Page 20 of Strawberry Moon

First of all, there were spots of color high in his cheeks and he was refusing to meet my eye. Whatever was happening in his head, it wasn’t all about me. Some of it, at least, was about him, and he didn’t like his own reaction. Whether he didn’t like that he’d spilled the vial, or my, um, omega smell wasn’t unpleasant and it made him mad, it was about him, not me.

But as important as that was, it was the other realization that took my attention. It was the way he subtly sniffed my handkerchief, that to me, smelled like nothing. The way he’d given me a suspicious glare when I’d mentioned the smell of the farm.

It was what he’d told me before we’d come into the barn: “I can handle the scents of the farm. Hell, I don’t smell ’em anyway.”

He didn’t smell the goats and chickens and manure because they were normal. They were what he smelled every day, and you stopped noticing a thing like that, whether it was a good smell or a bad one. I searched the chemical profile of vial thirteen again, and found exactly what I’d found before. Just another chemical profile, handmade by me. Oh, maybe the edges were a little rounder than the others, the peaks lower and the valleys higher, but that didn’t mean a whole lot when it came to how it smelled to a human—or werewolf—nose.

Even werewolves weren’t immune to scent-blindness. If they smelled something often enough, they tuned it out.

I just had to find something that common to fill in the gaps. Something no one caught a whiff of and thought “What’s that smell?”

Sort of like a scent version of background noise.

I grabbed the vials and packed them into my little cooler, keeping vial thirteen away from the others, as though to protect it from their alpha-irritating scents. “Thanks for the help. I have to... while I’m still thinking of it. I’ll be back. I might—anyway, I’ll see you around, okay?”

He stared after me, bemused, and it might have been the kindest expression I’d ever seen on his face in reference to me.

It was kinda nice.

But it didn’t matter. I had work to do, and pheromones to synthesize.

15

Ford

Shit.

I didn’t know if it was the splash of solution I’d gotten on my hand or—or if it was the scent of Archer’s handkerchief or even just the funny, wayward look he got as he leaned forward over the edge of the table and hopped down, but I felt... things.

Soft things, like I wanted to bury in the scent of him and keep him safe and see him smile.

I wanted to make Archer Fucking Sterling smile.

And fucked up as that all was, my wolf whined, because it wasn’t going to happen. Even if I’d been on best behavior around him—and growling the first time we’d met, distrusting him and insisting he stay in line aroundmypack, in no way counted as my “best behavior”—there was no way a guy like him’d be interested in a dusty farmer, even on my very best day.

I spent my days outside, was so familiar with the scent of manure that it didn’t register anymore.

He might be an omega I liked the smell of, but he was also a goddamned billionaire with dewy, moisturized skin, an immaculate haircut, and a car the sort I’d only seen inFast and Furiousmovies.

The guy carried a handkerchief, and I’d gone and gotten it dirty. That was what I did—I messed things up. And before he could even grab it back and rush off, a blanket of shame covered up everything else I was feeling, but it couldn’t stifle it completely.

There wasn’t a damned thing we had in common, so my wolf needed to let it go. But it was hard to tell a beast it couldn’t have something it wanted based on reason.

Didn’t help that it was riding close to the edge all the sudden, on high alert when Archer said he was leaving. And he’d be back. Maybe.

“Okay,” I said, but he was already on his way out. “See you around.”

That sounded like enough of a goodbye to the part of my brain that thought like a man. I followed him at half pace, lingering in the barn’s doorway as the guy put his case in the back seat and hopped in his car to take off.

Fuck if I knew why that hurt, why I wanted this guy to see past all the muck and grime and... think I was something. I sure as hell didn’t give a crap what a Sterling thought of me.

It was just that he was an omega.

Or that solution he’d had me smell had done something to my head.

Or maybe it was that he hadn’t known me as the gruff, struggling asshole these past seven years. But he was quickly getting to know the asshole, and that was fine.

Didn’t bother me one bit.

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