Page 46 of Omega's Faith
As I round the final bend toward the main road, I spot a cluster of photographers huddled around their cars at the front gate, cameras with telephoto lenses at the ready.
One spots me and there's sudden movement, lenses swinging in my direction. I slow to a jog, then stop entirely about fifty meters from the gate, hands on my hips as I catch my breath.
"Morning, Alex!" one calls out cheerfully. "How's married life treating you?"
"Any comment on your wedding night?" another shouts.
"Is Jonah adjusting to the estate?"
I roll my eyes so hard it actually hurts. Clearly, they have nothing better to do than camp outside private property at—I glance at my watch—eight in the morning.
Part of me is tempted to give them something to really write about. Drop my running shorts right here and moon the bastards. Let them print that in their gossip rags.
Colborne Heir Bares All—Again!
The thought of Diana's reaction stops me. She'd skin me alive, maybe even literally.
I turn my back on them deliberately, ignoring their continued shouts, and begin the run back to the house. The endorphins have done their job, somewhat. My head feels clearer, even if my thoughts are no less complicated.
The kitchen door is unlocked when I return, and the moment I step inside, I'm hit by a wall of scent.
Eggs, bacon, fresh bread, coffee. It smells like someone robbed a five-star hotel's breakfast buffet.
But underneath all that is Jonah's scent, thick with.
I find him pulling something from one of the ovens. He’s wearing an apron over jeans and a t-shirt that clings in all the right places.
"Morning," I say carefully, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water.
He spins around, an overly bright smile on his face. "Good morning! I made breakfast. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I made a bit of everything."
He gestures to the spread on the kitchen island—and hell, it really is everything. Pancakes, French toast, eggs three different ways, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, pastries that look homemade...
"You made all this? Mrs. Atkins usually cooks." I say, downing my water in long gulps.
"I thought..." His hands flutter nervously, a gesture I've never seen from him before. Not even when we first met. "I wanted to cook for you”
The words sit wrong. This isn't the Jonah from the last three days, the one who pushed me against the wall and told meexactly what he was going to do to me. This is some stepford omega version, all sweetness and subservience. I like the other version better.
"After what happened," he continues, voice dropping, "I thought you might want... I mean, I know I wasn't exactly proper during my heat. I was demanding and difficult and—"
"Jonah." I set down my water glass. "You were perfect."
His cheeks flush, but he turns away, busying himself with plating food. "Here, sit. You must be hungry after your run."
The truth is, I never eat first thing in the morning. My stomach doesn't wake up until at least eleven, sometimes later. All I want is water to rehydrate and coffee to feel human again. But he's pushing a loaded plate in front of me, hovering anxiously, and I find myself picking up a fork.
The eggs are perfect—fluffy, seasoned just right. I manage three bites before my stomach rebels. Not because of the food, but because my body simply doesn't want food right now. I set down my fork carefully.
His scent sours immediately. "You don't like it."
"It's not that—"
"I can make something else. What do you usually have? I should have asked, I'm sorry, I just assumed—"
"Jonah." I push the plate away slightly. "The food is perfect. I'm just not a breakfast person. I usually just have coffee until lunch."
But he's not listening, not really. He's already pulling the plate away, movements sharp and jerky. "Of course. I'll remember for next time."