Chapter 8
CINDY
I ’ve scrubbed things that shouldn’t need scrubbing. Who cleans the underside of kitchen drawers? Me, apparently. The laundry situation in my bedroom closet is reaching critical mass. If that door opens while Holt is here, it’ll be like an avalanche of dirty clothes.
The fridge actually has food in it instead of my usual collection of condiments that expired during the last presidential administration.
I bought juice—orange, apple, and something called Tropical Sunrise because I panicked at the grocery store and grabbed things randomly.
Harper let me raid the brewery’s stock, so at least the beer situation is handled.
There’s even fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter, though I’m not entirely sure what to do with it.
Do people just… eat fruit? Raw? Like animals?
“Okay, thirteen minutes. That’s enough time to have another nervous breakdown, maybe two.”
And I smell like I’ve been wrestling furniture in a Pine-Sol factory.
Not exactly the sophisticated Omega pheromones romance novels promised me.
I lift my arm for a tentative sniff and immediately regret everything.
It’s sweet desperation mixed with industrial cleaner and a hint of yeast from the brewery.
“Fantastic. I smell like a bakery that’s having a panic attack.”
No time for another shower. I rush to the bathroom and apply enough deodorant to damage the ozone layer, then spray perfume strategically—wrists, neck, that spot behind my ears Harper swears drives Alphas crazy.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror.
“Okay, Cindy. Deep breaths. You’re a confident, independent Omega who definitely has her life together and absolutely did not eat cereal for dinner three nights this week.
A gorgeous Alpha is coming over to help you lie to your mother.
This is normal. This is fine. Sure, he’s built like a Greek god, and his voice melts you, but that’s irrelevant.
You’re just two adults preparing an elaborate deception.
Nothing weird about that. Totally casual-Friday-night activity. ”
I study my outfit, a sage green sundress that seemed like a good idea an hour ago.
It brings out my eyes and it’s comfortable, which is important because my body temperature is approximately one thousand degrees from anxiety.
My feet are bare because putting on shoes in my own house felt like trying too hard, but now I’m wondering if bare feet are too casual? Too intimate? Do feet send messages?
“God, I’m losing my mind. Feet don’t send messages. Feet are just feet.”
My hair is in a messy bun. Down felt too romantic, like I was expecting something. Up felt too severe, like I was about to conduct a business meeting. This is the compromise, casual but cute, approachable but not desperate.
I catch myself reaching for mascara and freeze.
“No. Bad Cindy. This is not a date. He’s not here to admire your eyelashes. He’s here to help you deceive your emotionally manipulative mother. Mascara is not required for deception.”
I apply it anyway because apparently I have no self-control.
A knock at the door makes me jump so hard I nearly stab myself in the eye with the mascara wand.
“Oh God. He’s here. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. I need at least three more years of therapy before I’m ready for this.”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress—very classy, very sophisticated—and head to the door. My hand hovers over the handle.
“You’re cool. You’re collected. You’re definitely not having heart palpitations. Just open the door like a normal person.”
I do just that and immediately forget every word in the English language.
Holt fills the doorway as if he’s sculpted to fit it perfectly.
He’s changed from this morning to dark blue jeans that hang low enough to be dangerous for my concentration, brown boots, and a charcoal button-up shirt with the top two buttons undone because apparently he wants me to die.
The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that should require a permit.
His black hair is tousled from the wind, the longer pieces on top falling across his forehead.
But it’s his face that really gets me. Strong jaw with just enough stubble to scream danger.
Those amber eyes that seem to see through all my defenses.
The slight crook in his nose that suggests he’s been in fights.
His lips are both stern and soft, though right now they’re curved in the slightest smile as he watches me stare at him as if he’s a particularly attractive math problem I can’t solve.
He’s carrying two large paper bags that smell like heaven and has a duffel bag over his shoulder.
“Hi,” I manage, though it comes out more like a mouse being stepped on.
“Hi,” he says, and that rumble has my entire body waking up and paying attention.
I watch him take in my appearance, his gaze traveling from my bare feet, up my legs, lingering on the way the dress clings to my curves, up to my face, where I’m probably blushing like a tomato with social anxiety.
“You look beautiful,” he says simply, like it’s a fact rather than an opinion.
“I… you… thanks? Come in! Please, before the neighbors see and start gossiping.”
I step aside and he enters, bringing the scent of October wind and his own unique smell that makes me want to lick him.
“Is that from Arrow’s restaurant?” I ask, gesturing at the bags. “Please tell me that’s from Arrow’s restaurant, because it smells divine.”
He chuckles, setting the bags on my entry table. “Arrow insisted on sending enough food to feed a small army. Said he couldn’t let you face your mother on an empty stomach or with subpar food in your system.”
The duffel bag catches my attention. “That’s… a lot of stuff for one day.”
“Want to make sure it looks authentic,” he answers. “Your mother needs to believe I spend time here regularly or maybe that I’m moved in.”
“Right. Of course. Smart thinking. Very strategic.” I’m babbling. “Come in properly! Welcome to Casa de Cindy, where the furniture is secondhand and the anxiety is brand new.”
He looks around my living room, and I try to see it through his eyes. The couch I rescued from a yard sale but reupholstered in soft gray fabric. My collection of throw pillows. The coffee table I painted myself during a wine-and-crafts night that got out of hand.
“It’s perfect,” he says, and he seems to mean it. “Warm. Comfortable. Very you.”
“You can tell that from my living room?”
He points to my bookshelf. “The miniature neighborhood you built, complete with tiny Halloween decorations. The five different blankets on one couch. The fact that you have a decorative-beer-opener collection but also use them as wall art. Yeah, I can tell.”
He noticed my miniatures. This man pays attention to details, and that’s both thrilling and terrifying.
“How about I serve us dinner and learn my way around your kitchen?” he suggests.
“Perfect. I’ll grab drinks.”
In the kitchen, we move around each other in the small space.
Every time we almost touch, my skin lights up like someone is running electricity through it.
He brushes past me to reach a cabinet, and I swear my soul briefly leaves my body.
I open the fridge, and his hand lands on my lower back to steady me when I wobble, and that point of contact burns through my dress.
“You okay?” he asks, voice closer to my ear than expected.
“Perfect! Great! Just temporarily forgot how legs work!”
His laugh is low and tempting. “Breathe, Cindy. I don’t bite.” A pause. “Unless you want me to.”
I make a sound that’s half laugh, half wheeze and escape to the living room with our beers like the coward I am. My hands are shaking as I open them, grateful for my decorative opener that actually works.
“So,” he calls from the kitchen, his voice carrying easily. “How was work at the brewery today?”
“Oh, you know, the typical. Had one very persistent delivery driver who thought that my having a boyfriend meant he should try harder, and Mrs. Carp brought in her new boyfriend, who’s half her age and with twice her enthusiasm for day drinking.”
“Give me names,” he says, and there’s something sharp in his tone that makes me shiver.
“For the driver or Mrs. Carp’s boy toy?”
“The ones who bothered you.”
“Easy there, caveman. I handled it. I’m tougher than I look. I once made a man cry using only sarcasm and a raised eyebrow.”
“Never doubted it for a second.”
I turn on the TV to my favorite YouTube channel of a fireplace in what looks like a Victorian mansion decorated for Halloween.
The orange glow flickers across the screen, fake but somehow comforting.
The sound of crackling wood fills the silence while I try not to think about the fact that there’s a dangerously attractive man in my kitchen serving me dinner like this is normal, like this is my life.
Holt emerges carrying enough food for a small wedding, and I jump up to help.
“Wow, did Arrow cook for the whole town?”
“He gets enthusiastic,” Holt replies, setting down containers on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Also, I think he’s trying to impress you.”
“By putting me into a food coma?”
“By showing you what our pack can provide.”
Pack . My stomach flutters at the word.
He opens containers, revealing treasures that leave me drooling.
“Maple-glazed pork belly that Arrow literally torched at the table before packing. Roasted vegetables with some sauce he refuses to name but I think involves seventeen different spices and possibly witchcraft. Garlic mashed potatoes that are essentially butter with potato as a suggestion. And chocolate lava cakes for dessert.”
He hands me an empty plate and starts serving me before I can protest, which is oddly touching. It’s as though he wants to make sure I’m fed. It’s such an Alpha thing, but from him it doesn’t feel controlling, just… caring.