Page 17 of Lilacs and Leather
“It’s because you think with your prick first, knothead,” he throws over his shoulder.
I chuckle darkly. My little brat. “I was going to tell Lex how good you were, following the rules of her punishment. Now I might have a different story to tell.”
Lucas spins around, eyes wide and shouting apologies. I laugh again, and he shows me a middle finger before turning back to his task.
Seven
Lydia
“And then what happened?” Gabby presses, practically vibrating with excitement.
“I said ‘It’s a date.’ Ya know, like a fucking idiot,” I groan, hiding my burning face in my hands.
Gabby and Wila had come back from their delivery run shortly after Rhett Cooper, that delicious alpha from Wickland House, had left. He’d filled out an order form and made a point to mention that the number he was leaving was his personal cell phone, and I could text him with any questions. Now, with the shop closed, I’m sitting at the tiny kitchen table in the apartment above the shop, sipping wine with Gabby while Wila works on cooking supper.
Gabby cackles at my misery, dancing in her seat. I lean over and push her, but I can’t keep from smiling. She wipes away a tear of mirth from her eye, taking deep breaths to collect herself.
“I cannot believe you got to meet Rhett fucking Cooper,” she says, sighing wistfully.
“I mean, he came in and ordered flowers for a female alpha in his pack. It’s not like we ran into each other at a bar or anything,” I reply with a shrug.
“You know who he’s talking about, right? That female alpha?” Gabby exclaims, her eyebrows raised pointedly.
I blink at her a few times, not seeing the connection. “Am I supposed to?” I ask skeptically.
“My God, you are so sheltered. Hold on,” Gabby says, jumping out of her chair and racing back to the stairs and up to her room.
I take a long drink of my sweet red wine as Wila moves into the open doorway between the kitchen and living room/dining room and leans against the frame. The apartment isn’t huge, the main living floor holding the open plan living room and dining room, kitchen, and a bathroom. The second floor has two bedrooms and a full bathroom, and an access staircase to the roof. The apartment didn’t get the same restoration treatment as the storefront, so the decor is modern, full of neutral tones and warm gray furniture.
“Mr. Cooper had to put in an order? We didn’t have what he wanted in stock?” Wila asks incredulously.
“He wanted lilacs,” I reply noncommittally.
Wila lets out a bark of a laugh. “I bet he does. But it’s good that he’s coming back. It’ll give me a chance to give him a piece of my mind.”
“Gran, no! Don’t scare him off!” Gabby shouts, coming back down the stairs with a magazine in hand.
“What? Someone has to keep that St. Clair Foundation honest. And it’s about time someone did something about the awnings,” Gran protests, going back to the kitchen.
Gabby throws herself back into her chair and plops the open magazine in front of me. It’s a gossip magazine, with a section on the richest packs in the country. The article spans multiple pages, with paparazzi photos of different celebrity packs positioned next to small blocks of text about the members. Gabby points to Number 15 of 20, Pack St. Clair.
I recognize Rhett immediately, dressed in a perfectly tailored navy blue suit and white shirt that brings out the color of his eyes. He’s not smiling, but I can’t help but feel a slight flush as I stare at the intense smolder on the glossy page. He’s standing between two people, a man and a woman. The man is slightly shorter than Rhett, wearing a toothy grin that brightens his entire face. His sandy brown hair is tousled, perfectly styled, and yet somehow incredibly casual. His warm brown eyes are bright and laughing, like he just heard the funniest joke in the world. The woman, on the other hand, is stone-cold beauty. Her dark hair was pulled over one shoulder in smooth vintage waves, accenting her elegant neck and jawline. Her hazel eyes are lined and shadowed expertly, and her black dress is sleek, professional, but incredibly sexy. My heart flip-flops at the sight of her imperious posture. This is a woman who does not suffer fools lightly.
My eyes drift over to the block of text next to the photograph, and I feel my heart drop as I read.
Pack St. Clair, founded by Alexandra St. Clair (left), is composed of alphas Rhett Cooper (center) and Mateo Hutchenson (right), owners and proprietors of C&H Design, a high-end building and interior design firm. Ms. St. Clair, CEO of the not-for-profit St. Clair Foundation, is the alpha daughter of famed builder, Leopold St. Clair. Not pictured, Lucas Klausen is the pack’s long-time beta, who himself is the owner of two Michelin-star restaurants in Everton, GA. This photo was taken at the recent opening of the historic Wickland House Hotel, an ambitious restoration spearheaded by the St. Clair Foundation.
Gabby is staring at me expectantly as I look up from the magazine.
“So he’s rich? I could have told you that. He paid with a black card,” I say flatly.
“Babe, seriously. He said he was getting flowers for ‘a female alpha’ who’s ‘very important’ to him. It’s her! Alexandra St. Clair,” Gabby says, air quoting Rhett’s words back to me. She taps rapidly on Alexandra’s paper face.
I swallow and consider. “He said she’s not his bond mate,” I mumble.
Gabby, giving me the Sigh of the Long Suffering, rubs her face before looking back at me. “Let me spell this out for you. You run into this hunky ass alpha from across the room of a fancy hotel. And then he shows up at your job less than two weeks later, and orders flowers for another pack member, the leader of his pack, a pack without a bonded omega.And those flowers smell like you.” Gabby speaks slowly, counting her points on her fingers, and then whisper-shouts her last point in my face.
I furrow my brows and take another long drink of my wine, draining the glass. Rhett was flirting with me; I can admit that now that I’ve had time away to evaluate the situation. But alphas are just like that. Just because my instincts want me to roll over, show my belly, and beg him to say all manner of filthy things to me in that lilting accent of his, doesn’t mean that he wants me to. But that growl…