Page 25 of With A Little Luck
I’ve been around scent matches before and never had one spark an ounce of interest, but smelling Quincy’s electric scent changed something deep inside me.
My instincts wouldn’t let it go.
Not until I knew she was safe.
It’s been my excuse every night since when I slip in to lie next to her as she slumbers.
I can try to justify my bad behavior all day, but I don’t see Quincy being as enamored with my actions—even if my intentions are pure.
I’ve never stalked a woman before…
Let alone a heavily pregnant woman.
The little omega leans forward, grabs my cup, and takes a drink. Her stomach squishes against the table, and I fight the urge to cradle it with my hand.
I’ve only known her for a few weeks, but the baby grows more with every passing day. It’s quite out of character, and I still find myself giddy to meet the new human being Quincy is growing.
She grunts, pushing against my right arm as she leans back against the seat. “Man, in another week or two, I won’t even be able to fit into the booths anymore.”
I chuckle. “Then, I suppose we’ll have to switch to eating at one of the tables.”
Her face betrays her confusion as she opens for the bite of hash browns I offer, but she doesn’t fight my care.
This seems to bode well for the future. Then again, I’ve never been great at deciphering human interactions. Perhaps she’s just terrified of me like everyone else.
“I don’t plan to make this a regular occurrence, or I definitely wouldn’t blame Hart for firing me.” She laughs and takes another swig of my drink.
I’m suddenly parched.
The idea of being able to wrap my lips around the straw where her mouth has been is quite enticing. Once she’s done, I grab the glass and take a quick sip before placing it back down.
Quincy wiggles in her seat, and I try to determine if her hips are hurting or if she’s uncomfortable being this close to me. If it’s the latter, I need to determine how to be more personable…immediately. Connecting with others is something I’ve struggled with for my entire life.
I was skinny and small as a child, which led to merciless bullying. It never bothered me in the way it would others, and I often plotted revenge that I knew wouldn’t come to fruition, simply because I never could stomach the thought of leaving my mother all alone.
Growing up, her profession was an open secret at best, and none of the other parents wanted their children playing with the kid whose mother was a sex worker.
Still, I had a happy childhood.
My mother was loving and attentive, especially before I hit puberty. Once my adult features began to show themselves, all she could see was my father—the man who broke her heart and abandoned her while she was pregnant.
I don’t allow myself to consider if I’m trying to right the wrongs of the past by being here for Quincy.
My sperm donor made his own choices, and I’m making mine. Supporting Quincy won’t change the emotional damage that my father caused my mother.
And did he ever fuck her up.
As my features changed to remind her of him, her alcoholism worsened, which only made her type 2 diabetes even more uncontrollable. She quite literally drank herself to death. And while I mourned her, I also accepted her choices long before she actually passed away.
It made stepping into my career path a logical decision. Any family or friends could be a target if my enemies ever sought revenge, and not having either made it an easy choice.
My limited range of emotions makes many uncomfortable, but I am working on being more emotionally available for Quincy. She’s never given any of the normal indicators that she fears me, but now I wonder if I’ve purposely avoided noticing them.
Once my system hyperfocuses on a target, I have been known to slip into an obsessive state, but that’s all job related. I’ve never felt romantically drawn to another person as I do with Quincy.
“Are you afraid of me?” I ask, moving to collect another piece of bacon.
“No.” She laughs, taking a bite. Her small hand comes to block her mouth as she chews. “Should I be?”
