Chapter 3 Peyton
PEYTON
It was fucking December and still seventy degrees outside. I’d had to close all my windows about an hour earlier because of the bugs and turn the AC on. Some people might like that. Me? I already missed the light layer of snow that had been on the ground when I left West Virginia.
I didn’t really care one way or the other, but it was important to my dad.
Unfortunately, it was a good guess he’d filled Dalton’s ear with nonsense about how I needed an omega to give me children.
When he up and left, it devastated me. Dalton was it for me.
I didn’t care if he was a beta and couldn’t bear children.
We’d adopt or we wouldn’t have any. Didn’t matter to me.
Dalton was enough. I just needed to convince him of that. If only I could find him.
It had taken me two weeks and a lot of money to convince Dalton’s little brother, Cooper, to tell me where Dalton was.
The little shit jacked me up to five hundred dollars before he caved, giving me his cousin Jace’s name and the name of the little town where he’d built his diner.
I would have gladly paid him a lot more than that five bills it cost me, but I wasn’t letting the little shark know that.
Considering he was paying his own way through college, I’d given him the money gladly.
That kid was going somewhere. I just hoped it wasn’t jail, considering his propensity for outlandish “get rich” schemes.
Dalton had better be here, or I was taking this trip out of Cooper’s hide when I got back home.
As I drove into Sugar Beach, the quaint town greeted me with an unexpected blend of holiday cheer and tropical flair.
Twinkling lights adorned the palm trees that lined the main street.
Storefronts boasted window displays featuring surfboard-riding Santas and flamingos wearing Santa hats.
The salty sea breeze carried the aroma of sunscreen and coconut.
Pedestrians in graphic t-shirts featuring surfboards and palm trees strolled past, while a steel drum band played “Jingle Bells” in the distance.
The entire scene was a whimsical clash of Christmas and paradise, leaving me both entertained and a little disoriented as I navigated the town, keeping an eye out for any sign of the Hillbilly Diner.
Walking into the Hillbilly Diner a little while later was surreal.
Souvenirs and trinkets from my home state adorned every corner of the place, bringing a touch of West Virginia to the Florida.
A shelf lining one wall displayed a variety of collector plates with scenic pictures of West Virginia landmarks; some bore the state seal and motto: “Montani Semper Liberi”—”Mountaineers are always free. ”
In the far corner, a Christmas tree stood tall, its branches adorned with shimmering seashells, tiny driftwood boats, and delicate glass ornaments painted with sea turtles.
Strings of white lights twinkled among the decorations, casting a warm glow over the rustic charm of the diner.
The tree topper, a large coral starfish, seemed to watch over the room, but beneath the coastal display lay a blue microplush tree skirt patterned with gold WVU logos.
Despite making his home in Florida, Dalton’s cousin, Jace, was still fiercely proud of his Appalachian roots, seamlessly blending holiday cheer with mountain heritage.
I could almost imagine I was still home as I stepped up to the counter, taking in all the memorabilia from home.
Everything reminded me of the place I loved.
I never thought I’d ever leave the state.
Dalton was the only person who could drag me away.
I’d do anything for that man. Even drive to Florida where it was still hot in the wintertime.
It looked like I’d stepped into the middle of the dinner rush.
The diner buzzed with the clinking of cutlery, the low hum of conversation, and the sizzle of food on the grill.
Most of the tables were full, a sea of plaid shirts and sun-kissed faces, and only three counter seats were empty when I sat down.
The vinyl cushion squeaked beneath me as I settled onto the stool.
An older woman with dark hair pulled up into a bun, laugh lines etched around her eyes, darted around, filling coffee at the counter.
The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, mingling with the mouthwatering scents from the kitchen.
She set a laminated menu down in front of me as I turned over the cup at the counter, signaling I’d be agreeable to some coffee.
Looking at the menu reminded me it had been a long time since lunch, my stomach growling audibly at the idea of food. The smells of fresh-baked bread and spicy pepperoni emanating from the kitchen transported me back to my childhood in West Virginia.
Spying the words “Authentic West Virginia Pepperoni Rolls” emblazoned across the top of the menu in bold, red letters made me smile, a wave of nostalgia washing over me.
When I found the pepperoni rolls in the menu, I grinned, my mouth watering in anticipation at the words baked fresh daily.
In the menu description, it said served with authentic Oliverio peppers in your choice of mild, medium, or hot. And with that, I was sold.
The waitress returned, coffeepot in hand, and filled my cup with steaming, dark liquid. “What’ll you have, hon?” she asked, her voice warm.
I inhaled deeply, savoring the comforting aroma of the coffee before responding. “I’ll take two pepperoni rolls with peppers and cheese, please.”
She raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “They’re pretty big, sugar. You sure you want two? Most folks can barely finish one.”
I chuckled, patting my stomach. “Yes, ma’am. I’m hungry enough to eat a horse. Been on the road all day.”
She grinned, jotting down my order on her pad. “Okay, then. I like an alpha with a healthy appetite. You want those peppers mild, medium, or hot?”
“Hot, definitely hot. Thank you.”
“Alrighty. Two pepperoni rolls with all the fixings on the hot side, coming right up. Anything else I can get you while you wait?”
I shook my head, lifting my coffee cup. “This’ll do for now, thanks.”
“You just holler if you need anything else,” she said with a wink before bustling off to tend to other customers.
When the waitress walked away, I looked around the diner, taking in the details.
Vintage signs promoting a variety of products, from motor oil to moonshine, decorated the walls and contributed to the cozy ambiance.
I didn’t see Jace or Dalton anywhere. A big brute of an alpha was manning the large flat-top griddle, moving around it like he was dancing, bopping his head as he flipped burgers on the grill and flapjacks on opposite sides of the griddle.
With practiced ease, the alpha effortlessly flipped and turned the food, swapping out spatulas as needed, depending on which side of the griddle he was working.
He looked like he was in his own world and having a blast, if the wide smile on his face was any sign.
The tantalizing aroma of grilled onions and sizzling beef filled the air, making my mouth water in anticipation of my meal.
That was until the most incredible scent filled my nose, a heady mixture of honey, vanilla, and something uniquely masculine that had nothing to do with the savory food smells wafting from the kitchen.
An omega sat down beside me, the stool creaking slightly under his weight.
My pants suddenly constricted, feeling like they had shrunk two sizes, as unwanted sensations caused certain body parts to become rigid, the rough denim rubbing uncomfortably against my increasing arousal.
No, this was not happening. I was not interested in any omegas.
I’d come to Florida strictly to get my beta back.
Shifting so I was facing more away from the man than toward him, the vinyl seat squeaking with my movement, I heard the waitress chatting him up. The clink of cutlery and the low hum of conversation in the diner seemed to fade into the background as I focused on their exchange.
“Hi, Theo. You want the special tonight? Brewster’s still got some meatloaf left.” The waitress’s voice was warm and familiar, like she was greeting an old friend.
“Janice, you know me too well. Yeah, the meatloaf sounds good. Especially if there’s still mashed potatoes and gravy to go with it.
” The omega’s voice was like silk as it caressed my ears, smooth and rich, with a hint of a playful lilt.
The sensation went straight to my cock, unsettling me.
I never thought I’d have eyes for another man who wasn’t Dalton.
I wasn’t the type to cheat, and Dalton was my whole world.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Janice said with a smile, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor as she made her way down the counter, talking to other customers before pinning a stack of orders to the turnstile at the large open window between the dining room and the kitchen.
The orders fluttered slightly in the breeze from the overhead fans.
The omega, Theo, shifted on the stool next to me.
His shoulder rubbed up against mine, the brief contact sending an electric jolt through my body.
I turned to look at him when he apologized, his breath warm against my cheek.
As I looked into his warm brown eyes, flecked with gold and framed by long, dark lashes, the world stopped.
The din of the diner faded away, replaced by the thundering of my heartbeat in my ears.
I couldn’t look anywhere but at the omega sitting beside me.
Suddenly, the room was too warm, beads of sweat forming on my forehead.
My dick was too hard, straining painfully against my jeans.
The sweet smell of an omega too close to his heat for comfort filled my nostrils, an intoxicating blend of pheromones that made my head spin.
It filled me with a driving need to claim I’d only ever felt for Dalton.
The scent seemed to wrap around me, clouding my thoughts and igniting a primal desire deep in my core. I was so fucked.