Page 39 of The Alpha's Fake Mate
“You’re not nothing. You’re a human being who deserves better than what you were headed for. I saw no other recourse. I wasn’t going to let that Alpha take you. Not after--”
“After what? Oh yeah. Well, my body is healed. I’m fine. You don’t have to look at me like I’m some charity case.”
“Never thought that.” I leaned back, staring at the white leather interior of the limo’s roof.
The truth had never been about charity or altruism or any nature in me to do the right thing where Holland was concerned. With all the other Omegas at Zilly’s, yes, I felt those responsibilities to make life better for them. But not Holland.
The truth swelled through me, not charity, and far from innocent. But it was pure. He delighted me. I favored him. From the moment I saw him speak out on my tour of the farm, he had my attention like no one else I’d ever met, no Alpha, no Omega, no one.
Holland drew all my focus. He always had. Our eyes met over a crowded room as he demanded my identity and wanted to know why Alphas were invading his territory. He had me in that moment. He was the last thing I thought of before sleep and the first when I woke every morning.
If he knew these past months I waited poised at my computer for any messages and emails from him, he’d laugh. He’d never believe it.
As I tried to quiet the buzz of my thoughts, Holland spoke.
“How will the arrangements be? Will I have my own room?”
My heart started to beat softer. “Yes. You’ll have your own room. And your own office.”
“Will we take meals together?”
I couldn’t help the tightening of muscles in my forehead. “I would hope.”
“Hmm.”
“I live alone. If you want your meals separate, fine. But it seems a waste. I’d like the company, anyway.”
He stared down at his clasped hands. His beer sat fizzing softly under the window, untouched. “We aren’t friends.”
Harsh words, like a knife. We’d worked together for months. “I disagree.”
He glanced up. Deep in the blues of his irises shone a tiny vulnerability, a paleness within the crisp light of his eyes.
“It’s hard for me to be near you,” he said. A finality communicated in the set of his lips.
It was hard for me to be near him as well. His scent rushed in on me, faintly salt mixed with beautifully blooming aromas of summer roses. Maybe it was a cologne he liked. But I suspected it was him because I reacted to it like an Alpha around any Omega he might fancy, my blood surging a bit faster, my skin tingling. I didn’t have that response to manufactured perfumes.
But Holland’s statement about being near me was for different reasons than mine. He didn’t get a rush from me. He didn’t even like me. Within his sweet perfume scent was a hint of bitters. He was afraid.
He showed his fear through his emotionless stance, and his rude and clipped sentences. After working with him, and our two brief encounters during the tour, I knew he would never admit to outright fear. It wasn’t in his character to give in, or to show vulnerability in any way.
But everything in me responded to his situation with an urge to protect. If I admitted it, he’d hate me even more.
The limo pulled up to my favorite Italian restaurant. When the driver came around to open the door, Holland looked at me in confusion.
“I eat out a lot,” I said.
“Certainly you have staff at your home. Cooks and butlers and things,” he said.
“You assume a lot. But yes, I do. All inherited.”
“I’d like to go there and get settled then.”
“This lunch will be a stop of no more than an hour,” I replied, moving out of the car and standing. A wind blew across my brow, cooling it. It was only then I realized I’d been hot.
The drive was tedious. Zilly’s was an hour from my home. Holland could not complain that I wanted a break at the half-way mark.
Holland scooted forward along the leather couch and stood, glancing around the front of the restaurant and the parking lot behind us. He had an almost startled look about him, and I realized he had not been out in public a day of his life.
