Chapter Ten
Tennyson
It took me a solid half hour to decide if I should stay or if I should go. Greer’s words had me wanting to climb in beside him and hold him close. But my brain kept telling me that if he wanted me to be his, then staying uninvited might be a bad idea.
Technically, I’d promised to see him in the morning, not to stay the night. I also promised that I was his.
And crap on a cracker, when those words left my mouth, I felt them to my core. He was mine. And that was why the decision before me felt so monumental. Could I take a chance that he would wake up not remembering his plea and thinking I overstepped? Or worse, have him wake up remembering and thinking I broke my first promise to him. There was no recovering from that.
Shrimp looked up at me, licked my ankle, and then stomped out, deciding my immediate fate. The little bugger needed to go out. That I could handle, and the thought of getting fresh air and clearing my head of the pheromonal haze also worked for me.
Only, when Shrimp walked out of the room, he didn’t head to the door where his leash hung or to the kitchen for a snack, which were his usual go-tos. No, the little bugger was scratching at a different door all together. I opened it up and he bolted in and jumped on a pillow where a stuffed animal lay and curled into a ball with his chin resting on the stuffed duck.
The glow of the street lamp illuminated the room enough for me to see that I’d made a mistake when I put Greer to bed. I’d briefly thought the room felt stark, but some people like their bedrooms that way.
But here, in this room, with a video game nook set up in one corner, a dog bed in the other, and clothing strewn across the hamper not quite reaching the inside, this was Greer.
And in that instant, I made a decision that from the outside would probably look more stalkerish than normal, I climbed out of my clothing, leaving only my boxers on, and slid into his bed, rationalizing that Greer had wanted me to stay and that I sort of promised and sleeping there was better than climbing into bed with a very soundly asleep man.
Oh, I was grasping at straws. The thought of being surrounded by his scent as I fell asleep overwhelmed any common sense I had.
“Night, Shrimp,” I mumbled as I mimicked his pose, curling into a ball under Greer’s covers, lulled to sleep before I could second-guess my actions.
I remembered nothing else until I woke up on my side in Greer’s embrace. My initial thought was that I was dreaming, but then he mumbled in my ear, “Sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep.” So much better than a dream.
I snuggled back, liking the feel of being the little spoon. I didn’t have sleepovers, not really, but, with knotting, cuddle time was a given, and generally speaking, said knotting made me the big spoon.
Being there like this, with Greer, was everything.
“Go to sleep, alpha, Shrimp just needed to tinkle.”
Alpha. He called me alpha, and while he was not the first, it was the first time it slammed into me with such power. Alpha. Maybe one day it would change and he would call me my alpha or better yet, alpha mine, but until then it would more than suffice.
I lay there listening to his breaths as they tickled my neck. Bliss. There was no other way to describe it, and as his breathing evened out and his grasp on me loosened, I followed him into sleep, not waking again until Shrimp barked.
“In a minute,” Greer mumbled, pulling me closer, his body very awake even if his mind wasn’t.
Shrimp didn’t like his answer and kept barking.
“Sleep, omega. I’ll take Shrimp out.” Before he could argue, I climbed out of bed, threw on my clothing, and shook my head at the dog who instantly wagged his tail with joy instead of barking.
“For a little dog you have a big bark,” I faux scolded as I headed out of the room and towards the door where the leash was hung. “On second thought, little guy, stay here a second.” I ran to use the restroom quickly, unsure how long Shrimp’s morning needs were. Gizmo had a tendency to take forever in the morning, and better safe than sorry.
“Good dog.” I petted his head as I stepped out of the bathroom to find him waiting for me and not barking his papa awake.
Papa. Damn I needed to not think words like that about Greer even in the dog-owner sense because instantly I saw him all rounded with child, thoughts which gave me far-too-tight jeans as I walked out the door with Shrimp.
I should not be having those thoughts. Not about someone I just met. Not while still waiting to hear from the temp agency and about my bartending applications. Not when I’m someone who can’t set up any real roots.
Except, maybe, for the first time, I kind of did.
Not keeping-an-apartment-so-I-had-someplace-to-come-home-to kind of roots, either. Roots with a steady job and someone to come home to. Actual roots.
And not just any someone. When I glimpsed that hypothetical future, Greer was there.
“I’m a hot mess,” I told Shrimp as I took a baggie off of the leash holder and picked up his offering. “A hot mess, I tell ya. Your papa has me thinking all kinds of crazy thoughts.” I tossed the bag in the receptacle. I had to give it to Shrimp; he’d picked a good spot. We turned around to get back to the house—back to Greer.
“Craziest thing, Shrimp—I think these crazy thoughts might not be so crazy.”
I could only hope that Greer agreed. Not that I’d tell him. Not yet. But someday I hoped to.
“Let’s get home, bud. Before I start writing sonnets or some shit.” Shrimp bolted at the mention of home, tugging on the leash. I was going to take that as a yes.