Chapter 26
Lunch Date
DAN
Icarry a picnic basket the second time I arrive at Shallot Consulting.
The wide handles fit easily in my hands, and solid cover conceals the contents.
Bits of red-and-white checked lining flash here and there between the slats, a sharp contrast to my usual beige-and-white working attire: pants, shirt, jacket, shoes.
The basket wasn’t particularly heavy when first packed or when I take it out of my zipzap, but seems to gain weight with every step closer to Johanna.
What the fuck am I doing?
Rocking the boat, that’s what. Most things aren’t at risk. Family, health, job—they’ll all still be there, no matter what happens in the next hours or days.
No, what’s at stake is my contentment. My ability to be satisfied with the quiet, narrow life I’ve built for myself, and my alpha’s satisfaction, as well.
There’s no sign of Nathan or Corin, but the latter clearly paved my way. The receptionist smiles at the basket in my hands and winks at me, waving me through without anything except an arch “I believe you know where to go.”
Maybe people watch me walk down the hallway to the executive suite, I wouldn’t know because my vision narrows. The world shrinks to a straight line, only enough space for me to take one step at a time. Everything else grays out.
Blood thunders at my temples, pulsing and tapping in an unpredictable rhythm unrelated to my footsteps. As I reach the office suite, I find the door propped open, and only then do I realize the tapping is an administrative assistant rattling a keyboard with fast strokes.
“Ah ha.” They, too, take in the basket in my hands and smile. “Just a moment.”
I adjust my grip, hands slippery with sweat that soaks into the slatted handles.
The assistant flips a sign over the back of their computer reading “Out to Lunch, Back in an Hour” and hustles over to knock on Johanna’s door.
They don’t wait for a reply before opening it and thrusting their head in.
“Your lunch meeting is here, Johanna. I’m going to lunch myself, and Corin’s in a meeting, so I’ll hang the busy sign up on the outer door. Have fun!”
With the whistling of a wind bustling about, the assistant leaves, and I find my way to Johanna’s door.
My feet evidently know the way, because I don’t remember walking.
My knuckles ache from gripping the basket’s slippery handles.
Heart races. Head whirls. A lump in my throat makes it hard to breathe.
Then, I see her, turning from her computer to face the door. Still her, still the young beta I knew and recognize in the mature woman I re-met for the second time yesterday.
She wasn’t expecting me, given the surprise on her face.
I swallow, twice, but the lump in my throat remains.
Her lips curve into a tentative smile that unlocks countless competing emotions to flood through me. Swamp me.
Joy, first—a fluttering in the crown of my head—that I’m seeing her again after all these years, and for a third time.
Peace—the slowing of my pulse back to its usual pace—because she hasn’t thrown me out, yet, despite now knowing exactly what I’ve done, and about my dependence on medication.
Desire—throbbing at my loins—for as she stands, her soft pink dress drapes her curves perfectly, showing off the bounty at breast and hip.
She runs her hands over her sides, pulling at the fabric briefly, and unwittingly highlighting the outline of her bra and the taut circles of her nipples.
Her scent flares, tangy but with hints of cedar overlaying the deep cranberry.
At this, fear quickly overwhelms joy, peace, and desire. I’m not the only one admiring her. My inner alpha rouses, more awake than in a long time.
He focuses on her. Drinks in every detail and reads more into her looks and scent than I dare.
My gaze is no longer under my sole control. He keeps flicking it up and down her. while I’d prefer to stay within polite bounds and focus on her face.
He isn’t fighting for control yet—just snatching moments when he can—but stirs an instinctive longing to snatch Johanna and touch her in ways we’ve dreamed of.
Such strength to these urges—because of her, herself, or what she represents: a second chance?
Trembling and sweating, I lurch backward. My shoulder hits the door, which closes, providing a firm surface to support me. Sweat covers my skin, dripping down my face and plastering my shirt to my skin.
The basket slips from my hands to land on the carpet with a thud.
My vision blurs, or perhaps my alpha snatched control for a little bit and didn’t share, because all of a suddenly, I’m on the floor, Johanna kneeling by my side though I don’t remember seeing her move.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Do you need help? Should I call 911?”
“No.” I swallow, the lump still sticking in my throat. My fingers twitch as I start to reach for the supplemental suppressors in my jacket pocket, ready to take one or two no matter how dry my mouth. Anything to keep my inner alpha under control.
Except, he’s not pushing. Or grabbing. Or doing anything but drinking in her nearness and longing for her.
“Can I hold your hand?” Mine trembles as I turn toward her. “I think touch may ease my alpha.”
“I—hold hands? I guess so.” Even as she stumbles over her answer, her fingers twine with mine. Soft. Warm. Her thumb smooths the back of my hand in a tick-tock motion, like the beating of a heart.
Two hearts pulse in our chests. Her thumb matches neither in its back-and-forth, but sometimes it hits the beat throbbing at my throat and, other times the far fainter vibration at the base of her hand—as though trying to reconcile the two.
A shaky breath escapes her as her scent changes. The cranberry note sweetens, and the hint of cedar that had hung about her fades away. Only her scent and mine remain, mingling like our fingers.
“I’m too old for this.” She grimaces and shifts to sitting on the carpet next to me, rubbing her knees with her free hand.
My legs ache in sympathy. Kneeling is one more item on the long list of things I can’t do as much or for as long as I used to.
Johanna keeps hold of my hand, but the shift puts her directly opposite the picnic basket. She stares at it for a long moment, then turns to me with confusion writ clear on her brow.
“We met yesterday and the next meeting isn’t for another week or so.” Blinking, she leans forward, poking the basket gingerly, as though it might bite, then pulls back and frowns. “What is that, and why are you here today?”
“I brought you lunch.” I flip the basket open to show two sets of forks and spoons atop nested containers of food, plus a thermos in one corner and the silvery tops of two cans in another. “I won the coin toss and picked today. Nathan will bring you lunch Friday.”
“You tossed a coin over bringing me lunch?” Another round of blinks; this time her hand squeezes mine with each flutter of her lashes.
“Didn’t Corin tell you?”
“No. He didn’t.” She glares at the side wall, lips pursed, but fingers still gentle where she holds me.
Now that she’s drawn my attention, there’s the distant sound of male voices on the other side; maybe Nathan’s there now? Possibly. Probably.
“Perhaps Corin got sidetracked?” I ask in my best teasing manner—which doesn’t mean much, yet I get a much stronger reaction than expected.
Lovely color floods her face, deepest pink on her cheeks, but the flush sweeps down along her throat and under the smooth line of her shirt. Both my alpha and I enjoy it, so much. Too much.
My free hand itches to trace the color and see how low it goes. My alpha approves, but I resist. Just as well, because she turns her glare on me.
“Well, since you’re here, and you evidently know what’s going on, you can fill me in.”
It’s not a request. Irritation boils off her, giving her scent a spicy tang.
But she hasn’t let go.
“After you and Corin’s daughter left yesterday, the three of us talked. No farting, fighting, or fucking, just conversation”—I win a tiny twitch of her lips at the joke—“about you and the possibility of becoming a pack.”
As the last words drop from my mouth, a sinking sensation fills my gut. Corin thought she was interested in me, but I haven’t heard her say as much.
She doesn’t say anything for several breaths, but neither does she let go. Her thumb draws curlicues on the back of my hand; light, teasing movements that might be idle or a deliberate caress. No way to be sure without asking.
At length, she sighs and tilts her head back, watching me. Her scent loses most of the spiciness but retains a tangy, an edge that makes my nerves prickle.
“The four of us.”
It’s not a question, but I treat it as such and offer a cautious “Yes.”
“Do you want a pack?” She scoots along the carpet to sit opposite me, leaning forward so that our joined hands rest between us. Her tone is mild, as though asking about nothing of consequence, nothing with life-changing potential.
“I’ve never gotten close enough to one to know for sure.
” I shrug. “All I have to go on are stories that make being in a pack sound like one of the best things in the world.” The best and the worst. At least two-thirds of the works acclaimed as great literature feature packs as the source of romance, strength, or tragedy. Or all three.
“I can’t guarantee that, but growing up my parents’ pack was pretty wonderful, and the same for my friends in packed up families.” She frowns, squeezing my hand. “You’ve never been close to a pack? Not even with friends in packs?”
“Only in college, and I never quite fit in then, other than out with you.” My turn to draw curlicues on the back of her hand. She trembles, but still doesn’t let go and every time she turns down a chance to pull away, I edge closer to the pain of hope. “I’ve lived a very beta life.”
“As an alpha?”