Searching For His Omega - Harper B. Cole Page 0,23
Stan. This is what you have to do.” He talked me through it, showing screenshots as he was explaining the process step by step. I bet a five-year-old could do this.
The livestream popped up on the screen along with Chet’s face in one corner as he smiled and waved. “There you go.”
I pouted, but not like a five-year-old kid. More like one who’s barely two. After pestering Chet for days, he’d admitted I was adorable on camera. That wasn’t good. Puppies were adorable, not grown omega coffee shop managers.
“Take a deep breath,” he said as I plonked myself on the couch and put the computer on my lap. Chet had a beer in one hand, but I’d had to make an excuse about running out of wine and being too lazy to go out and get more. It would have been better to watch myself through a hazy sheen of alcohol, but that was a no-no being pregnant.
I’d been bottling up the news of the pregnancy. Was there ever a good time to tell a baby daddy when you weren’t in a relationship? Doubtful. Nerves were choking me as the opening credits rolled onto the screen and TV Chet appeared, walking toward the camera. He was outside our building and people were wandering past as usual, not paying him anything attention. No fans or autograph seekers.
“What happened to everyone? Did you bribe them?”
“Nah, just asked nicely,” he said.
“I’ll bet!” I blurted out. Pent-up emotion was making me say dumb stuff ,and I remembered the misunderstanding where I thought that guy got in the car with him the night before filming.
Chet frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Shush.”
My nerves increased as TV Chet walked toward the entrance and pushed open the door. My shaking knees had the computer wobbling. “There I am!”
TV me had a cheesy grin on his face as I shook Chet’s hand and we chatted about the Café Om philosophy. “I’m orange. It’s that heavy makeup they put on me, and that shirt’s a terrible color. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re so…”
“Do not say adorable,” I yelled.
“…cute.”
With my hands over my face, I peered at the computer through my fingers. I was regressing to my childhood, and it wasn’t pretty.
“Would you prefer to do this alone?” Chet asked. “Maybe having me here isn’t such a great idea.”
“You’ve done enough!” I muttered.
“Okay, what’s going on? Are you pissed at me?”
“Not really. I’m just…”
“Just what?”
“Stop interrupting.”
He held up both hands and wiggled his fingers. “Whoa!”
“I’m pregnant, Chet. Pregnant.” My eyes were on a lamp in the corner of the room as I didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face. Or fear. Or maybe anger. What if he didn’t believe me? Not sure which would be worse.
“And I’m sorry if I’m cranky and pissed and worried about how my ass looks on TV and if I can juggle a baby and a job while you swan about the country flirting with every omega who catches your eye!”
I counted the seconds until he replied. One. Two. Three. What’s wrong with him? Four. Five. Six. Has he packed a suitcase and run off? Seven. Eight. Fuck, he’s dead. I’ve killed him. I'm going to jail for the rest of my life. Abrar and his mate will have to bring up the baby. Nine. Ten.
My gaze flicked to the screen. Chet’s eyes were open but he wasn’t moving. “Are you alive?” I asked tentatively. No answer. After putting one hand up to the screen, I clicked my fingers. Nothing. “Blink once for yes. Twice for no.”
His eyes opened and closed. Two times. “Very funny,” I mumbled.
Blood drained from his face making his dimple more prominent. “Say that again.”
“What, the whole spiel?”
“The baby thing.”
“I’m pregnant.” But I rushed on, wanting to avoid a long painful silence. “We fucked, and I don’t know, maybe the condom broke. I read that they’re only 85% effective against pregnancy. My anti-anxiety meds fucked up the heat suppressants, and here we are.”
“The first part would have been enough,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“Sorry. Didn’t realize you wanted the Cliff Notes version.”
“Stan.”
“Mmmm?”
“Let me get my breath back and process what you’ve told me.”
“Okay.” TV Chet and Stan were still burbling on, but my attention was on real live Chet who had a hand over his face.
When he finally spoke, it was anything but good. “You’re having a baby.”
“Yes.”
“Your medication fucked things up.”
“That’s right.” This had to be similar to a witness being cross-examined