Chapter 11
WREN
Ocean spray. Sea salt. Freshly ground coffee beans.
My scent match smells like a stroll along an ocean boardwalk, watching the sunrise.
I’m melting on the spot as he stares at me—really fucking lasers in on my eyes, holding me hostage in those rich, honeyed irises—with a stern, but intense, expression on his face.
Wrapped in a fancy suit with the top two buttons of his white shirt left forgotten, this man towers over me.
His broad shoulders fit perfectly inside tailoring made for an athlete’s figure, but he’s certainly no current player.
That sandy blond hair sports hints of gray at his temples and through his stubble, mapping out a clear picture of his age…
putting him somewhere in the older and more experienced category.
He looks like he’s about to fly outta here on his private jet, close on an eight-figure deal before midnight, and be ready to hit the waves at dawn.
I swallow hard, almost whimpering at the way his scent keeps on curling around my insides.
He’s gotta be around forty, and holy fuck, he’s intoxicating to behold.
Read all you like, listen to songs, watch movies about the romance of scent matches, there’s nothing that can prepare you for how it will feel when the moment strikes.
Not only because it’s different for everyone, but because they’re not always guaranteed.
They’re supposedly rare things, or maybe that’s just the common misconception because so many Omegas settle for pre-formed packs or having their heats serviced.
Maybe it’s simply because the odds are stacked against us to find Alphas we bond with on that deepest of levels.
An opportunity like this is like finding a needle in a haystack, and I just pricked my finger in the middle of a rugby stadium.
A scent match.
I’m well aware that I’m still staring, with my jaw on the floor. But in my defense, he is, too. There could be only us two people in the entire world right now, for all I know.
I’ve heard different stories of how it happens. Some might only be detected as faint whispers, a barely there aroma floating by on a breeze. Some take years to develop and grow to maturity, like a fine wine aged inside an oak barrel.
This? This hits me like a freight train, knocking my entire world on its axis.
It’s potent and heady. A thick, rich wave crashes over me and infuses every cell.
His throat works, Adam’s apple dipping, and just as he seems to be opening his mouth to say something, a voice slices between us.
“Hey, Dad.”