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We fall into a comfortable silence as he navigates the streets, and I take the opportunity to study his chiseled jawline and the sharp angle of his nose. There’s an undeniable handsomeness to his rugged features that makes me feel flushed.
I force myself to look out the window at the passing buildings. I’m wandering into dangerous territory. Zane is my instructor, nothing more. I can’t afford distractions.
The car slows as we pull into the parking lot of a cozy-looking diner. A warm glow emanates from the windows, beckoning us inside, and my stomach grumbles again in anticipation.
Zane cuts the engine and looks over at me, then he unbuckles me and gives me a look I can’t even begin to decipher.
All right, now I’m really confused.
“Let’s go,” he mumbles after catching himself unlocking my seat belt.
Same, alpha, same.
Before he can think about doing anything else chivalrous, I climb out of the car and slowly trail behind Zane.
He holds the damn door open for me like a freaking gentleman, the bell above it jingling merrily as we enter. The aroma of frying oil and sizzling meat envelops us instantly, mingling with the scent of freshly brewed coffee. The soles of my shoes stick slightly to the checkered linoleum floor as we make our way to a corner booth by the front windows. The vinyl seat squeaks as I slide in, the cool material a stark contrast to my heated skin.
He removes his jacket, the taut muscles of his arms flexing beneath his T-shirt. He has tattoos. How did I not see them before? I want to trace each one with—I glance away, busying myself with the menu propped behind the napkin dispenser.
A bored-looking beta waitress saunters over, popping her gum. “What can I get ya?”
Zane orders a burger platter without looking up from his own menu. When the waitress turns to me expectantly, I ask for the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes. Comfort food indeed.
Plus, I’m starving, and I feel like I’m overheating. Is it hot in here?
She jots down our orders and shuffles back behind the counter. I fidget with my silverware, hyperaware of Zane sitting across from me. I chance a glance up at him. His blue eyes study me thoughtfully.
“So…have you been training at the dojo long?” I ask, desperate to break the silence.
His lips quirk up a little as he takes me in. I swear if this were a first date, I’m not sure I’d call this guy back. He doesn’t speak very much, but boy is he pretty to look at.
“It’s mine,” he states, shocking the hell out of me. My jaw drops as I realize the dojo is owned by Zane. The very idea of him running a business, let alone one centered on teaching, is mind-boggling.
He continues, “Allison runs the front so I can concentrate in the back.”
Allison. I almost sneer and mock her name.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Composing myself, I manage to say, “Wow, I had no idea. How long have you owned it?”
“Going on five years now,” Zane replies, taking a sip of his coffee. “Took it over from a foster father after he retired.”
I nod, impressed that someone so young owns his own successful dojo. I guess I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.
Our food arrives, steaming hot and smelling divine. As I dig into the crispy chicken fried steak, I can’t suppress a small moan of satisfaction. Zane raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the clinking of silverware and background chatter of the diner filling the void. I notice Zane’s eyes darting to the door every time it opens, his body tense, as if ready to spring into action. It dawns on me that he’s not just being antisocial, he’s on guard. But against what? The realization sends a shiver down my spine, reminding me of my own reasons for constant vigilance.
I force myself to focus on my food, scooping mashed potatoes onto my fork. This strange pull I feel toward Zane has to stop. My omega instincts purr at his protective alpha behavior, but my mind screams warnings learned from hard experience. I can’t afford to be drawn in by another alpha, no matter how safe he makes me feel. Safety is an illusion I can’t indulge in anymore. Yet, as I watch him from under my lashes, I can’t help but wonder, what if he’s different?
I have to focus on me, myself, and I. Lifting my fork, I twirl it a bit before pointing it at him. “What age group is your favorite to teach?” I ask for some reason.
Zane looks up at me from beneath inky black lashes, causing his eyes to look brighter than they should be. He leans back while simultaneously grabbing his napkin and wiping his mouth.
“I don’t think we should engage in small talk,” he says, his tone strained. His eyes flicker with an internal struggle before he adds, “The less I know about you, the safer it is. For both of us.” He pauses, then softens slightly. “But I still want you to eat and take care of yourself.”
I stare at him in disbelief, my heart sinking with the weight of his words. They roll over and over in my head, and because I’m an emotional omega, tears prickle at my eyes.
