Chapter 8 #2
We settle on the couch, not quite at opposite ends but with a safe distance between us. I curl my legs under me, dress riding up slightly, and I catch him noticing. The light outside is starting to dim, casting everything in that golden October glow that I adore.
“So,” I say after my first bite of pork belly has me questioning everything I thought I knew about food. “What does my fake boyfriend need to know about my darling mother?”
“Everything. The good, the bad, the weird.”
“Oh, there’s no good. Let’s start with the weird.
She alphabetizes her tea collection but thinks organizing books by color is the devil’s work.
She only drinks herbal tea or black coffee, never adds milk because that’s what poor people do.
She genuinely believes that eating with your fingers is a moral failing unless it’s specifically designated finger food, and even then she uses those tiny forks. ”
“She sounds delightful,” he adds dryly, taking a drink of his beer.
“Oh, she’s a treasure. She also has this thing about posture. I spent half my childhood with books balanced on my head because an Omega’s spine should be straight enough to hold up society’s expectations. Direct quote.”
“That explains why you sit so straight even when you’re relaxing.”
“And my deep hatred of encyclopedias. Volumes K through M gave me neck problems.”
I watch him eat, and it’s unfair how attractive he makes basic human functions. The way his jaw moves, the way his throat works when he swallows, how he licks a drop of sauce off his thumb—it’s pornographic.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.
“No, I’m… inspecting.” The word falls out. Great. Now I sound like a creeper doing a home appraisal.
He finally glances up, the corner of his mouth already tugged in amusement. His eyes don’t just look at me; they know me. Or they’re trying to. And I’m not sure which is more deadly.
Then he laughs, low and a little rough. “You should come with a warning label in that dress.”
I nearly choke on my potato. “This old thing? I just threw it on.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just tips his head. “You didn’t. You chose it for a reason.”
I grab my fork like it’s a weapon, but it’s my heartbeat that’s under attack.
“You picked green because it makes your eyes look even more sinful. The hem’s short enough to make me wonder what else you’ve planned, but long enough to keep it classy. You’re barefoot, which means you’re comfortable around me now. Or you want me to think you are.”
“Is this… is this what you do? Weaponize compliments?”
He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “I told you. I pay attention to things that matter.”
I stare at him, at the quiet confidence he wears like a second skin. Holt isn’t flashy. He’s not charming the way Luke is, or smooth like Arrow. He’s steel wrapped in silence, sharp when you least expect it.
And he’s here. In my house. Sitting on my couch like he belongs here.
I take a shaky breath, trying to reel myself back in. “Right. Okay. Fake-boyfriend prep. We should figure out what kind of story we’re telling my mother before she arrives and decides you’re secretly running a cult.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Would that be so bad?”
“Yes,” I say, stabbing at my food. “Though she’d probably find that less concerning than me dating a mechanic.”
His smile curves slowly. “Good thing I’m not a mechanic.”
“God help me,” I mutter, half under my breath.
He leans back on the couch, stretching like he’s perfectly at ease while I try not to disintegrate on the spot. “You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod too fast. “Totally. I’m just… wondering what the hell I got myself into.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than is necessary. “Something good.”
I clear my throat. “So. Our story,” I say, shooting for brisk and businesslike, which is laughable given the state of my insides. “How did we meet?”
“What would you tell your mother that she’d believe?”
“Honestly? She’d expect something traditional. Meeting at a coffee shop or through mutual friends.”
“Too boring. Halloween dance last year at the community center. You were dressed as a witch?—”
“Predictable.”
“—a sexy librarian witch, and I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
I arch a brow. “What were you dressed as?”
“Myself. I don’t do costumes.”
“That’s such a guy answer.”
“But believable. We danced, you spilled your drink on me?—”
“I did not!”
“It’s our fake history. You definitely did. You were embarrassed. I thought it was adorable, asked for your number to replace my ruined shirt.”
“And I gave it to you?”
“After making me work for it. You made me guess your number. Took me seventeen tries.”
I laugh despite myself, even as something warm uncurls low in my belly. “That’s actually kind of cute.”
As if anything about the way he’s watching me right now is cute. His gaze is reading everything I’m trying not to say out loud. My skin buzzes under his attention.
“First date?” he continues. “Where would you want me to take you if this were real?”
The question hangs between us, heavier than it should be. Loaded. Too close to something that feels like hope.
I glance down at my plate and then back at him. “I don’t know, somewhere nice? Dinner with a view?”
He shakes his head like he’s already rewritten the scene in his mind. “Too public. I’d take you up to Mountain Ridge, that spot where you can see the whole valley. Private picnic, good wine, no interruptions.”
I swallow. Hard. “Why private?”
“So I could have all your attention. No distractions, no other people trying to steal glances at you in that dress. Just us.”
Just us.
Two words that have no right to make my heart slam the way it does. My breath hitches, and I don’t even bother to hide it. Not when he’s watching me like that.
I’m staring at him, imagining this scenario that will never happen, feeling things I shouldn’t feel. Wanting things I can’t want.
“Whatever girl ends up with you for real is going to be the luckiest woman alive,” I say softly.
His smile is slow, predatory. Not sweet. Not safe. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and wants more. “I’ll make sure she knows it every single day.”
The way he stares at me has me squirming on the couch. My cheeks burn up, my pulse thuds wildly at the base of my throat. I shove a bite of food into my mouth before I say something I can’t take back.
We continue eating, trading information.
Favorite foods. His: anything involving meat and carbs. Mine: carbs in all forms but especially when cheese is involved.
Allergies. None for either of us, unless you count my sudden and irrational reaction to hot guys sitting in my home.
Pet peeves. He hates small talk. I hate mouth breathers.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, I forget this is supposed to be pretend.
“What’s our relationship like?” he asks. “Sex life.”
I nearly drop my fork. My heart slams against my ribs, and heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Do we have to discuss that?”
“Your mother might ask questions. We should be prepared.”
“She won’t ask about our sex life!”
“She might ask me. When you’re not around. Whether I’ve claimed you, marked you.”
“Marked?” I squeak, the word catching in my throat.
“Bitten,” he clarifies, voice dropping low and dark like smoke curling through my bloodstream. “Alphas bite to mark their territory. Shows ownership.”
“Yeah, I know, and it’s a bit barbaric.”
“That’s biology. And your mother will want to know you’re properly claimed. Protected.”
The room feels smaller all of a sudden. Warmer. His scent wraps around me, sharp and masculine. I shift in my seat and instantly regret it. Every nerve is lit up, humming with awareness. I set my plate on the coffee table in front of us, and Holt does the same.
“Fine,” I manage, trying to sound unaffected even as my thighs clench. “Tell her you bit me somewhere she can’t see.”
“Where?” He leans forward slightly, eyes locked on mine like a predator circling. “I need specifics in case she pushes.”
“I don’t know, my shoulder?”
“Too visible. She might ask to see.”
“My… hip?”
“Better. But I think inner thigh. High up, where only I would see. Where my mouth would have to travel up your soft skin, kissing every inch until you’re begging?—”
“Wow.” I jump up, a cushion tumbling to the floor. My face is on fire, skin flushed and tight like it doesn’t fit right. “Is it hot in here? It’s definitely hot. I’m opening a window.”
I fumble with the latch, desperate for air that doesn’t smell like him. But even the breeze doesn’t help. He’s still in the room. Still watching me like he’s already won. Then I collapse back on the couch.
“We should also discuss pet names,” he continues, calm as anything while I’m one wrong move from combusting. “What do I call you?”
“My name?”
“Boring. I need something more intimate.”
“Like what?”
“Duchess. Princess. Sweet girl. Baby girl. Little one.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “What, are you trying to start your own fairy-tale harem?”
He grins. “You could be my temptation.”
I blink. “That’s not a pet name. That’s a sin.”
“Exactly.”
I shake my head, laughing despite myself.
He leans in a little more, that dangerous gleam in his eye. “Fine. ‘Good girl,’ then.”
I make a sound that’s definitely not human. “You can’t call me that in front of my mother!”
“Why not? If we’re as serious as you want her to believe, I’d be possessive. Protective. Making sure she knows exactly who you belong to.”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I say automatically.
“I know that. But she doesn’t believe that. So we play her game, by her rules, and win.”
There’s logic there, but my brain is too fuzzy from his proximity to process it.
“Tell me about your pack,” I say, desperate for safer ground. “How did you three end up together?”
He leans back, considering. “Met Luke first. Bar fight that turned into a job offer. Arrow came later, needed help with some trouble. We just fit. Like we’d been waiting to find each other.”
“That’s sweet, actually.”