Page 61 of A Chance at Love for the Twin Alphas

*DALILA*

Thingslikethisdon’thappen to me. They just don’t. I’m not the type of person that elicits any attention. I’m not popular or in any way particularly beautiful. I don’t have guys chasing me because I’m just so hot.

I’m tiny, a bit curvy, and in the little suburb I went to school, I definitely stuck out like a sore thumb with my darker skin, thick eyebrows, and freaky eyes.

So, this here, it’s not real!

I’m sure that I just died in the thunderstorm, and this here is the angel carrying me into the afterlife. Because everything else just wouldn’t make any sense. That catalog-model-like-looking superhero slash heartthrob with abs out of steel, and those beautiful eyes can’t be real.

Men don’t come chasing through the rain to save me.

And they certainly don’t rip the door of my car open, scoop me into their arms, protect me and my notebook from the rain, and then carry me all the way to their house, hotel, or whatever this place is.

Stuff like that happens to girls like Stacy, the spoiled rich kid I went to school with, or Katie, another stunning beauty and ex-schoolmate who was a cheerleader and dated the hottest guy in school. Romantic, hero-like men are normally saving all the Stacys and Katies from a thunderstorm, but not the Dalilas of the world.

The Dalilas of this world suffer from too much hair growth on their legs, armpits, and regions that shall not be mentioned. Whenever I went on a date and thought it might lead to some steamy action, I literally spent two hours shaving and making sure said guy wouldn’t have to fight his way through a jungle to find my clit.

Not to mention the rash whenever the hair started to grow back after like three hours.

The Stacys and Katies of this world have perfectly shaved slopes and barely any hair in general unless it’s their luscious hair on their head. They are graceful and elegant, and not a tiny little bug without any sense of orientation and with the coordination and elegance of a walrus.

So, yep, this is the afterlife, and nothing can convince me otherwise.

Archangel Tony puts me down, reluctantly so, once we reach his room. Another proof that this is the afterlife; no one can own such a room. It’s a freaking luxurious suite. I drop my bag on the sofa chair and look around in awe. Honestly, if this is how my afterlife is going to be, I’m not going to complain. I just hope they have donuts here.

I turn around with too much force like the clumsy dunce I am, gasping in pain when I hit my little toe against the leg of the table in what looks like an actual dining room. “Oh fuck,” I curse, clasping it and jumping around on one leg.

Tony is at my side instantly, scooping me in his arms again and carrying me to the sofa. “Is everything alright!?” he blurts out as he sits me down there. He gets down on his knees to touch my foot.

Oh fuck, I hope I shaved my legs properly.

“Oh my god,” I blurt out, panic rising in me as it finally settles in for real.

His eyes snap up. “What’s wrong Dalila?”

“This is real!” I exclaim. “I’m not dreaming, and I’m not dead.”

The gaze in Tony’s eyes is soft now, so soft I’m almost melting at the way he looks at me. I can’t turn my gaze away. All I can do is stare at him, into his beautiful brown eyes. There is a hint of sadness in them and careful hope, and he looks at me like I’m precious.

“You are very real,” he whispers. “So is this moment.”

I reach out my hand tentatively to pat his head. Jolts of electricity run through my fingers, and a warm sensation fills me. How can this be real? “Do you always barbecue people when they touch you?”

He smiles. “No, just you.”

I don’t know why I find it cute, but I do.

Cute and hot. He would probably look dashing in a tux, too. I saw his brother, just briefly, but he didn’t strike me as hot as Tony. Maybe it’s the hairstyle. Tony has longer hair, and it’s a bit wavier, while his brother, whose name I have forgotten, had it short.

I also can’t remember the last time I had a crush on someone. It probably was in middle school. But this here? I have known this guy for how many minutes? Twenty? Certainly not more than thirty minutes? And I’m so close to daydreaming about him carrying me bridal style to our wedding suite.

It’s like something is tugging me towards him, and I can’t keep my gaze away for too long. It physically hurts me to think he might be sad about something.

For a while, silence engulfs us before Tony breaks it. “Say, Dalila,” he looks at my bag curiously. “You said your whole life is in there. What exactly are you doing for a living?”

“Software and IT security,” I tell him. “I’m a freelancer, though, working for some smaller companies here and there, but also for bigger ones. I specialize in safety and precautions. No one can hack me,” I tell him proudly. I know it isn’t sexy to boast, but my work is truly my one and only talent. I started hacking as a hobby when I was a kid and then gradually learned more and more about it. My mom supported me throughout all of it and helped me fund college, which I finished a few months ago faster than anyone else at my university. I graduated at twenty, even making it to our local newspaper for graduating so young. Ever since I started driving through the country and working as a freelancer, after a few months, I landed here.

“That’s cool,” Tony says earnestly. “None of us here knows anything about IT. Well, I… I do a bit, but certainly not enough.” He winks at me. “Maybe you could take a look at our firewall.”

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