Page 168 of Captive Omega

“Still not gone in the fire, huh?” I ask as I cross the room.

“Not yet. Every day the temptation grows stronger.” He lifts his head, and his gaze briefly heats at the sight of my wildly overpriced silk pajamas.

Garrison Brewster, I’m learning, has more self-restraint than just about any alpha I’ve ever met. He might want me, but he knows how to keep his hands to himself.

I climb into my usual seat and wiggle around to get comfortable. “You’ve nearly finished the blues.”

His expression is wry as he scratches his chiseled jaw. “Correction. I’m taking my time with the blues to avoid tackling the purple pieces, all of which look identical.”

I check out the pile of purples and wince. “Who the hell made this?”

“Someone with no sympathy for people who don’t want to go cross-eyed. Please save me.” Garrison’s dry voice provokes a smile.

I pick up the few remaining blue pieces. “I’ll help with the blues, but you’re on your own with those cross-eye inducing purples. And that, unless I’m mistaken, sounded a lot like a joke. Are you hiding a sense of humor?”

“Of course not. Lex says I’m crusty. I think he means I’m old. Possibly senile.”

My smile grows as I slot a puzzle piece in. “I bet you know exactly what he means.”

“He’s young and I’m ancient.” He blows out a heavy breath. “Sometimes he sends me texts that take ten minutes to decipher.”

I laugh. “Like what?”

He fishes his cell phone from his pocket, presses a couple of buttons and flips it to show me a text heavy on the emojis and light on the words.

I scan the text about a software problem Lex resolved. “What don’t you get?”

“If you can start from the beginning…”

I grin. “Have you told him to dial back on the emojis?”

“He sends me another as indecipherable as the last. And a crying face. I’m not sure if that means he’s sorry or if he’s crying with laughter.”

“Crying with laughter.” I point. “See, it’s rolling on its side.”

He sighs, tucking his phone away. “That’s what I thought. My phobia must be emojis, and I’m cursed with an assistant who prefers texts to phone calls.”

“You could ask him to stop,” I suggest.

“I could.”

But he won’t. He’s surprisingly flexible for an alpha. Often willing to be the one who bends. The more I see of Garrison Brewster, the more I’m convinced there isn’t a predatory alpha lurking beneath the surface.

“Resa?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Anyway, your phobia, at least, makes sense. I’m terrified of balloons.”

His brow lifts. “Balloons?”

“My parents took me to a fair once. You’d have thought it would be the middle-aged men with painted faces wanting to invade my personal space that would have me screaming. But nope. It was the balloons.” I shudder. “The way they squeak and the thought of touching one…” I shudder again. “I just can’t.”

“What about the flamingo float?” A line forms between his brow. “Should I move it?”

I shake my head, surprised he isn’t laughing at such an irrational fear. That he is, in fact, enabling it. What exactly do I think a balloon is going to do to me? Squeak me to death? “It’s not the same. Not sure why.”

Garrison studies me without blinking for several seconds.

“Uh, Garrison?” I wave my hand in front of his face to break whatever weird trance he’s in.

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