The voice is musical…alive. Like the gentle ringing of sleigh-bells or the warbling of a sparrow.
I also might just have a concussion.
My vision slowly clears to reveal one of the most beautiful women that I’ve ever seen.
The pain in my likely broken nose fades to background static as I take in the woman before me. She’s a vision in a clingy suit dress, with a matching blazer slung over her arm, hugging curves that could make a mountain road jealous. Her chestnut hair is caught on top of her head in a riot of twists and curls, catching the storage room’s harsh fluorescent light and transforming it into a warm halo.
An angel…
But it’s her eyes that truly arrest me—hazel with flecks of amber that seem to shift and dance like sunlight through autumn leaves. They’re wide with concern now, her full lips parted in shock. A light dusting of freckles crosses the bridge of her nose, giving her a touch of youthful innocence that contrasts with the sharp intelligence in her gaze.
That delicious smell is stronger now, practically overpowering. I look down at her empty hands, surprised when I don’t see a plate full of all my favorite foods.
“What’s that smell?”
Her eyes fill with obvious concern. “Are you okay? Should I call for an ambulance?”
The scent I’d been chasing—that intoxicating blend of sweetness and depth—emanates from her as she exhales. Not perfume. Her. An omega, definitely, but unlike any I’ve encountered before. Her scent has none of the cloying artificial sweetness that I usually avoid like the plague.
She smells like the comfort of Christmas dinner and breakfast in bed after a long night with a beautiful woman.
This woman in particular, my mind helpfully supplies.
“I should have knocked, or something” she says, hervoice pulling me deeper into whatever spell she’s casting. “You’re bleeding.”
She steps closer, and I catch more notes in her scent—a touch of stress that reminds me of lemon zest, the clove and cinnamon of her determination. The combination is maddeningly appealing.
A fucking scent match. It has to be.
My brain feels like it’s wading through molasses. I should say something. Anything. Tell her I’m fine. Ask her name. Comment on the weather. But my tongue feels thick and useless in my mouth as I continue to stare at the subtle constellation of freckles across her cheekbones.
She reaches into a small clutch purse and produces a tissue, offering it with slender fingers tipped by short, practical nails painted a deep burgundy. “Here. For your nose.”
I still don’t move, transfixed by the way her eyebrows draw together in concern, creating a tiny crease between them I suddenly want to smooth away with my thumb.
“Sir? Are you concussed?” She waves her hand in front of my face. “Should I call someone?”
Something about the formality ofsirfinally snaps me out of my trance. I realize with horror that I’ve been staring at her like a teenager encountering his first omega in heat. Blood continues to trickle from my nose, and I must look completely deranged—a slack-jawed, bleeding madman lurking in a storage closet.
Somehow, she doesn’t realize we’re a scent match. Or maybe the phenomenon is entirely one-sided. I’ve never heard of anything like that happening before, but count on me to be the first.
I clear my throat and finally accept the tissue, pressing itto my nose. “I’m fine. Just surprised. And possibly a little concussed.” I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Though if this is what a concussion feels like, I might start walking into doors more often.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to crawl into one of these crates and die. Did I really just use a line that wouldn’t pass muster in a bad romance novel?
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile. “That’s either the concussion talking or the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
“Both, probably.” I extend my hand not currently stemming the flow of blood. “I’m Matheo. The bleeding guy hiding from his own exhibition.”
The exhibition is only credited to me by first name. I’ve tried my best to separate my artist persona from my previous life. And something about the complete lack of recognition in her eyes gives me a sense of comfort. This is no grasping omega following the billionaire into a closet hoping to forge a superficial connection by seeming accident.
She gives me a warm smile, amusement lingering in her gaze. “Trinity. I haven’t had a chance to take in any of the work, but I’ll make sure to check out yours if I have time.
My eyebrows go up at that. “You’re not an art fan?”
“Not really,” she sheepishly admits. “All the art I own came with my apartment. The gallery doesn’t have an in-house event planner, so they hired me for the exhibition.”
A flash of recognition niggles at my consciousness.
