Page 37 of Fourth Base with the Alpha

“This is why I’m not dating for real right now. I’d be a disaster. Perhaps this fake-dating has more advantages than I realized. I can practice on you and screw things up as much as I like. It won’t matter.”

Practice? I force a smile. If I’m the practice boyfriend, the fake one, does that mean some other alpha will be hers for real? The ex perhaps.

“My dad is a bit of a jerk,” I manage a bite of my sandwich, “but he did have some good advice for getting over heartbreak.”

“Oh,por Dios. Do I want to hear this? I know what men tell their sons.”

I poke her in the ribs like she did to me on Saturday. “Nothing like that.”

“Ice cream, then? Everyone knows it’s the universal cure for heartbreak.”

“Nope, come on, I’ll show you.”

I switch on the engine and weave the Tesla down the hill, away from whatever’s making my omega sad. As soon as we leave that view behind, I flip on the radio, finding some station playing crappy pop songs I know she won’t be able to resist singing along to. By the time we reach the beach, she’s smiling again and singing her heart out. She wasn’t lying. Her voice is fucking awful.

“The sea?” she says, nodding as if that makes sense.

“Nope again.”

I climb out of the car and she follows me, giving me a puzzled look as we follow the path that runs alongside the beach. The waves crash against the shore in the distance and the glow from the city lights our way.

I pause at the children’s play area.

“Please don’t say the swings or the slide,” she says, “because my butt is way too big for that and I don’t want to end up on YouTube as one of those people who has to be cut out by the fire brigade.”

I point beyond the playground, to the outdoor gym equipment beyond.

“Huh?”

“Working out,” I explain, pulling her that way.

She groans. “Seriously? I’m not really one for working out. I zumba but–”

“You what now?”

“Zumba.”

“What the fuck is a ‘zumba’?”

“It’s like a combination of aerobics and dance but to really good music. Actually, they use one of your tracks.”

“I want to see that!” I tell her, remembering how well this little omega moves. “But first …” I point towards the chin-up bar.

“What is it?”

“Chin ups.”

She stares at me blankly. “Like this.” I jump up and grab the bar above my head then pull myself up until the bar skims my jaw. I lower and repeat three more times.

“Was this a ruse just to show me how strong and impressive you are?” she asks me. “Because I knew that already.”

I beckon her towards me. “No, working out, putting all that pain into the physical, making your body hurt instead of your soul; trust me it works.”

“It sounds very emotionally unhealthy.”

She steps towards me and I feel like a creep when I relish the opportunity to wrap my arms around her waist and lift her so she can reach the bar.

She squeals when I let go and her feet flail around in the air, her pumps falling from her feet.