Page 5 of The Billionaire Alpha's Surprise Baby

“It’s nice to meet you, Ava.” I glance down at my ruined shirt and grimace. “Uh, you’ll have to excuse me . . . I don’t normally leave the house like this.”

She presses her lips together and smiles shyly, and that glowy feeling in my chest intensifies.

Mine.

My wolf growls the word with such intensity that it rocks me.

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life, but I’m smart enough to listen to my wolf. My animal is never wrong.

“Ava!” growls a guy from behind the counter. “Some help?”

A flustered look comes over Ava as she crashes back to reality. I open my mouth to say something — anything — but she just smiles and scurries back to her post behind the counter.

I watch her go with an unfamiliar ache in my chest.

My girl.

My mate.

Mine.

I’m still floating on a cloud as I drive back to my family’s chalet, which is tucked along the side of the mountain. It’s just a short jaunt from The Ponderosa, the exclusive billionaires-only club my family and I have belonged to for over a century.

The giant granite-faced structure looms from the evergreens like some medieval fortress of doom. It’s ski in, ski out — naturally — and the place where dreams go to die.

I pull up in the circle drive and get out of the car, taking a moment to breathe in the cold mountain air before I enter the suffocating vortex that is the Von Horton family abode. The musical sound of Ava’s laughter rings in my ears, and I can still smell her sweet vanilla scent.

Maybe I’m still a little drunk, because I can’t seem to think straight. My every instinct was to plant myself at a table in that café and stay there until her shift ended, but I didn’t want to come across as a creepy stalker, so I resolved to go back tomorrow and ask her out on a date.

Part of me — the wolf part — has already decided that Ava is mine. The other half — the rational human side — knows I still have to convince her. Woo her or whatever.

It’s a foreign concept to me, though not an unwelcome one. As the son of a billionaire oil tycoon and the alpha of the Burnt Mountain pack, I’m not used to having to pursue anything. I’m actually looking forward to the challenge.

The second I walk through the door, Henry appears to take my coat. Our long-time man servant takes rapid-fire inventory of my ruined shirt and shoes but says nothing.

Henry was with our family through my sloppy drunken teens and early twenties. He’s discreetly ushered my one-night stands out the door at indecent hours of the morning and scraped my dried puke off the tile enough times that a little spilled coffee doesn’t faze him.

“Good day, sir,” he says with a polite incline of his head.

“You know, Henry, it really is.” I beam and give the old man a slap on the back as I stride through the foyer.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” drawls an annoyed voice from the drawing room.

Squinting through the gloom, I see the shadowy form of my sister Hyacinthe reclined on the antique settee, looking like some miserable Victorian lady in her long silk robe. The shades are all drawn against the anemic morning sunlight, which tells me that she, too, is hungover.

“Oh, you know,” I say, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “It’s just a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

Hyacinthe makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, and I hear the telltale rattle of a pill bottle. She jerks her head back as she dry-swallows something and replaces the little eye pillow that’s slipped down her bony cheeks. “Father called and asked for you,” she mutters.

I freeze. I might be forced to breathe the same air as my siblings when they come to Aspen, but my family and I generally avoid one another.

“What did he want?” I ask, the tightness in my voice betraying my nerves.

Hyacinthe lets out a low evil chuckle. “You know, I didn’t ask. I just told him you were out gambling away your inheritance and besmirching the Von Horton name. Should I not have told him that?”

“Hyacinthe . . .” I growl, throwing a little alpha intimidation into my voice.

My sister’s mouth twists in a cruel expression. “I’m sorry. Are you worried he might decide to cut you out of his will?”

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