Matheo’s sudden discomfort is obvious enough that Lucas releases his first genuine laugh of the day.
“Definitely woman problems,” he chuckles. “It’s written all over his face.”
He might be one of my closest friends, but Matheo has always had the worst timing.
“Sounds like we’re all going to need something stronger than ice cream, so you might as well come in.”
Matheo and I settle at the kitchen island, glasses of chilled pinot grigio sweating between our fingers. Lucas busies himself at the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients with his free hand while still working on his ice pop. The bright red treat stains his lips slightly as he sucks on it, and my gaze lingers on the curve of his mouth.
A knowing chuckle from Matheo breaks my trance. I turn to find him watching me with amusement.
“You two are sickeningly domestic,” he says, swirling his wine. “Lucas cooking dinner while you moon over him. It really does suit you both. With that picket fence outside, all you need is 2.5 children to complete the picture.”
“Not according to the adoption agency,” Lucas huffs, his annoyance unsuccessfully concealing the thread of hurt.
I roll my eyes but don’t take offense. “Not all of us can jet off to Milan for fashion week on a whim or disappear into the wilderness for weeks to photograph birds.”
“Hummingbirds,” Matheo corrects. “Specifically ruby-throated hummingbirds. I’m working on a series.”
Lucas pulls chicken from the fridge. “You staying for dinner? I’m making that lemon garlic thing you liked last time.”
“If you’re offering,” Matheo says, then takes a long sip of wine.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t come all this way to experience our domestic bliss. What’s going on?”
Matheo sets down his glass with deliberate care. “Actually, I did. Sort of.” He runs a hand through his hair—a rare display of nervousness from my usually composed friend. “I need a pack.”
Lucas drops a garlic bulb. It rolls across the counter until I catch it.
“You need a what now?” I ask, certain I’ve misheard.
“A pack. Temporarily.” Matheo’s face is a study in discomfort. “I met someone.”
I lean forward. “An omega someone?”
“Trinity Jones.” The way he says her name—soft, almost reverent—tells me everything. “She was coordinating my gallery showing. The moment I caught her scent, I knew. We’re scent-matches.”
Lucas abandons his dinner prep to join us at the island. “That’s huge. I thought you didn’t believe in scent-matches.”
“I don’t. I didn’t,” Matheo admits. “Until I met her.”
“So what’s the problem?” I ask. “You’re both single, you’re scent-compatible, and I’m assuming she’s not hideous, so what’s the problem?”
“She’s stunning,” Matheo says quickly. “That’s not the issue. The problem is she’s not looking for a mate. She’s looking for a fake dating arrangement.”
I blink. “Come again?”
“She went to my mother’s agency looking for professional escorts. She has no idea I’m connected, or that we’re scent-matches. She didn’t even seem to notice.”
I’ve heard about suppressants messing with an omega’s sense of smell. Given his history with women, the irony of Matheo finally finding a scent-match who has no clue kind of serves him right.
The pieces click together in my mind. “And Amara, being the notorious matchmaker she is, called you.”
“Exactly.” Matheo downs the rest of his wine in one gulp. “She tried to set me up with Trinity before the gallery showing, but I refused. Now I’ve met her anyway, and I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“So you want to be her fake date?” Lucas asks, returning to his cooking.
“I want to be her real date, but I’ll take what I can get, at least for now. She needs a date for a wedding,” Matheo pauses. “At Heat Island.”
