Page 12 of Craving Their Omega

Xavier nods, and I just huff a breath. They’ll get their way on this one, since it’ll be two to one in favor of bending so far that we might as well snap ourselves in half for this client. I roll my shoulders, trying not to take it personally.

It’s just business, but it always is.

“Fine,” I say and storm out of the conference room back down to my office.

I bring up some of the in progress projects and work on them for a bit, trying to shake off the argument and clear my head. It’s easier said than done, and the problem is that we keep havingthis same argument over and over again, just about different things.

An email pops up on my notifications, and I tab out to read it. And of course, it’s from the clients we were just arguing about, and of course it’s them asking for more impossible shit that they know nothing about.

I have half a mind to just forward the email to Tristan and Xavier and let them deal with it. Let them figure out how to move mountains for clients who don’t even understand what goes into the work at all.

There’s a light knock on my door and then it opens. The new assistant, Penelope, pokes her head in.

“Mr. Harrington? I have that file you were asking for this morning.”

I grunt at her, gesturing for her to come in.

She pushes the door all the way open and comes inside, carrying a thick file.

I let my eyes go back to the email, trying to think of the best way to respond to this and debating not responding at all. That would be unprofessional though, and would just lead to another blow up with the other two Alphas. I don’t have time for that.

Irritation burns under my skin, making me hot under the collar. I hate being caught between things like this. I hate that I can’t just make a decision and have that decision stand.

Penelope’s scent is there in my nose, sweet and warm, like an iced cupcake, and it sets my teeth on edge that she’s here while I’m trying to work through what I want to do.

“Does it take five minutes to set down a file or are you just that bad at the job?” I snap at her, like second nature.

I see the second her eyes widen with alarm, and she yanks back from my desk, her hip checking the corner and knocking over my mostly empty cup of coffee.

It hits the carpet with a dull thud, spilling the last dregs as it does.

“Oh no,” Penelope moans. She claps her hands over her mouth, looking at the spreading stain in horror. “I’m so sorry. I- I can fix it. I’ll clean it up.” She looks around, like she’s trying to find paper towels or something.

I wave her off. “Just leave it. I don’t need you flapping around my office like an anxious bird when I’m trying to get work done.”

If she hears me, there’s no sign of it. She picks up the coffee cup and goes for the box of tissues on my desk, using them to sop up the coffee before it can sink even more into the carpet.

“At least it’s dark carpet,” she mutters, seemingly to herself. “Maybe it won’t stain too bad?”

I sigh, lifting my eyes to the ceiling. I should make Xavier get in here and deal with this, since he’s the one who hired her, but instead I get up and pull a stack of napkins from my desk, bending down to help her.

“Stop that,” I tell her, still sounding short. “You’re just going to get wet tissue all over the carpet. These are better.”

I press some napkins to the damp spot, letting them do their work.

Penelope’s eyes flash up to meet mine, and I’m struck by the fact that they’re two different colors. If I noticed that when we met the first time, or any time I’ve passed her in the halls here, I don’t remember.

On someone else they might look odd, but the dark green and deep blue work in her heart shaped face somehow.

A blush spreads across her cheeks, and she looks flustered and embarrassed to be in this position.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I really didn’t mean to. And then I didn’t mean to make it worse.” There’s something in her voice, a twinge of an accent that sounds Southern. “Please don’t fire me. I… I really need this job, and…”

Her voice fades to the background as I scan her face. Her soft, round cheeks, the way her hair falls into her eyes a bit from the way she’s crouched down on the floor. On her cheek, there’s a small, pink mark, half covered by makeup.

I don’t know what makes me do it, but I reach out, wiping away some of the makeup to reveal it fully. It could be a scar or a birthmark, just a mark on her face that makes her stand out even more, just like her eyes do.

Her cheeks go even redder and she licks her lips nervously. “It’s just a birthmark,” she says. “I usually cover it with makeup.”

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