Page 16 of One Last Chance

He blinks, seeming somewhat relieved. Drawing in a deep breath, he shakes his head and makes a crooked frown that creates cute, faint lines on his forehead and around his eyes. “Well, crap. I— That is pretty unfortunate. I also feel like that’s something your mother definitely should advertise when setting your dates,” he adds, and I can’t help but snort.

“I guess you’re right! But it’s fine, relax,” I say in a melodic way, and lean closer to him on the couch, resting back as well and resting one of my feet up over my thigh. Our knees nearly touch, and we both notice the same moment. Worried I am getting too carried away and possibly letting any of my pheromones slip, I sip on the wine. It comes to me seconds later that there is in fact nothing in it that would make me less nervous, but Rowland was right—it’s rich and tastes great. “Unless you knew,” I suggest, my brows raised in feigned horror. “And you planned it all as a covert way to trap me inside your house. Can’t run away if I’m stuck on your toilet for eight hours, can I?”

The hearty laugh that comes out of Rowland rings throughout the room, and it makes me feel all tingly.

“Sorry, that was…kind of gross,” I say, trying to save it, and take another sip, hoping that somehow, I will get placebo-drunk if I believe it hard enough.

“No, that— Well, we have the wine at least,” Rowland says, lifting his glass. Weak chuckle still vibrates through his words, and I think some tears burst into his eyes from it as well. “And the crackers. Though, I must admit I lied. I didn’t really make the platter. I mean, I bought the ingredients, but my mother made it. And I know, I know!” he speaks in an intentionally exaggerated, confident tone. “No need to throw yourself at me. I’m sure a man of my age having things done for him by his mother is unimaginably attractive, so please do try to restrain yourself.” The playful glance he gives me—half ruthless, sexy confidence, and half sweet self-deprecation—only exacerbates the delight that’s tucking at the corners of my mouth.

There is no shame in being close to his mother, especially since he clearly is a functioning adult. I learned a while ago that having a good relationship with one’s parents is usually a green flag. More often than not, when the men I dated hated their parents,the problem was in them, or the whole family. I might have been willing to provide emotional support even though they needed family counseling back then, but now I’m only looking for a comfortable ride. For someone settled and poised and stable.Someone like Rowland.

Snorting, I rest my head against my palm, leaning against the backrest of the couch while keeping eye contact with him.

“It’s okay, really. Though, at a risk of being a conspiracy theorist again, maybe she knew exactly what she was doing! My options radically reduced, faced with only some dry crackers, I’d have no choice but to sit here all evening marinating in nothing but the delicious scent of the wine and your pheromones. You know, like those breatharians.”

Good god, what am I even mumbling about?!

Curling into myself, I stare at the floor, sipping wine, screaming at myself inside my head. I’mseverelyregretting the lack of the alcohol content—at least then I would have an excuse for my weirdness.

When I can handle meeting his eyes again, Rowland stares at me with a strange intensity. It almost scares me, the way his gaze makes my insides rattle and my heart pause.

“I should’ve probably waited for you to be through half a bottle of proper Sangiovese to ask a question like this, but…what do they smell like? My pheromones.”

Oh, I wasn’t ready for this. The way his voice dips and grows tender; the way his eyes watch for my reaction in a restrained, yet nearly predatory way, shifts something inside me in a way I barely suppress the shudder passing through my entire body. I swallow, holding the wineglass against my lips, but Rowland thankfully speaks again.

“I’m sorry! It’s just— My wife was a beta, like I told you before. So she couldn’t really sense or read pheromones. Not in the same way you could.”

Instead of an answer, a mindless question spills out of my lips instead. “Have you only ever dated betas?” I ask, brows drawn together. Hearing how that might have come off, I quickly clarify, “I’m not judging at all. I’ve been with quite a few. Never made much of a difference to me, honestly. It’s just that alphas like you are usually very…aware of theirflavor. Flaunt it and all that, the whole ‘I smell like this and that! Oh, I smell like chocolate, baby. Do you want a taste?’ sort of thing,” I mumble, absolutely unable to believe I just did that stupid voice.

Even though all I’m doing is embarrassing myself, Rowland laughs again. I don’t understand how he can seamlessly switch from charming to confident and gentle in moments.

“No, I’ve dated omegas before. One alpha too, actually. I’ve just mostly stuck to betas because…you know.”

I purse my lips slightly, narrowing my eyes at him. It doesn’t even register what he means until a few seconds later—his condition. Right.So he’s protecting people, us venus folk, by rather picking those who might not experience any adverse reaction.

I’ve only experienced it once when my then-boyfriend—who was far too old for the naïve, barely legal ‘ol me—got angry at me after I didn’t want to do it his way in bed. I have never felt someone release pheromones in such intensity. It was overwhelming, disorienting, even. Uncomfortable for sure.

But that dick did it on purpose, and it was fueled by anger. It was to control me, to punish me, to show me who was the boss. He was violent in other ways and full of hate, so I can’t imagine Rowland ever unleashing anything near that ferocity, even accidentally .

No, the man next to me is everything but that. The way he escapes my gaze, visibly troubled by it, says all.

“It…smells like figs,” I say. His gaze snaps to me, eyes wide and sparking with interest. “Figs with grass, but not like the strong,chemically smell of that over-cultured, perfectly trimmed grass, you know? More like wild, tall grasses, with lots of weeds and herbs growing in it. The smell you’d get sitting under a tree on the edge of a field. Only the tree would be a fig tree, I guess?” I mumble to myself awkwardly.

I go to swallow, but my entire body freezes as the very scent I just described meets my senses. My cheeks tingle uncontrollably as I look at Rowland. Judging by the rawness of him, I don’t believe he’s doing it on purpose. Instead, his feelings are slipping out and translating out into the most basic way we can comprehend. And that only makes my panicked heart beat that much faster.

“My…” He finally lets out a deep breath, almost a huff. “That’s certainly the most detail anyone has ever described it to me in. I can’t sense pheromones as clearly when I’m on my suppressants, so I haven’t really sensed yours. That, plus you’re always wearing perfume. I suppose you like them?” he asks, sounding a little hoarse. Without knowing when or how it happened, I notice the glass in his hand is empty.

The talk of my pheromones is a chilling wake-up call. A painful reminder pulling me right from the dreamy clouds to have my face meet with the rough, cold ground.

“Y-Yeah, I do,” I murmur, playing with my clammy hands. “I have a pretty extensive collection at home. Perfumes, colognes, and all that.” I’m telling the truth, but don’t go as far as explainingwhyI’ve grown so fond of, and sometimes even dependent on, those artificial fragrances.

I don’t know if Rowland can sense something is wrong, or just reacts to my sudden shift in the mood when he speaks. “Not that it’s really important to me. I mean, I’ve been with someone I couldn’t get that sort of thing with for the better part of my life and I didn’t care, so…”

There he is again. Tender. Understanding. And in all honesty, he's the first person I’ve met I nearly believe would look past my little problem. I wish he had flaws. Any flaws that would make it easier to hate him. To not latch onto him like I so desperately, pathetically want to.

But there are none. There’s only him.

Without thinking, I place the glass on the table and lunge toward Rowland, seizing his lips. Almost immediately, he parts them for me, leans in, and glides his tongue over mine. As I welcome the taste of him, pleasure zaps through my spine with a scary intensity. Once his hand drifts to my waist and squeezes it, I let out a low groan.

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