Page 6 of Pixel Perfect Pack

“You’ll do, let’s go,” he takes my hand in his, giving me barely any time to pick up my phone and slip it into my pocket before we’re out the door and down the stairs.

Jack’s mum’s house has got to have one of the most hideous interiors I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s an ex-council house that’s uncharacteristically large but Trudy has made a point of decorating every room in cream and silver. Little plastic diamonds hang from the ceiling light and just about every accessory in sight is a sparkly velvet material. There are big glass mirrors all over the walls, above the fireplace, in the hallway, behind the dining table in the adjoining dining room. I love pink as much as the next gal, and I’m no stranger to garishly girly living but Trudy takes it to a whole other level.

I often wonder how his dad feels. While Trudy is a petite blonde woman, Jack’s dad is an alpha with a bald head and very few words. I actually get on with him better than I do anyone else in the household and that’s including Jack’s brothers and their partners.

“Ahhh Jessamine, lovely to see you my dear,” Trudy coos, lifting her tanned and perfectly moisturised hands to my cheeks in welcome. “Could you start with the cutlery and ask if Mac needs a beer.”

It’s a brief but not unfamiliar welcome into their home. Trudy and I are courteous with each other but we both know there’s an undertone of dislike. It all comes back to that time a few years ago where I walked in on her telling Jack that he could do so much better than a chubby orphan with zero social life. I can’t even be mad because she isn’t wrong about me, I am a chubby orphan with zero social life but I’m pretty sure at least one of those things isn’t my fault.

“Beer, Mac?” I ask, poking my head out of the adjoining dining room and into the sitting area. He grunts a reply I take as a yes before he suddenly speaks for probably the third time since I’ve known him.

“Did you use a different perfume?” His eyes are still glued to the TV but his face is tilted up as he tries to sniff at the air.

Fuck.

I knew it.

My resounding horniness and my cramps this morning.

I avoid Mac’s question like the plague and spin on my heels, heading back towards the kitchen where Jack is speaking to his mum.

“Hey, I think I should maybe go,” I say, hoping he doesn’t fight me on this for once. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve tried to pull the old I’m ill card to get out of Sunday lunch. “Oh and Mac needs a beer.”

“I’ll take it through,” Trudy sighs, abandoning her place at the kitchen worktop and leaving Jack and me alone.

“You can’t keep avoiding my family, Jess,” he warns, leaning against the wall and taking a sip from his own beer.

“Why? They don’t like having me here anyway.” There’s definitely something wrong with me. It’s the second time today I’ve snapped at Jack and I know better than to wind him up.

He tilts his head to the side and surveys me, his jaw tight as he expels a growling breath. “You’ll stay until I tell you you can go. Understood?”

I twist my hands at my front and nod, casting my eyes to the ground. He might not be an alpha, but I am an omega, and I don’t react well to his harshness. It’s the one thing I’d change about my unfortunate designation if I could. The fact my backbone all but disappears the second someone raises their voice at me.

Before long we’re sitting at the dining table, an array of overcooked meat and even more overcooked vegetables lies in front of us. Trudy is gladly plating up and passing around a jug of lumpy instant gravy.

Back when my dad was alive he used to make the best Sunday roasts ever. Homemade Yorkshire puddings, roasted vegetables from the garden and whatever meat the butcher had convinced him to buy that week. We’d sit just the two of us, usually in the conservatory where we could watch the garden through the windows. We wouldn’t always talk much, sometimes just enjoying the peace and quiet. I miss him a lot. I miss the house, too. But I’ve never been able to bring myself to go back there. Instead, I stay in the tiny little fisherman’s cottage that Dad used to rent out as a holiday let in the summer.

My dad was an alpha, my mother an omega. She’d passed away not long after my tenth birthday and he’d never taken another mate. It was as if after my mum died he just… couldn’t face the thought of loving someone else. Even though their deaths were years apart, it still feels like he died of a broken heart.

“So you’re still not working, Jess?” Trudy asks out of the blue as I pour a little of the gravy over my meat in the hopes it’ll make it easier to swallow. The texture isn’t ideal but it’ll have to do.

“I do work, Trudy. I’ve been working for a while now,” I reply, knowing that no matter how many times I tell her, or Jack or the rest of his family that I work from home writing content for websites and apps, they still don’t believe me. I’m sure in their minds I’m just a lazy do-nothing loser. I actually hate the way they make me feel. Like I’m somehow not worthy despite the fact I’m doing my best to get by.

“Hey babe, that’s enough,” Jack chips in, taking the serving plate of roast potatoes from my hands and eyeing my plate. There are three small potatoes on my plate. Three.

My stomach clenches, twisting in that agonising, cramping, tearing way it had done this morning.

Trudy chimes in, ignoring my obvious discomfort. “You know, even after I had my third child I managed to bounce back to my pre-pregnancy figure. I stuck to high protein and low carb. It was easy once I put my mind to it. Lots of milky coffee throughout the day, too. You’d be surprised how full up you feel after a big mugful.”

I’m too hot. Too clammy. My dress feels too tight all of a sudden and the plate of food in front of me is making me nauseous.

“Excuse me,” I grunt, pushing away from the table and making a break for it. The minute my knees hit the cool tile in the downstairs bathroom, I expel the entire contents of my stomach.

I need to get home. Need to crawl into the safety of my bed and bury myself under the mountain of blankets and pillows and familiar things to make myself feel better.

I’m so delirious that by the time there’s a knock on the bathroom door I barely notice.

“Take me home,” I mumble. “Please take me home.”

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