Page 32 of Not Looking
“Thanks. I will.”
“Good.”
He strode back to the admin area, and I turned my attention back to the piece of wood in my hands.
Oscar’s words played in a loop in my head. Sure, I’d been single for a few years, but it sounded like it had become a way of life for Randy.
I’d only been around him that one day, but I couldn’t get the handsome omega out of my mind. Every instinct insisted that he was the man for me.
But what if I was wrong? Would pursuing him do more harm than good?
I was lost in thought when the little bell over the door rang. I startled, looked up, saw Randy standing there, and tossed the scrap back into the bin beneath the register before he could see it.
“We-welcome,” I stammered.
I’d known he was coming, but having him there again…
He was as breathtakingly beautiful as my memory insisted, and despite the aroma of wood that filled the space, I could still make out a scent that was distinctly him.
I longed to wrap my arms around him and nuzzle into his neck to breathe him in.
“Hi,” he said, striding over. “I think I have a balance due?”
I blinked, then looked at the order slip. “Oh, yes.”
I turned the page and pointed to the number. He nodded and passed over a credit card.
“Let me call Oscar down, and I’ll meet you at the loading dock to help,” I said as I slid the signed slip into the drawer.
“I can handle it.”
“You already said you’d be unloading by yourself. Why make more work here when it’s slow enough I can help?”
He chuckled, and the smile reached his eyes. “Touché.”
I grinned. “Drive on back, and I’ll be right there.”
“Ok.”
I called Oscar down, then forced myself not to sprint through the warehouse to the loading dock.
The forklift operator was just setting the load beside Randy’s truck when I arrived, and my omega was standing in the bed, laying out ratchet straps.
The afternoon sun landed on him and made his skin appear to glow—highlighting his strong arms and the texture of his beard.
I shook my head before I could become so entranced that I’d forget I was there to help.
His personal scrap bucket sat on the tailgate, and I could make an educated guess as to its purpose. “Stickers in the bucket?” I asked as I set it on the ground.
He nodded.
“How about you stay up there and organize,” I suggested. “I’ll hand you boards.”
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Works for me.”
I eyed the stack. “These look like eight-foot lengths. Will they fit?”
“Yep. I can even close the tailgate.”
