Chapter 35 Grapes, Glamour, And Grumpy Alphas #2
I smile and say nothing, setting the plate and coffee cup on the small table beside the makeup station.
The aroma of fresh coffee and warm pastry drifts upward, and I watch Julian's nose twitch slightly—that same wolf-like instinct that Tank has, recognizing a familiar scent even with his eyes closed.
I'm about to step away when his hand shoots out, catching me around the waist. His grip is firm but gentle, and he pulls me closer without opening his eyes.
"Sweet Ditzy?" he murmurs, his lips pursing into a pout that's entirely too adorable for a man who was radiating murder vibes thirty seconds ago.
I groan. "I thought we agreed that Sweet Queen or Sweet Vixen was better. Sweet Ditzy makes me sound like I have the intelligence of a particularly confused goldfish."
His eyes fly open, surprise flickering across his features when he realizes it's actually me. "Why are you here? You're supposed to be resting at the back. Shoots are boring—you don't need to be on your feet."
"You don't make it look boring," I counter, gesturing vaguely at the set around us.
"Besides, it's your job. It's interesting to see all the work that goes into these productions.
" I nudge the plate closer to him. "And I figured you were probably hungry.
You didn't get to eat this morning, and you definitely didn't get coffee.
That's practically a war crime for someone with your caffeine dependency. "
Julian's gaze drops to the food I've prepared—the golden croissants, the colorful arrangement of fruit, the cup of coffee that's still steaming gently. Something in his expression shifts, softening from irritation to something warmer.
"You made this?" he asks. "The croissants?"
"Last night. I couldn't sleep, so I baked. And then I figured, why let them go to waste when my grumpy Alpha clearly needs sustenance?" I reach for the coffee cup and hold it out to him. "Your favorite. Dark roast, hint of vanilla, splash of oat milk. Just the way you like it."
He takes the cup, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange, and for a moment, he just looks at me. Really looks, with an intensity that makes my skin warm.
"Did you eat?" he asks suddenly.
I blink. "What?"
"Breakfast. Did you eat breakfast?"
"Uh..." I try to remember. The morning had been such a rush—getting dressed, packing supplies, following Julian to the set. "Not... really? I had some water, I think."
His frown deepens. He turns to the makeup artist, who's been watching our exchange with poorly concealed fascination. "Five minutes."
She nods quickly and scurries away, probably grateful for an excuse to escape the tension.
Julian pats his lap. "Sit."
Heat floods my cheeks. "But... there are people around?" I gesture at the crew members milling about the set, some of whom are definitely watching us with curious expressions.
"I don't care." His hand finds my hip, guiding me closer. "They won't notice. And even if they do, I've been an ass all morning. They probably expect me to be demanding." His lips quirk into something that's almost a smile. "Sit, Rosemarie."
The way he says my name. Full and proper, not the nickname. It does things to me that I'm not prepared to examine in a public setting.
I settle onto his lap, my back against his chest, hyperaware of every point of contact between us. His arm comes around my waist to steady me, and his chin rests on my shoulder like it belongs there.
"Now," he murmurs against my ear, reaching for the fruit container, "eat."
He picks up a strawberry and brings it to my lips, holding it there with patient expectation. My face burns—being fed in public, surrounded by strangers, is not exactly something I'm accustomed to—but my stomach chooses that moment to growl traitorously, reminding me that I am, in fact, starving.
I open my mouth and let him feed me the strawberry.
Okay. This is... actually really nice. Weird, but nice. There's something deeply intimate about being cared for like this, about letting someone else take control of something as basic as nourishment.
We fall into a rhythm—Julian selecting pieces of fruit and feeding them to me, occasionally taking bites himself, while I tear off sections of croissant for us to share. He drinks his coffee between bites, and I watch the tension slowly drain from his shoulders with each sip.
"Better?" I ask after he's finished about half the cup.
"Much." He sets the cup down and wraps both arms around my waist, pulling me more firmly against him. "You know me too well."
"It's not exactly a mystery. You without coffee is like a bear without hibernation—technically functional, but dangerous to be around."
He huffs a laugh against my shoulder. "I wasn't that bad."
"Julian, three different people have asked me if you're always this difficult, and one of them was crying."
"...I'll send an apology fruit basket."
I laugh, leaning back into his warmth. "Speaking of difficult—why are you being so stubborn about the other Omega? I mean, I appreciate it, but you almost walked off a major campaign."
Julian is quiet for a moment. When I turn my head to look at him, his expression is almost vulnerable—a rare sight that makes something in my chest clench.
"I don't want to be pictured with just some average Omega," he says finally, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
"It would create speculation. People would assume she's the one I'm with, when the real one is right here.
" His arms tighten around me. "On my lap.
Willing to wake up before dawn to bring me coffee and homemade croissants because I didn't get a chance to eat this morning. "
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
"It's insulting," he continues, a hint of indignation creeping into his tone.
"I wasn't told that would be part of the shoot.
If they had informed me, I would have declined from the start.
I don't care how much they're paying me—I'm not going to be photographed with someone I'm not comfortable with. Someone who isn't you."
"And if they don't want to work with those terms?" I ask softly.
He shrugs, the movement shifting me slightly in his lap. "Then they shouldn't pay me. I have other income streams. I don't need to compromise my integrity—or my commitment to my pack—for a single campaign."
My commitment to my pack. He says it so easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like we're already permanent, already official, already forever.
I turn in his lap—an awkward maneuver that involves a lot of careful shifting—until I'm facing him.
His silver hair is perfectly styled, his makeup flawless, his designer clothes immaculate.
He looks every inch the model he is, polished and professional and probably worth millions in advertising revenue.
And he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room that matters.
I lean in and kiss him. Soft, gentle, just the barest press of my lips against his. Nothing demanding, nothing hungry. Just connection. Just gratitude.
When I pull back, there's a hint of color on his cheekbones. Julian North, international model and devastating Alpha, is blushing.
"Thank you, Alpha," I murmur, giving him my best doe eyes. "For thinking about my feelings."
The blush deepens, spreading down his neck. "Hush," he mutters, looking away. "Eat your grapes."
I grin, delighted by his flustered response, and pop a grape into my mouth.
"Did you know," I say conversationally, "that before the holiday, I went under the table and ate twelve grapes?
It's a tradition—you make a wish for each grape, and if you eat all twelve before midnight, your wishes come true. "
Julian raises an eyebrow. "And what did you wish for?"
"A pack," I admit, feeling suddenly shy. "I wished for a pack that would actually want me. Twelve times."
His expression softens for a moment before skepticism reasserts itself. "That's a myth. Grapes don't grant wishes."
"It's not a myth! It's a real tradition. Very old, very legitimate."
"It's delulu."
I choke on my grape. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Delulu," he repeats, completely deadpan. "That's the term, isn't it? Delusional?"
"Did you—" I can barely get the words out through my laughter. "Did you, my sophisticated, aristocratic Alpha, just say delulu? Unironically? What generation are you from? Are you secretly a teenager on social media?"
"I'm thirty-five," he huffs, looking genuinely offended. "I'm simply aware of contemporary vernacular."
"Contemporary vernacular," I wheeze. "Julian. You just said 'delulu' and then followed it up with 'contemporary vernacular.' You're a walking contradiction and I adore you."
He's trying very hard not to smile—I can see the battle playing out on his face, the twitch of his lips, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "I regret this conversation," he announces.
"No, you don't." I pick up a grape and hold it to his lips. "Here. Shut up, Mr. Delulu. Eat your wish fruit."
He huffs—actually huffs, like a petulant child—but opens his mouth and lets me feed him the grape. The absurdity of the moment hits us both at the same time, and suddenly we're both laughing, his chest shaking against my back, my giggles mixing with his low chuckles in a sound that feels like home.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of camera shutters cuts through our moment, and I freeze, suddenly very aware that we are still in the middle of a professional photoshoot. I whip my head around to find Marcus, the photographer, crouched a few feet away with his camera aimed directly at us.
"What—" I start, heat flooding my face.
"We're still on break," Julian says sharply.
"No, no, this is perfect!" Marcus is practically vibrating with excitement, his earlier stress completely forgotten. "Don't stop—just keep doing what you were doing. The chemistry, the intimacy, the authenticity—this is exactly what the campaign needs!"