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It’s the weaselly reporter, on the ground, surrounded by gear. He must have been hiding in the open supply closet and fell out trying to record us. His phone lies two feet from my foot, where it landed when he fell.
With a decisive stomp, I smash it under my shoe.
He opens his mouth to protest, but we all snarl viciously. The coward’s eyes fly wide as he leaps up, scrambling backward in retreat.
Remi peeks around my arm, watching him run away and letting out an indignant huff, “What a cunt.”
chapter
sixty-eight
Five Months Later
She bought this thing on purpose.
The thought makes me smile. I push harder at the lever of the espresso machine, putting more weight behind cranking the damn thing than I’d like to admit.
Damon may have me working out with him and Cass four mornings a week, but we tend to do more talking and bullshit competitions than actual work. Which is fine for them, since the team trainers I hired are some of the best in the country. But maybe I need to get my own weight coach if I can’t even make a latte without breaking a sweat.
Of course, there’s the fact that this is not an average espresso machine. But one that our omega selected specifically, I suspect, to torture me.
Touché, little petal.
It’s French and appropriately temperamental. She chose it on our summer trip to Paris, when she fell in love with the café au lait from a tiny café near our hotel. Remi being Remi, she then proceeded to learn enough French to charm the proprietor into telling her where he bought the damn espresso machine.
Once she saw the price tag, she never mentioned it again. So, of course, I made it my mission to source one for her. A light blue one, to match our kitchen at home, and a sand-colored model to keep here at the beach house.
Now, as I fight with the machine for the fourth morning in a row, I realize my brilliant omega may have played me like a piano.
She knew I would buy this. And she knew it would be impossible for me to use.
Evil genius.
I send the thought through our bond, along with a mental image of the machine. I get a sparkle of delighted laughter back. Sleepy but still full of smug amusement.
I hate that I have to close the curtain between us, but I can’t let her see anything else that’s going on in the bungalow’s tiny kitchen. Most importantly, it’s a surprise. And second, Damon hasn’t exactly perfected the clean-as-you-go aspect of his budding cooking skills.
“Hey!” he says out loud, feeling my internal wince when I look around at the countertops. “I have a system!”
On any other day, I might bitch about the mess, but not today. And not when he’s so palpably excited to bring our girl her breakfast.
He’s worked hard on it, I’ll give him that. After months of watching Remi’s baking shows with her, he started venturing into the kitchen on his own. What started as a batch of brownies here and an omelet there has now turned into him doing just as much in the kitchen as our omega.
Pride thumps in my chest while I watch him bend over the stove, poking at the French toast he’s cooking. A lesser man may have taken my purchase of the team as a free pass to go back to the way he used to live. But Damon really took the lesson of nearly losing his hockey career to heart.
The team finished third in the League, but with Gunnar still improving and D back on the ice, we’re planning to go all the way next year.
Damon is still applying himself to other ventures, though. Over the summer, he started looking for other hobbies and goals outside of being a pro-athlete. He asked to come on a few rounds with me for Pierson Properties, looking into what being one of our sales directors would entail.
After some coaxing from me and Remi, he also agreed to see a professional regarding his dyslexia. But, in the meantime, he and Cass started an informal audiobook club with some of the Ash pack’s alphas and our omegas.
Apparently, Theo is really into monster romances; Declan prefers cowboys.
No matter what life throws at Damon, he comes out the other side stronger. Smiling. And, usually, better off. He still likes to call it luck, but I think Remi’s right—it’s less about luck and more about him, being the kind of person who spins straw into gold.
I let a beat of pride through our bond while I clap him on the shoulder, peering over his shoulder. “Looks great, Damon.”
He smiles, the easy grin masking the internal note of surprise I sense every time one of us is proud of him. “Did you get the candles?”
