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Oh. My. God.
Images of the high-and-mighty Smith Pierson—in his perfectly pressed suits, scowling over lessons on slick and nesting—leave me gaping. “That’s where you’ve been every night?”
I sound small and wobbly. Smith’s scent deepens, growing darker. He instantly leans closer, gathering my hands in his, and sloughs out a deep breath. “Yes. The classes are… intensive. The course only lasts a month, so Irene and Julian—the omega instructors—insist on perfect attendance.”
And here I thought he had avoided all of the family dinners I tried to make because he couldn’t stand me. When, really…
I squeeze his hands. “Smith?—”
He purrs, leaning closer, his smooth, sexy voice dropping into a murmur. “Don’t. I don’t want you to thank me or think this means you owe me anything. You deserve alphas who know how to take care of you; who make you feel as cherished as you are. You owe me nothing for doing what I need to do to become that for you. But I owe you an apology for not being that alpha when we met.”
I’m torn between smiling and tears. My eyes water while I smirk. “Are you ever going to actually say you’re sorry.”
A spark moves through his dark eyes. His sculpted mouth quirks in wry amusement. “Have I never said that out loud?”
A giggle bubbles out of me. “No!”
He grins—a quick, pure expression of delight. It fades as he looks down at our entwined fingers. With utter sincerity, he bends his face to my hands and kisses both of them. When he speaks, I can still feel the brush of his lips, his words a rumbling skitter across the thin skin of my wrists.
“I’m sorry, angel. I’m so sorry that I ever scared you or hurt you. I’ll regret the way I treated you for as long as I live.”
He means it, with every tiny piece of himself. I can feel it. And as I sit there, in his luxurious leather car, watching him literally bow to me….
This isn’t what I want.
“Smith.” I cup my palms over his stubbled jaw, lifting his face back to mine. “I don’t want you to live with that sort of regret. I want?—”
I want you to be happy.
That’s all it really is, isn’t it? All my perfectionism and my constant desire to please him. I want him to be happy.
With me.
When I finally get the words out, he listens, more intent on what I’m saying than anyone ever has been. I watch his deep, brown eyes bounce between mine, absorbing the words. When they crease in pain, I realize it’s the good kind. The sort that makes your heart ache.
He leans his forehead into mine for a long moment, letting the tension slip off his features. “There’s something I need to show you.”
Turns out that, even after discovering his Deep Dark Secret, Smith Pierson is still a mystery.
When he turns off the interstate and begins driving us toward the ocean, I naturally assume we’re going to the beach. Instead of heading for one of the public access points, though, the Range Rover cuts a sharp right onto a sandy residential street.
With the sun nearly setting, tangerine light suffuses the coastal area. Slants of orangey gold slice through the narrow street’s foliage. All the beachy sorts of plants make me smile—sea grapes, bougainvillea, hibiscus bushes.
It doesn’t take long for me to see that the impressive landscaping along the street is hiding some pretty luxe houses, though. They all sit far from the lane, their backs to the ocean, fronts obscured by palm fronds and elephant ears.
A nervous niggle starts in my stomach. Is Smith about to pull into one of these million-dollar homes and show me a whole new estate I have to become the mistress of in order to impress him?
We do make one final turn, into a crowded, unevenly paved driveway. I lean forward, looking out the windshield at the house in front of us, blinking my shock.
…what?
It’s the smallest house on the whole street. In fact, one could easily mistake it for the neighbor’s pool house. Or even a quaintly designed storage shed.
It’s neither, though.
It’s a bungalow.
A tiny white bungalow, trimmed in garish turquoise paint and standing on sandalwood stilts. It has a worn roof and flaky window tint and the front yard is a veritable jungle…
