Searching For His Omega - Harper B. Cole Page 0,21

mumbled thanks as I took my stuff and left.

And when I arrived home and peed on different sticks, it was the first moment of stillness all day. My thoughts went to the future. I always wanted kids, but after almost dying in a gangster attack, the future had been bleak the past few months. Giving up my corporate job and moving was all the change I was planning on for a while.

And now—if I was having a baby—I’d be responsible for someone else. A someone who would be completely dependent on me. I’m not ready. I can’t do this. The baby needs two loving parents, not one damaged omega.

Time’s up! But as I checked the tests, and one by one they told me my life was never going to be the same, I placed a hand on my belly. I’m a dad. My son or daughter was only the size of a sesame seed, but I was now a parent. And I had to step up.

The phone beeped. Chet! For the first time since he’d left, I didn’t want to talk to him. But I sort of did, though I wasn’t ready to tell him about the baby. But it wasn’t Chet. It was Charlie and his message read, Glad you’re taking a few days off. None of us wants head lice!

Fourteen

Chet

The episode of my trip to Café Om was about to air, and somehow, having it air without Stan by my side sounded beyond wrong. Not that I could do much about it. We were hours and hours away and hadn’t even spoken since I left.

And really that was my fault. Not that I ignored him or anything, but I was the dumb ass who let their phone fall into the toilet before it backed up. I was the idiot who had the stupid thing sitting in rice for a week on the off chance of a miracle. I was the one too lame to do anything about it like call his fucking store.

It wasn’t like I couldn’t get a hold of him. But yet I didn’t. And really that was more about me than him. If I heard his voice again I’d miss him more. Gah. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was a fling—that’s all it could be. We both knew that going in, and yet there I was wanting to snuggle up on the couch with him to watch the episode and then to take him to bed.

The thing was, if that was what he wanted, he’d have taken my number too, not just slipped me his in case I “needed it for taping.” Not once had we texted or called while I was there. Why would you, dumbass? You were with him constantly. There was that.

I looked at the number across my computer screen for Café Om. It would be nothing at all to call it. And yet, it felt huge.

Fuck it.

I dialed and hit send, not wanting to give myself a second to change my mind. I wanted this—to hear his voice—to talk to him—to connect again. And really, that was what this was all about. Sure he was hot and the sex amazing, but at the end of the day, it was the way we connected and just fit that I missed the most.

“Café Om, how may I help you?” a voice I didn’t recognize but was somehow familiar answered.

“I was hoping to speak with Stan.”

“Can he call you back or maybe I could help you?” Who was this?

“Yeah, okay.” I gave him my name and number, and he promised to give him the message as soon as he could. Whatever that meant.

I hung up and stared at the phone like a highschool kid who gave his first crush his number...just hoping for something—anything--to happen.

Ten minutes went by, and just as I was about to give up, assuming he had the day off or something else the person on the other end didn’t inform me of, the phone rang, only it wasn’t flashing the name Café Om, it was just a number and not even with the same area code as the café. Oh well.

“Hello.”

“It’s me. Stan.” His voice was freaking music to my ears. “Taylor said you called?

I raked my mind trying to place Taylor, and the only one I could think of was Ms. Bea’s son, and he was very much not an employee of Café Om when I’d been filming there.

“Taylor? The realtor? Ms. Bea’s son? Is he