Page 73 of Your Wild Omega

I raise my brows. “Is that why she went out to get her nails done?”

He holds one finger to his lips. “You didn’t hear it from me. Good luck. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Somehow the revelation makes me feel small. Mom’s so excited about an hour or two with me she’s getting dolled up. I’ve been an ass of a son.

The bench top hosts a few new gadgets, but otherwise the French Country styled kitchen is the same as I remember. I set the rice cooker with onion and garlic mixed in, and then start on my chickpea salad and baked salmon.

The sizzling oil and steamed rice aroma fills the house by the time Mom walks in. “Callisto?”

I stride around the bench and open my arms for her. “Hi, Mom.”

She feels small and frail as she steps into my embrace. I silently calculate the years and realize she’s fifty-nine now. Still a beautiful woman but showing hints of age.

“Let me see your nails,” I order as I release our hug.

“Oh, that Lector’s in trouble,” she sputters, dropping her gaze.

I chuckle as I slide my hands down her arms to capture her hands, lifting them for inspection. A pretty two-tone hue glimmers across her fingertips, changing from pale apricot to fuchsia.

“Looks lovely, Mom,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” She drops her hands shyly and sniffs the air. “Smells good. What are we having?”

“Rice and salmon. I’m almost ready to plate up, so where do you want to eat? Is the deck too cold?” I point to the jumble of cutlery, side plates, and glasses I left on one end of the kitchen bench. “Wasn’t sure where you preferred.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s a warm evening.”

Mom takes the cutlery outside and sets up while I serve out the portions. After a few minutes, we sit down at an angle from each other on the back deck, looking out over the city.

“Wow, Callisto,” she declares, turning the shallow bowl to study the pink salmon fillet on the bed of feta, avocado, rice, and salad. “Who taught you to cook? Because it wasn’t me.”

I laugh. “I’d say Ricky.”

She nods, smiling. “Sounds right.”

“Let’s dig in.”

A pang runs through me as I glance down at the food. If I were eating at home, Red would mutter one of her insane pre-meal blessings right about now. I dig my fork into the food, forcing the memory away.

“And how is Ricky?” Mom asks after her first mouthful.

“Good,” I reply, trying not to think about the fact I haven’t seen my best friend since Zack asserted himself. “Oh, that reminds me.” I duck inside and grab the magazine. “Did you see this?” The sun’s set, so I flick on the porch lights. The lantern-shaped housings glow a warm orange, illuminating the deck and the path out to the swimming pool and guest house.

“Well, consider me chuffed,” she declares, taking the magazine. “Doesn’t he look splendid?” Her eyes widen as she glances up at me. “Wait, is this her? His omega?”

His omega.I’m not prepared for the painful lance striking through my heart. I cough a little and shift on my seat. “Yeah, that’s her. Red Jones.”

Mom’s mouth drops open, and she runs her fingertips over the beautiful actress. “My oath, she’s stunning!” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Well done, Rickon.” With a sigh she lowers the magazine. “He was going to bring her over for dinner a while back, but I was so disappointed when he said she had to travel somewhere.”

I stab at my salmon as I work back through the timeline. I think that was around the time Red got caught and ended up back in the Omega Center. “She, yeah . . . she had to go away.”

Mom claps her hands. “Well, now I know she’s back, I’ll reach out again. And who’s the hottie on her other side? Her bodyguard?” She beams as she glances at me, but then her smile fades. It’s like I can see the conversation dying on her tongue as she considers whether to raise the topic of an omega with me.

I drop my fork into the bowl. “Actually, there’s a reason I wanted to see you tonight.” I reach out and flip the magazine over so I don’t have to see their faces. “It’s a little hard for me to talk about, so bear with me.”

She nods. “What is it, darling?”

I pat a napkin on my lips. An apology contains just a few little words, so why do they cling to my mouth so much? “Mom, I . . . I want to ask for your forgiveness.”

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