Chapter 5 Alex
Someone's built a fucking forest on my lawn.
I stop dead as I walk outside onto the terrace, blinking through sunglasses and the remnants of last night's whiskey. When I went to bed, this was a normal country property. Excessive, sure—twelve acres of manicured grounds and another seventy of fields, forest and pastures—but normal.
Now it looks like a Disney movie threw up on it.
There are artificial trees towering between the real ones, their too-perfect leaves catching morning light. Thousands of flowers create rivers of color across the grass. And in the center of this botanical nightmare, someone's constructed what appears to be the world's most elaborate picnic.
"What the fuck," I mutter.
"Engagement photos remember," Ricky says beside me.
I groan. Of course, that’s what I was drinking to forget last night.
He's got his tablet out, scrolling through today's schedule of torture. "Diana wanted 'romantic woodland fantasy.'"
"Diana wants a lot of things."
I start walking toward the insanity. There are catering tents, three wardrobe trailers, one with my name on it, equipment trucks disgorging lights and cameras and God knows what else. At least forty crew members are scurrying around like ants.
All for some photos of me and some snotty little omega pretending we like each other.
My footsteps crunch on the gravel path, too loud in my skull. I should be impressed at Diana and Ricky’s ability to pull this together so fast. That nightmare of an introduction dinner was only last night.
That was the other thing I needed whiskey to forget. I’d tried so hard to ignore him but it was impossible.
Jonah’s thigh under my fingers. The way his breath caught. That sweet omega scent spiking so sweet I wanted to lean across the table and—
I couldn’t help it. He reacts when I touch him. I know I’m being a dick but at least I’m entertained.
"You're up late," Diana materializes from behind a wall of roses, immaculate in cream linen. "Makeup needed you twenty minutes ago."
"Good morning to you too."
She eyes my rumpled appearance with distaste. "Did you sleep in those clothes?"
"No." Yes. Passed out in them is more accurate, but she doesn't need the details.
"Well, you look homeless. Again." She snaps her fingers at someone behind her. "Wardrobe!"
I let myself be herded toward the trailer, still processing the circus on my lawn. This is what my life has become. Performance art for the masses.
"The Wells family should arrive within ten minutes," Diana says, matching my pace. "Do try to look less like you're attending your own funeral."
"Wouldn't want to disappoint the in-laws."
She stops, grabbing my arm with surprising strength. "This matters, Alexander. Your mother would have—"
"Would have what?" I cut her off. “Wanted a circus for my wedding? I don’t think so.”
Her lips thin. "The board is watching. The stock price has already climbed three points on news of your engagement. A successful marriage—"
"Successful performance, you mean."
"Same thing, in your case." She releases me, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her sleeve. "That omega is your chance at redemption. Don't waste it."
Redemption. As if the uptight passive-aggressive Jonah Wells is some sort of holy water to wash away my sins. The thought makes me want another drink.
People descend like vultures the moment that I enter the trailer. I’m pushed into a chair in front of a mirror. Someone strips off my wrinkled shirt while someone else attacks my hair. I submit to the grooming as politely as I can manage.
On the mirror in front of me, I see a stack of post it notes with what I assume is the official ‘aesthetic’ for the shoot.
Casual elegance.
Approachable wealth.
True love conquering all.
I snort.
By the time they're done with me, I look like a Ralph Lauren ad. I have carefully disheveled hair which looks very different to the real-life disheveled hair that I’d sat down with, and I’m wearing enough make up that I no longer look hungover.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look perfect. I look like the kind of alpha that parents dream about for their omega children. The kind who doesn't put assistants through glass tables or fuck his way through half of Manhattan.
The kind who doesn't play footsie with their arranged mate under the table while his parents squirm.
Fuck.
I still can't believe I did that. I grabbed his thigh like some desperate teenager, captured his foot with mine. But the way he'd sat there, all rigid disapproval and better-than-you judgment, smelling like pure desire..
I wanted to crack that composure. Wanted to see him flush and stammer. Wanted to make him react.
And he did. Christ, did he react. That scent spike nearly sent me under the table. I know I shouldn’t have done it but ruffling that uptight little shit is far too much fun.
"They're here," Ricky announces from the doorway.
I follow him out. The Wells family Honda is making its way along the long drive, looking even more out of place among the production trucks, Diana’s Mercedes and my Jaguar. It’s like a sparrow among peacocks.
The car pulls up and parks. I stand and wait for my so-called-love.
A tall, thin man wearing a black suit gets out first. His hair is bone white and his face could sour milk.
He takes in the elaborate set with obvious disgust. His gaze lands on me and his mouth twists like he's tasting something rotten. I’m guessing this must be the preacher who is going to marry us. Yay.
Jonah's parents follow, both in the same Sunday best that they were wearing yesterday. His mother clutches his father's arm, eyes wide. His father just looks tired.
Then Jonah.
Fuck me.
He's in light blue that makes his skin glow, hair actually styled instead of that usual home cut.
Someone's already gotten to him—probably Diana's doing.
But underneath the polish, he's still pure church mouse.
His shoulders are tense and his hands are clenched.
He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
His scent hits me from across the lawn. My body responds immediately. I want to stride over there and—
"Alexander!" Diana's voice cracks like a whip. "Into place please. We want these shots out to the magazines by this evening. No time for your dilly-dallying.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes and make my way over to the ‘picnic’.
I don’t look behind me but I am hyperaware of Jonah following me behind me.
When we reach the blanket, he doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t even look at me.
The lead photographer, Mando Shar, has been on the scene for years. I wonder how much Diana spent getting him here at such short notice. He’s famous enough that he gets to pick and choose his celebrity subjects. I’d have thought this kind of thing was beneath him.
Shar is as annoying as I always imagined him to be. He’s wearing a black on black outfit and exuding energy like a hummingbird on cocaine. He starts directing us immediately.
"Both of you down on the blanket," he announces, hands already framing shots. "I’m looking for stolen moments. Intimate but innocent. Like you've snuck away from your families for a private, intimate picnic."
I snort. What private, intimate picnic involves an ice swan? Beside me, I feel Jonah tense.
“Something wrong, Mr Wells?”
“It’s not exactly private with so many people watching."
I laugh. He’s not wrong. Next to me, Jonah bristles.
"They're not here," Shar says seriously. "In the photos, it's just you two. Lost in each other."
Jonah makes a sound like a stepped-on cat and I try not to laugh again.
"Jonah, you here." Shar positions him on the blanket, adjusting his posture. "Alexander, beside him. Closer. Closer. Hands there please. Lean back a little. Closer! You're in love, not allergic."
I settle next to Jonah, careful not to actually touch. This close, his scent drowns me. His sweetness that makes my teeth ache. His breath comes quick, shallow.
"Look at each other," Marcus commands.
Jonah turns to me. His brown eyes are huge, pupils dilated despite the bright morning. There's fear there. And fury. And...
Want.
Just a flicker, but I see it. Feel it in the way his scent shifts, honey going darker, richer.
"No, no, no!" Marcus waves his hands. "You look like you're at a funeral! Where's the chemistry? The passion? You're a prime match!"
"We're also strangers," Jonah mutters.
"Then get acquainted," Diana calls from behind the photographer. "We don't have all day."
Shar tries again. And again. Every pose looks forced, awkward. Jonah won't relax, sitting rigid as a board. I'm not helping, keeping careful distance between us. The photos probably look like hostage negotiations.
"Five minute break!" Shar announces finally, clearly frustrated.
The crew scatters to adjust lights and flowers. Jonah starts to rise but I catch his wrist. I can’t help it. Some instinct in me doesn’t want him to leave. He freezes.
"Where you going, church mouse?"
"Anywhere you're not." But he doesn't pull away.
His skin is warm under my fingers. Soft. I can feel his pulse racing.
"Scared of me?"
"No." His chin lifts, defiant. "Should I be?"
No. What am I going to do to him? Absolutely nothing, other than disappoint him so thoroughly that I spend my marriage the recipient of disdainful looks. Exactly what any alpha wants from a life partnership.
But instead of saying that, I stroke my thumb across his wrist. Just once. Light as air. I do it for no reason other than I need to get some revenge for what he is going to put me through.
He gasps. Actually gasps. And his scent...
Fuck.
"Alex." Diana appears beside us, smile sharp. "A word?"
I release Jonah, who immediately scrambles away like his ass is on fire. Diana waits until he's out of earshot.
"What are you doing?"
"Following directions. Sitting for photos."
"You're sabotaging. Again." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "I don't care if you hate this arrangement. I don't care if you find him beneath you. But you will make this work."