11. Alessandro
Chapter eleven
Alessandro
The lovely omega from Number Eight Leighton Drive asked me to do her fencing job.
Yeah, her text message came with a kinda weird and super serious legal contract, but signing it is a price I’m willing to pay.
I beam down at the phone cradled in my hands as I change the contact name to ‘Willow’ and add a cute picture of a golden retriever.
Not her retriever, obviously. Photographing her dog when we only just met, and without her permission, would be creepy. But the picture I find online of a cute goldie is pretty darn similar.
It’s not like it’s a date or anything, but her contacting me feels like a win. It means she kept my business card and needs my help.
Which is precisely why I’m off to measure her yard . . . as soon as I’m finished with this lawn.
A sharp whistle pierces through the air.
“Hey, Pedro!” Mr Monstead, sitting on the tiered alfresco with his laptop, jabs one finger down into his wrist. “You’re on my time, buddy.”
“It’s Alessandro,” I mutter under my breath as I wave and flash him a smile. “And I bill by lawn size, not the hour.”
He can't hear me from over there.
Mopping the sweat clinging to my neck, I turn back to my machines, refitting the grass catcher and thumbing the throttle back to top gear.
Whenever I come to do the lawns, the Monstead patriarch makes his way out onto the top terrace to work, as if to supervise.
Maybe the thinks I’ll steal his marble statues if he’s not watching like a hawk.
I’m used to the racism, and there’s no point fighting against it. That would only cost me the work. Besides, I need every cent I can get in order to purchase a ride on mower and grow the business. I’m almost there; should have the money by the end of next month, if all goes well.
Padre always drilled it into my head never to owe any man. He heard from the priest that it’s in the Holy Bible that the borrower becomes a slave to the lender. Don’t you take money from no man, Alessio, he’d say. You work for what you need. Always.
If a stroke hadn’t taken him four years and three months back, I bet Padre would’ve loved to mow lawns with me in Dallas for a spell.
Mammina would never have agreed to a move, but she might’ve enjoyed a visit.
Still would, but I can’t invite her knowing she’d spend the entire time trying to set me up with women.
She’d also have plenty to say if she knew I lived in a shed.
I throw my weight on the lawnmower, pushing it across the grass, careful to keep my rows perfectly straight. I’ve already done the cutting under the hedges and rose bushes, so once I’ve finished the last quarter acre and blown off the paths, I can get going.
My shirt’s soaked through by the time I’m done, the Texas summer sun brutal at midday. I peel the fabric off and mop up, throwing the wet stuff into a bag in my truck. The curtains in the second-floor windows flutter, and I look up to find Mrs Monstead watching me—far too intently for my liking.
Makes me nauseous, the way some of these rich people look at us workers like we’re meat. As if they get to stare at our bodies as much as they like simply because we’re hired on their estates.
I slide a fresh polo over my head and brush my hair back before returning to Mr Monstead.
“I’m all done, sir. See you next month?”
He takes his time looking up from his laptop and scanning the cut lawns, as if he hasn’t been studying them for the last hour. He leans far back in his seat.
“Do you mow Wally’s lawn?” He chucks his chin to the east.
“Mr Eoyvich? Yes, I cut his lawns too.”
“He’s got patterns.”
“Yes, I do those.”
His finger flicks out past the trimmed hedges. “Why aren’t mine in patterns?”
I squeeze my hands together behind my back. “It’s a premium service, sir. But it was in the brochure I gave you. It’s an extra $100 per acre because it takes a longer than your usual cut.
His upper lip curls. “Tad expensive just for patterns, isn’t it? Sure you aren’t trying to fleece me? I had a wog roommate back in college, you know? Always trying to squeeze money out of someone.”
My fingernails dig into my wrist. Just because my skin’s a shade darker than his, I’m somehow automatically a dishonest person? I can’t let the sting get to me, not when I need the work. But fuck if it isn’t getting old.
“I can assure you that’s not what’s happening—I like to earn my dollars fair and square, sir.” I hold eye contact. “It’s a different technique altogether and takes a bit more . . . finesse.”
Gotta choose my words carefully, or he’ll say I’m not doing the best possible job with the current cut. “If you’d like, I can do a twenty percent discount on your first one, so you can try it out next time.”
The businessman, whose property would be worth upward of twelve million, chews on his lip. “My wife’s throwing a party on the twenty-first. Can you do it before then?”
I groan inwardly as I check my packed schedule on my phone.
“I can do it on the twentieth, but the lines might not show up as clear cut as Mr Eoyvich’s lawns.” He opens his mouth to interrupt but I plunge on. “It’s because the grass won’t have enough time to grow from today, and I can’t cut it any shorter without damaging the roots.”
He huffs with irritation. “All right. Make it happen.”
I nod and pencil the change into my calendar. Merda, that will be an exhausting day, considering I can’t cancel the other scheduled bookings.
“Some people are getting robot lawnmowers.” He shakes one hand toward the sky, revealing his Mr Executive gold watch. “Runs on solar and just glides around all day.”
I flash him a smile. “Yes, I’ve been looking into them. From what I’ve seen, they’re still in development and only suited for small lawns.”
“Oh.” His face falls back into its perpetual frown state. “Well, see you on the twentieth.”
Great way to tell me how replaceable I am. I pack my things up and leave as fast as possible. My instincts urge me to bolt straight over to Willow’s place but considering I’ve sweated up a storm and smell like mower fuel and lawn clippings, I’d better wash first.
When I take my towel over to use the small bathroom that forms part of the pool house, the sound of splashing stops me in my tracks. Laughter and chatter from half a dozen voices tell me my landlords have guests.
Dammit. What now?
My shed quarters have a sink for washing hands and dishes, but that’s not much help to properly clean up. Time’s a-wasting. I shake my head and strip down.
“Bird bath it is,” I mutter, grabbing a face washer and wetting it.
I scrub myself down, splattering droplets over the concrete floors. No matter how much I wipe, I can’t seem to get rid of the grass clippings scent. Guess it’s embedded deep in my skin at this point.
After my wipe over, I settle for spraying a boatload of deodorant and a fresh change of clothes, before texting Willow that I’m coming over.
The way the nerves buzz in my stomach reminds me of the day I arrived in the States with just my visa and a dream to make something of myself. It’s the promise of something good to come.
And also, something I don’t want to mess up.
When I reach the big wrought-iron gate, it slides open before I even press the buzzer. Willow’s waiting for me. My heart speeds up as I follow the walkway to the house.
The front door swings open and Willow leans on the frame, half obscured by shadows. “Hi. Side gate’s open. You shouldn’t have any trouble reaching the fences.”
Oh. My pulse falters. “Okay, I’ll measure up then.”
The door swings shut and my heart drops. What exactly was I hoping for? Of course she’d be shy around me, the guy who saw her panic attack. But I just need to show her I’m harmless.
I circle around the house and pass through another gate with a high-profile security lock on it.
Looks like she controls everything from inside.
Which is smart, for a wealthy omega living alone.
Well, I assume she’s on her own. No signs of a pack presence inside the house, definitely no alpha scents.
I get out my tape measure and stretch it along the fencing, writing dimensions in my phone as I go. I’ve only been at it for a few minutes when the back door slides open and a soft yip catches my attention.
Her dog, Mr Shares, bounds across the lawn to greet me. He rears up without putting his paws on my thighs.
“Oh, who’s a good boy?” I croon, ruffling his silky ears.
“He was begging to go out to see you,” Willow calls.
“He’s fine.” I wag my thumb towards the brick wall. “I can follow him over the fence if he tries anything.”
Willow studies me from the back patio where she stays in the shadows, not moving a foot outside. As if she’s afraid of sunlight, like a vampire.
A hot flush runs down my spine. What a stupid overactive imagination I have.
But still, I can’t shake the idea, and for some reason it lights me up inside.
Pale skin, smoking hot, reclusive, and strange aversion to broken ceramics.
She also moves in a slow sort of way, as if purposely reducing her pace.
I snicker under my breath and get back to measuring up.
When I look for her again, she’s vanished back inside.
I write down all the measurements, but I linger in the backyard, unsure about whether I should go back to her front door or not.
Mr Shares brings me a well-worn knotted rope, so I play tug-of-war with him for a good ten minutes.
When the dog takes off with the toy, I chase him right around the yard.
A soft chuckle breaks through my focus. I turn to find Willow in the patio, setting a tray down on the outdoor table.
“Come get something to drink,” she calls when our gazes meet across the yard.
Mr Shares drops his toy with a soft bark and prances back to her side.
I follow, suddenly conscious of the fresh film of sweat and dog hair as I step inside her covered area.
The space is cool and charming, full of Fishbone and Maiden’s Hair ferns, a handful of orchids, and macrame hangings.
Water trickles in the back in a small fountain. Wouldn’t I love to live in here?
“Thanks for playing with him.” Willow scans me up and down. “Sorry about the hair. It’s a fact of life with long-haired breeds.”
I dust my trousers off and scrape my boots well before entering her patio. “Doesn’t worry me, ma’am.”
Her mouth turns up. “Just Willow is fine. Do you like lemonade?”
She waves one graceful hand toward a pitcher on the table.
“I love lemonade, Willow. Especially when it’s cold on a hot summer’s day.”
Her shoulders twitch with a silent laugh. Merda, her name feels perfect on my tongue. I am a gardener, after all.
She picks up a glass full of clinking ice cubes and pours.
The bubbles pop, releasing a lemon scent, but as I step closer to take it from her, a whole other scent dimension opens up.
Jasmine, thick and rich as if this patio was full of flowering vines.
And underneath it, a deep, woodsy scent that makes my heart quiver.
An omega scent.
Not the kind that tells me off hand what her designation is. No, this is the kind that makes an alpha step forward, puff his chest out, and find any way to help her. The call of the wild echoes deep in my soul
The strange part is, she doesn’t seem to be scenting on purpose.
I sip the refreshing drink, watching her over the glass as she greets her dog. She tucks pale blonde hair behind one ear and smiles as she ruffles his ears. An omega this stunning living on her own? What’s her story?
“When do you think you can put it up?”
Now. Immediately. And many times over. “Pardon me?”
“The fence. When can you install the decorative panel.”
Oh, the fence! I clear my throat. “Um, it depends on the warehouse, if they have the stock or if I need to do a special order. If they have the panels, can I come around on Sunday?”
“Sure. I’ll be here.” Her chest pulses with a silent scoff.
I’m so fucking cued in to every twitch, every sound she makes. And I want to be the cause of her indrawn breaths. Want to run my fingers over her skin to see her body tremble and listen to her talk late into the night just to hear her voice.
My heart double beats, sealing my fate.
She lifts her gaze, ocean depth eyes boring into mine. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“No.” Me and my fucking mouth. Merda. Her Jasmine scent’s so thick I taste it with every breath. I’m just about drunk on it. I grab the table to steady myself as I guzzle the rest of my drink.
She cocks her head, eyes narrowing.
I clear my throat. Is there any way to salvage this? “Um, are you aware that you’re . . . scenting?”
Fear flashes through her eyes and her arms twitch. She drops her chin, her quick inhale loud in my ears. “What? That’s impossible.”
The heady floral-citrus aroma says otherwise and she knows it.
That beautiful fragrance sours as she growls. “Shit! I thought I put a stop to that.”
Willow whips around and marches for the back door with her deliberate, swaying pace.
As if I needed that emphasis on her ass. God help me.
She pauses at the back sliding door. “I’ll see you Sunday.”
Curt. She’s afraid. The realization slops through my stomach, leaving me winded.
“I can help,” I blurt out.
Her spine goes rigid.
Fuck! “I didn’t mean . . . merda. Just, if you need to breathe in an alpha, or a hug. I’ve heard it helps. Sì?”
Willow looks at me over her shoulder, her straight blonde hair partially concealing her face like a waterfall. “That’s sweet, but no need. I’ll knock this problem on the head right away.”
Problem? She’s calling the most beautiful pheromone invitation in the world a problem. Cuts like a knife.
The omega blows out her lips as if she doesn’t like her own scent. “I like your accent, by the way.” The glass door slams closed, and she disappears deeper into the house.
She likes my fucking accent? And here I am silently cursing my struggle with English. By the Madonna, I’ve never been happier to be Italian!
I stand there like an imbecile for five whole minutes before I gather my thoughts. Well, so what? I made a fool of myself the first time, but she still asked me to come back. It’s not the end of the universe.
I shove my hands in my pockets and turn away, but as I leave the cover of the patio, a strangled sob soars through an open window within the house.
My joy falters. Why’s an omega so heartbroken about going into heat?