Page 10 of Ginger Omega
She blushed and stuffed the check in her pocket. “Sure. Coming right up.”
As Katie boxed up the cake and pie, she eyed us more than once. Hell, more than ten times. Good. I wanted her to know that she had all our attention. Even in this place with smells of food and other people, hers called to my wolf like a siren.
When she came back with a new check and the boxes, I reached out and lightly touched her hand. “Katie, we wanted to ask…would you go out with us?”
Not the most private moment with a diner full of shifters, but we didn’t really have a choice.
“You’re a pack?” she asked.
“We are.”
She blushed. So many shades of rose. Her scent bloomed in the air, needy, musky, with an edge of want so heady, I nearly slid out of the booth, tossed her over my shoulder, and took her home. Judging by her scent, it would be welcomed.
“No.”
Vaughn and Poe whipped their heads back like they’d been slapped.
“No?” I repeated.
“No.”
“I see. Well, okay, then. Um, thank you for the amazing service.” I slipped two hundreds into her hand with the check and told her to keep the change.
Everything about this omega told me she wanted us, except for her words.
And this alpha needed words. I needed to hear permission. Want. Need.
We slid out of the booth and past her out into the night then piled into the truck and rode home without speaking. When the friction of the tires against the rocks of our driveway got loud, I asked, “Am I the only one confused as fuck?”
Poe shook his head. “Nope. Her scent…I smelled her. I scented her slick. Her perfume was captivating. That was for us.”
Vaughn got out, carrying the extra desserts we’d bought in vain. They were good, no doubt, but Vaughn could outbake anyone, anytime. “There was more. She’s scared or ashamed. Dejected. I know that smell, and she’s swirling with it. There’s more to her story. She didn’t tell us no because she wanted to. She is scared.”
“Of us?” Poe asked.
“No. I have no idea, except we aren’t what is frightening her.”
Chapter Nine
Karissa
As the week began to draw to a close, I visited Darryl the mechanic to see how he’d done with salvaging parts and figure out what that meant for my cost of repairs. Fingers crossed, I found his feet sticking out from under an ancient Ford, cursing about as much as I had when the truck broke down on me.
“Darryl?” I called, “It’s K-Katie.” I’d never get used to the false name. Lucky I was almost done using it.
He jerked, and I heard a sickening thud from under the car.
“Are you okay?”
He emerged, legs then torso then head, a goose egg rising on his temple.
“That’s my fault!” I felt terrible. “Can I get you some ice?”
“No. I don’t have any ice here. Just don’t scare a guy like that.” He climbed off the rolling bed he’d been lying on and wiped his hands on a rag. “Except for the concussion, I’m glad you came by. I wanted to update you on the truck.”
Concussion? “Are you sure I can’t get you anything? I can run and get some ice from the diner?”
“No.” He waved a hand, still coated with black grease despite the wiping off. “I’ll live. But I have bad news for you. Your truck is a classic, and that makes used parts hard to come by because anyone who has one has already gone through the scrapyards. I’m afraid I’ll have to order new.”
