to tip extra for it. These kids deserve it!
As I sit at my favorite table by the window, my back to the door, the bell jingles as it opens, bringing with it the usual waft of cool air.
But today, a familiar scent carries on the movement, causing my head to whip to the wall behind me where a tall, dark man stands by a table unpacking a laptop.
Despite the addition of a well-manicured beard on his jaw that’s sharp enough to cut glass, I would recognize this Alpha anywhere. His dark hair elegantly combed back but poofed taller in the front, those mismatched eyes—one green, the other hazel-brown—and that patchouli scent of his.
In fact, he smells even better than I remember.
Just like Asher does.
And I realize something...
A couple of years back, Bec told me she found out that many of the most popular suppressants actually dulled Omega senses, along with our scents. I couldn’t believe it, but I trusted my friend and switched my brand.
The entire world changed after I made the swap.
And maybe that’s why Matthew Cole, my ex-boyfriend, smells like a dream now. Like something I want to bury my face in and smell for eternity.
Like home.
He heads to the counter, and I watch his body move slow and unsure. Not his usual assured gate or posture. He orders something and waits there, back to me, but before his order is ready, his spine straightens and he turns in slow motion.
Actual slow-motion. It’s not how I perceive the movement. It’s like he doesn’t want to see what’s behind him, stare burning a hole in his dark coat.
Like, he doesn’t want to see me.
I meet his green eye first when he turns to his left, then our gazes lock; the skin around his eyes grows taut, then those mismatched eyes grow round with surprise and confusion.
His deep voice booms through the cafe.
“What are you doing here?”