Baiting Him (How to Catch an Alpha 2)

I press the button, and as soon as the doors close, my nerves kick into overdrive. It doesn’t take long to reach the top floor, and when the doors open, I find him waiting for me, leaning back against the wall with his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans. We stare at each other, and then after a long moment, he holds out his hand and grins.

I place my hand in his and then laugh as he tugs me toward him and wraps me in a hug. Apparently, my mom isn’t the only one with magical hugs. As soon as I’m pressed against him, I let out a quiet sigh.

“You smell like cake,” he tells me, burying his face in my hair.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Hell no, I fucking love cake.”

Giggling, I look up at him. He studies my face for a moment, and my entire being starts to fill with anticipation. When he leans in and only softly touches his lips to the tip of my nose, I’m disappointed, but just slightly, because that kiss was sweet.

“Come on. I want to show you my place,” he says, and I let him take my hand and lead me down the hall.

The space, even from my vantage point near the entrance, is beautiful. In the sunken living room, there is an overstuffed light-gray couch, two darker-gray chairs, and a long, shiny, black coffee table, all centered around a fireplace that takes up part of the wall, with the biggest TV I have ever seen mounted above it. I can see the kitchen, at least part of it, and it’s all dark cabinets and marble countertops. The entire space looks like it’s staged to go on the market tomorrow, not like someone is actually living in it.

I start to tell him his home is beautiful but stop when a tiny white blur flies across the room. I freeze for a moment, thinking I’m imagining things, and then blink in surprise when Gaston bends down to pick up the fluffy ball of white fur.

“You have a dog,” I say, and he grins, running his fingers over the top of the dog’s head as it attempts to lick the underside of his jaw.

“This is LeFou,” he tells me, coming closer to where I’m standing.

“You’re kidding? You named your dog LeFou—LeFou, as in Gaston’s sidekick from Beauty and the Beast?”

“I didn’t name him. My mom did before she delivered him to me as a birthday present. At that point, I couldn’t change his name, since he wouldn’t respond to anything else.” I start to laugh, the image of him with the tiny dog and its name too much for me to handle. “You’re going to give him a complex,” he tells me, and I laugh harder, then wipe away the tears that are running down my cheeks.

“Sorry, LeFou, you’re adorable.” I hold out my hand, and he sniffs my fingers before he licks them. I carefully take the tiny dog from his grasp, and the moment I have him in my hold, he goes crazy, licking any part of me he can reach while his tiny body wiggles uncontrollably. “He’s cute. And your place is beautiful,” I tell Gaston, and his expression fills with pride.

“You haven’t seen the best part yet.” He places his hand against my lower back and leads me down the steps, into the living room, and toward the kitchen. He stops us at the edge of the island and asks, “Would you like a glass of wine or something else?”

“I’ll have wine,” I tell him, rubbing the top of LeFou’s head.

He lifts his chin toward his dog. “Put him down, sweetheart, and get comfortable while I get us a drink.”

Without a word, I set LeFou on the ground, then watch as he runs around the island and into the kitchen, where Gaston is now holding a treat. Once LeFou has the small dog cookie in his mouth, he takes off at a run, disappearing into the living room.

I remove my purse from my shoulder and pull out a pastry bag I brought with me. I set it on the marble countertop, then slip off my jacket and place both my purse and coat on one of the five unique wooden barstools that line the island. When I finish with my task, I look into the kitchen and notice he’s standing in the middle of the big, open space, holding a bottle of wine, but his eyes—with a somewhat surprised look in them—are on the paper bag. That look shifts to satisfaction when his gaze lifts to meet mine.

“What?”

“You brought me oatmeal raisin cookies, didn’t you?”

“No,” I deny with a shake of my head. “I brought oatmeal raisin cookies with me.”

“Liar.” He sets down the bottle of wine, then starts to prowl toward me. The look in his eyes is predatory, and I take a step back, and then he reaches out to capture my hip with his hand. “Admit it: you brought me cookies.” His deep, velvety voice hypnotizes me, and I nod in silent agreement. “Sweetheart, you do know I gotta kiss you now, right?”