The Mating Game by Lana Ferguson - 6

I don’t see Tess for a few hours after running into her out back, and I can’t say that I’m not grateful for the reprieve. I thought I might have imagined it, how appealing she is—with her wide brown eyes and her pert nose that wrinkles when she’s irritated and her soft-looking mouth that seems to be developing a habit of pursing in my vicinity—but it’s clear now that she’s just as lovely as my brain remembers from last night. It makes my newfound resolve to ignore her as much as possible all the more difficult.

In the short time since meeting her, I’ve thought a lot about how doing so is in both our best interests; I know better than anyone that continued exposure will only lead to awkward situations, given how enticing I find her scent, and there’s nothing I want less than to find myself ruled by my hormones and then make an ass of myself all over again. I’ve had more than enough of that in my life already, thank you very much.

But my plans to steer clear are thwarted when I find her crouched in a corner of the great room sometime after I put the wood away, holding out her hand to a very bored-looking Reginald, who is eyeing her with utter disinterest as she tries to entice him out from the little table he’s hiding under. I watch for a few seconds as she baby-talks and coos and makes pspsps noises at him while he looks at her like she’s lost it.

“Here, kitty kitty,” she coos.

I cross my arms, leaning against a wall as amusement washes over me.

“Come here, you mean-ass furball,” she huffs. “Let me love you.”

After a beat, I decide to put her out of her misery. “You might as well give it up now,” I call to her, noticing the way she jolts slightly before her head whips around to look at me. “That cat hates everyone but Jeannie.”

As if to drive home my point, Reg chooses that moment to bound away, flicking his tail as he goes so that it whips Tess in the face.

“Damn it,” she mutters. “I’m dying to pet that cat.”

“Better men have tried.”

I catch a sudden whiff of her scent. It’s so potent, it seeps into my nostrils and seems to almost drip down my throat.

Is it somehow stronger than it was yesterday?

I clear my throat, looking anywhere but at her. I can’t help but notice the cobwebs collecting in one corner of the ceiling and frown. Not exactly helpful for my stance that we don’t need her here making changes.

“So,” I start. “What do you think of my dingy little lodge?”

She frowns. “Look…I shouldn’t have said that. It was really unprofessional.” She squares her shoulders, taking a step closer to me and thrusting out her hand. “Can we start over? I’m really sorry that we got off on the wrong foot. It was…” Her frown deepens then, her brow furrowing. “It was a weird day yesterday.”

I want to tell her that no —we can’t start over, if only for my own sanity, given that being on friendlier terms with her will most likely only make it harder for me to ignore her delectable scent. Still. It seems that she’s here for the next several weeks, and I know that realistically, being at odds with her at every turn because of my own hang-ups isn’t exactly feasible.

“Sure,” I say as I slowly take her hand, if a tad bit begrudgingly. “I guess we can try that.”

Her answering smile feels like a blow to the chest, the brightness of it making everything feel too tight. Her soft hand in mine makes the skin of my palm tingle, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m jerking my hand away and shoving it in my pocket. I try to pretend that I don’t see the flash of disappointment in her eyes.

“You are Miss Fixit, after all,” I tell her with a shrug.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Cute.”

She rises to her full height—which is still much shorter than me—crossing her arms.

“Get all that whittling done?”

My lips twitch, but I snuff out the smile before it has time to form. “Not quite.” I eye the pink sweatpants that hug the generous curve of her hips, my eyes dipping to her ridiculous fuzzy socks before I scold myself for even looking. “What are those?”

“What?” She follows my line of sight, eyeing her feet before cocking a brow back at me. “Socks?”

“Those are not socks.”

“Of course they are.”

“They look like you skinned the Lorax.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sorry. You weren’t around to consult when I was getting dressed.” She lets her gaze sweep around the room. “I was actually about to start exploring a little more…Mind giving me a tour of the place?”

Actually, I’d like to get far away from you, because you smell like something I want to take a bite out of.

“I guess I can do that,” I say instead like a jackass.

She gives me a little mock bow, extending her arm as if to say, After you.

I shake my head, turning to leave the room so she can’t see the smirk that touches my mouth.

Tess Covington might be trouble.

I’ve never had someone wax poetic about my banisters before, but Tess found out they’re original to the property and hand-carved by my great-grandfather, and she hasn’t stopped talking about them since.

“I really want to highlight them in the remodel,” she’s saying. “The mantel too. You said he carved that also?”

I nod mutely, a little dumbstruck by her good mood. It’s like once she slid into her element, she became an entirely different person. Or rather, she started actually being friendly . Her attitude up until this point has probably been my fault, so I can’t really blame her for it.

It’s actually kind of…sweet. How into this she obviously is. That makes it hard to look away when she starts going on and on about the original flooring she finds under the old carpet and starts gushing about it.

“This is fantastic! We have to rip all the carpet up and refinish this hardwood. I can’t believe it’s just been sitting here for who knows how long. Did you know this was under here?”

Another probably dumb-looking nod, because I haven’t yet figured out how to get a word in edgewise with the way she’s chattering on.

I shouldn’t find it cute.

Or her in general, really.

You’d think I would know better, that my body would have formulated some sort of omega defense system, considering the last one I got close to practically ripped my heart out, and yet here I am, openly admiring this woman who apparently knows her way around a hammer.

It’s ridiculous.

“—and if you meant it about driving me into town, I’d actually really appreciate it.”

I blink, coming out of my own head and back into the conversation.

“Hmm?”

She looks slightly embarrassed for some reason, turning her head away and reaching to rub at her neck. I wonder if she realizes how much this makes her scent bloom in the air, the soft smell of cinnamon and baked apples tickling my nostrils and making my mouth water.

“It’s just that I really need to get to a pharmacy,” she tells me. “I’ve been a little under the weather; I actually saw a doctor before I came here, and she gave me these prescriptions, and I need to—”

“I’ll take you,” I tell her. My body’s tensing with her burgeoning scent, so it comes out as more of a grunt. “It’s fine.”

She visibly relaxes, her face breaking into a grin. “Great. I’d definitely appreciate it.”

“We can go whenever you’re ready,” I tell her as she turns to study the paneling on the wall. “Just let me know when—”

She takes a step, not looking where she’s going, and I watch as, almost in slow motion, her foot catches the corner of the upturned carpet that she tugged loose to reveal the hardwood underneath. Her eyes widen as she loses her balance, and in a matter of seconds, she goes from tumbling backward to pressing against my chest. One of my hands wraps around her wrist while the other cradles her neck, holding her close so she doesn’t fall.

My lashes shutter in a blink as I’m hardly able to recall how we got like this; it’s as if I saw her in danger and my body just…reacted. Which is odd. This close, I can feel the warmth of her seeping through my clothes, can feel her soft skin brushing against my rough palms, and for a few seconds, I can’t seem to remember how to speak.

When it comes back to me, my voice is rougher than it was when I last spoke. “Are you okay?”

“I…” Her pupils dilate under my scrutiny, and I feel a rush of…something in my gut that would probably thrill me if it weren’t so alarming. Pleasurable but terrifying. “I’m fine,” she says. “Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Clearly,” I mutter.

Her brow furrows like she might return the sarcasm, but then her lips press together, making them look fuller, pinker. As I watch her throat bob in a swallow, I’m struck with the realization that with my hand cradling her neck, my wrist is dangerously close to her scent glands. That with one flick, I could scent her, and she would smell like me.

And why the fuck is that so appealing?

It’s enough to have me untangling myself from her with more force than necessary, because these are not feelings I need or want. Not again. Putting your faith in the wrong omega is enough to make anyone wary of doing it again.

I clear my throat when she’s out of my hands and at a safer distance, ignoring the way my palms tingle, almost as if in protest.

I clear my throat. “Good. Try to be more careful.”

The thought of her getting hurt also sparks a visceral reaction in me, and even though I know what it is—even though I know it’s simply biology—it makes my insides twist. With need or disgust at myself…I can’t be sure.

“If you still need to go to the pharmacy,” I say, changing the subject so I can hopefully escape and actually breathe , “we can go in twenty. I just need to…I have to…” I point aimlessly, having no actual excuse to get far away from her but needing to do so all the same. “Just have to check on something first.”

She nods slowly, her eyes wide and seeming to see right through me. “Sure. Meet you at your truck?”

“Sounds great,” I tell her, already spinning on my heel.

It occurs to me then that I’m actually trapped here. For the next several weeks, I will be forced to endure living under the same roof with the exact type of person I swore I never wanted to have anything to do with again.

And even if that’s not her fault, it doesn’t change the way part of me feels the need to keep my distance. Even if only to protect myself.

You can’t be friends with Tess Covington , I repeat over and over as I head toward my bedroom for a moment of peace before I’m trapped in the Bronco with her for half an hour. It’s not a good idea.

There’s a reason alphas and omegas drive each other’s hormones so out of whack; we’re made to perfectly complement one another. Merely being in close proximity is enough to draw us to each other, to make us want . It makes it way too easy to get in over your head without knowing what the other person is really like. Something I know all too well.

I tell myself I’ll just let her do her job, interacting with her as little as I can possibly get away with. That way nothing is complicated.

That way no one gets hurt.

I touch my fingers to my nostrils when I’m safely tucked away in my bedroom, allowing myself to breathe in her scent even though I know I shouldn’t. I close my eyes and let the sweetness of it fill my nose, releasing a shuddering breath when it makes my mouth water all over again.

I have a feeling it’ll be easier said than done.