Tasting His Omega Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Lucas’s Crispy Oatmeal Cookie Base

  Free Short Story…

  Other titles by Lorelei M. Hart and Ophelia Heart

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in, or encourage, the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Christmas with His Omega Copyright 2018 Lorelei M. Hart and Ophelia Heart

  Editor Wizards in Publishing

  Cover design by Fantasia Frog Designs

  Published by Wizards in Publishing

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Lucas’s Crispy Oatmeal Cookie Base

  Free Short Story…

  Other titles by Lorelei M. Hart and Ophelia Heart

  About the Authors

  Tasting His Omega

  Fame isn’t always what it is cracked up to be.

  Alpha Lucas loves being a chef. It is his calling. Unfortunately, his calling comes with a side of being famous. Lucas can’t even go to a simple craft fair without having hordes of people swarming him, wanting an autograph, a recipe, a photo op. Professionally, he has the world by the balls, but personally, he never can be sure if someone wants him for him or for his fame and that makes for a very lonely existence.

  Omega Harrison was born in Mapleville and raised there by his grandfather after his mother died far too young and his father rejected him, choosing to search out fame over his own son. Harrison likes his life, even if, after the passing of his grandfather, it is an almost solitary existence. Handcrafting beautiful furniture from wood pays his bills, but his true love is creating beautiful art pieces from the random fallen branches and logs he finds in the woods behind his house.

  When Harrison drops and empty box on the way to his truck after a successful unjuried craft show, Lucas can’t help but be intrigued. The sexy woodworker agrees to a date before they both leave town. The date goes better than expected, and Harrison leaves in the morning unknowingly pregnant.

  Lucas immediately feels the loss of the omega he thinks of as his and when an opportunity arises to shoot a television show in Mapleville, the town Harrison had mentioned being from, Lucas jumps at the chance to reconnect. Only problem is, after Harrison’s father rejected him, he is pretty against having anything to do with fame.

  Tasting his Omega is a super sweet with some knotty heat non shifter male pregnancy romance with a guaranteed happy ever after.

  Tasting His Omega

  By

  Lorelei M. Hart

  and

  Ophelia Heart

  Chapter One

  Lucas

  “These are one of a kind. Aren’t they beautiful?” The older woman had the audacity to stare me right in the eyes as she fed me the bold-faced lie.

  “One of a kind from China? I doubt that. Thank you for your time.”

  She scoffed, but the rising blush in her cheeks gave her away. “How dare you?”

  “How dare I? How dare you? This is a craft fair, one where you’re actually supposed to make something to show off and sell. Next time, make sure the Made in China stickers are removed from every item.” I pulled one of the smaller salad bowls from the bottom of the stack and showed her the flaw in her system.

  “Lucas, what about those? They are exquisite.” My assistant Warren pointed out a display on the next aisle, but my attention was already on a set of handcrafted knives. “Go take a look and I’ll go look at these.”

  “Deal,” he said and rushed over because Warren was just efficient like that

  I quietly approached the table where a young couple stood over their goods. The man kissed the woman’s forehead and she blushed, then whispered something in his ear. There weren’t many products on their table, but what was there stood out.

  “Do you make these?” I asked, surveying one, taking in the craftsmanship and quality.

  “My husband does, sir. This is him,” the shorter, blonde one said. “Um, I’m sorry, but aren’t you Chef Lucas from that show, Cutting Board?”

  There were two schools of thought on being famous. One, I deserved my fate. I put myself on television and therefore my salary and notoriety were a fair exchange for a lack of privacy. The second, that everyone should just leave me alone.

  Most people tended to believe the first.

  “I am. Can you make me a full chef’s set of these?” I picked up another, admiring the detail and quality.

  “Yes, sir.” The other man, presumably the husband/craftsman spoke up. “It will take me a few months to do a full set. And the price…”

  I waved him off. “Just tell me how much.”

  He rattled off a number, not even close to what these knives were worth.

  “No, you’re underselling yourself. I’ll give you a thousand dollars to make me a set that I won’t have to replace for a lifetime. Deal?”

  We shook hands and I took his business card. I would ask Warren to put the information on the website—try to boost their business.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket and when I opened the text message, it was Warren holding one of the bowls he went to see.

  I started toward the table when I noticed a crowd had formed around me.

  Almost twenty selfies and twenty autographs later, the craft show was ruined for me.

  But I wanted those bowls.

  I texted Warren back. Buy him out.

  I snuck out the back before another mob surrounded me. Another text from Warren guaranteed me that he’d followed my instructions. When we found a true craftsman in our line of business, we bought every product they made an
d ordered more for the future.

  I sat on a bench, waiting for Warren to load up the goods. I’d texted him where I’d be in the meantime. He knew the drill.

  “Excuse me.” A man passed me with a loading cart full of empty boxes. As I looked up, his beard and tattoos caught my eye first.

  My thighs pulsed. Beards and tattoos always made me lusty.

  “Sure.” I moved my feet out of the way while he went past. He loaded the boxes into the back of an old 1950 something-looking truck, baby blue but in impeccable condition—much like the owner.

  That’s when I scented him. Maybe the wind picked up or maybe he turned a certain way, but the distinct smell of cedar and campfire smoke tickled my nose and made a fire down in my belly.

  “You missed one.” I jumped from the bench and caught his attention.

  “Oh, I did. Thank you.” He got the last box and chucked it into the truck bed.

  “I’ll take that back for you.” I grabbed the handle of the cart and mentally joggled around a way to get this guy to stay and talk to me.

  “Look, I’m just in town for a while, but would you like to have dinner with me?”

  Not my smoothest line, but a smile played at his full lips, so it must’ve worked. Please let it work.

  “I was going to head home tonight. I’m not much on the city or hotels.”

  “Well, we could have dinner at my place, if you want. I’m a good cook, and you could be on your way after that.”

  He looked downright skeptical. I couldn’t blame him, but damn, I wished he’d considered the offer.

  He looked like my kind of omega.

  “I guess I could do that. I’m Harrison, by the way.”

  A sexy-ass name if there ever was one.

  He stuck his hand out to shake mine, and I reciprocated, but made sure to hold on a little too long.

  “I’m Lucas. Here’s my number, or you could give me your phone.” He began to write the number on a piece of scrap paper he pulled from his front pocket.

  He fished in his back pocket until he retrieved a dinosaur of a phone and handed it to me. I plugged in my number and texted myself while I was at it.

  “I’ll text you my address. How about seven.”

  Harrison smoothed his beard and stroked it for a long moment.

  Damn. I wondered if he stroked other things in the same manner.

  “Sounds good, Lucas. I’ll see you later, then.”

  He got into that old truck and drove away.

  Chapter Two

  Harrison

  I’d had some serious doubts about doing an unjuried crafting flea market. The likelihood of having knockoffs and imports instead of products of true workmanship was high. Not that I was a snob. To the contrary, I completely understood why people bought made-in-China wooden bowls. You could get something decent enough on a budget.

  My issue with unjuried shows was that being one of the few people with higher quality handmade products made you above the price point of most of the buyers, and the day a fiscal waste of time. If it was a zero buy-in show in town, I’d have been fine selling one piece, tops. This wasn’t how I made my money. That’s what cabinets were for, but it was how I enjoyed spending my time and if I could make money doing it, all the better.

  This one, however, was in the city, and I hated the city. It was crowded, smelly, and noisy. I like small-town living, and getting back home was pretty much the best part of most of these expos.

  As three o’clock approached, I’d managed to sell one cradle and a single crematory urn. The urns were the least fun of my items, but the ones I liked to place in the right hands the most. Today’s was purchased by a woman who’d lost her son in a car accident. Her heartbreak crushed me, and when she asked me the price, twenty-five dollars spilled from my mouth, my hand surreptitiously removing the seven hundred dollar price tag. I didn’t even want to take that from her, but I had a sense she needed to feel like she provided it for her son somehow. As she walked away, it was all I could do not to cry myself. No parent should ever outlive their child.

  The next customer to cross my path was an odd duck to be sure. He took pictures, without permission, which was a huge no-no in the crafting field. I’d have told him to stop, but I was still pulling myself together from the urn sale.

  Next thing I knew, he wanted all of my bowls. All of them. He didn’t even try to bargain, which was good because I wasn’t in the mood for games. Many thousands of dollars later, I was carrying back my almost-empty boxes. All I had left was an urn and a few letter openers I offered as free gifts with purchase. They were fun to make, but not anything helpful anymore, thanks to most people paying their bills online.

  I was packed up and headed to my truck by four, which was a miracle. Usually I was the last one out, needing to pack things up so as not to have them break. Technically, the rules of the show were that everyone stayed until the end, but I left my tablecloth with a sign saying Sold Out and told the woman beside me she could have the tablecloth if she handed out my card if anyone asked. For whatever reason, she thought that was the best deal ever. Worked for me.

  “Excuse me,” I called out, hearing footsteps in the dry grass in front of me but not being able to see around the stack of boxes on the cart I pushed.

  One of the boxes fell, but I trudged on, the blue of my grandfather’s truck catching the corner of my eye. I’d snag the box afterward.

  “Sure,” a voice my grandfather would’ve called a radio voice replied.

  More like a sexy radio voice, but I was sure Granddad wouldn’t have been caught saying that.

  I settled the boxes into the back of the truck.

  “You missed one,” the same voice called, and I turned in his direction and had to consciously keep my mouth closed instead of gaping like a freak. Never in my life had I seen such a beautiful man, although by modern standards he probably didn’t qualify for that description. His hair was mussed by the wind, he had a little scar halfway up his left cheek, and his scruff was not a style choice, but more of a he just didn’t get to it vibe. But his eyes, his green eyes pulled me in.

  Not to mention his scent. All nutmeg and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Crisp and clean, possibly pear. Whatever it was, it was delicious, and I wanted to step into his personal space just to savor it, but that would be creepy, so I just stood there trying to form words.

  “Oh, I did,” I stammered, holding out my hand like a freak. This was why I didn’t “city.” I knew how to deal with the people of Mapleville. With this man, I was off-kilter and had not a clue. “Thank you.” I chucked it into the truck bed.

  “I’ll take that back for you.” He grabbed the handle of the cart, looking, dare I say, nervous. Huh. Maybe he was feeling the draw, too. That would be the perfect end to the day.

  “Look, I’m just in town for a while, but would you like to have dinner with me?”

  Fuck yeah, I would. I gathered my inner calm, trying not to seem as excited as I was. He was a city guy, and there was no way he’d understand the forwardness small-town folks tended to have.

  “I was going to head home tonight. I’m not much on the city or hotels.” Not any of it was a lie. I liked my own bed, with no sound of traffic when I slept.

  “Well, we could have dinner at my place if you want. I’m a good cook and you could head home after that.”

  His comments were weird. He was only in town for a little while, but he would cook me dinner. I didn’t get serial killer vibes from him, but since my lower brain was pretty much in charge at the moment, that didn’t mean much. And I had an inkling serial killers didn’t give off serial killer vibes, or they’d be caught right away anyways.

  My best guess was he was looking for a one and done. I was okay with that. I liked my life just as it was, but I definitely had an itch to scratch, one that was growing by the second.

  “I guess I could do that. I’m Harrison, by the way.” I stuck my hand out for a handshake. I was officially the lamest tattooed g
uy in the field.

  Except maybe he didn’t find it lame because I swore he held it a few seconds too long. Not that I wanted him to let it go, but societal standards said too long anyway.

  “I’m Lucas. Here’s my number, or you could give me your phone.”

  I grabbed my phone out of my pocket, willing myself to not throw it at him or beg him to add his picture in my contacts list—that was, if I had a phone that could handle it. I was of the firm belief you don’t need a new phone until the old one dies, and my phone kept chugging along like nobody’s business.

  “I’ll text you my address. How about seven.”

  He wasn’t asking, and damn that was hot. I pretended to smooth my beard, trying to hide the smile bursting across my face.

  “Sounds good, Lucas. I’ll see you later, then.”

  I climbed in my truck and drove away, wondering what the heck just happened.

  Chapter Three

  Lucas

  I fretted over the damned menu for thirty minutes, which was ridiculous for me. Harrison wasn’t my regular customer. He wasn’t looking for dainty salmon on a bed of organic greens topped with a balsamic glaze.

  The muscles bulging from his shirt were probably not built on dainty microgreens, but meatloaf and mashed potatoes and…

  That was it. He needed a down-home menu, and I would whip it up like nobody’s business.

  I bought all the ingredients, having a hard time not fancying it up with a bunch of herbs and additives.

  A smile stayed on my face while I shopped for everything. And as I got in line with the rest of the people to pay for my groceries, I realized it had been too long since I bought food with my own two hands and actually took some joy in it—some pride.

  Everything, including the food I cooked, was usually delivered by organic gourmet grocers, a lot of them begging me to promote their food or just use it on my show.

  There would be none of that tonight.

  Warren had rented me an apartment to stay in during this trip. I insisted on a kitchen no matter where we traveled. Even though I loved to peruse restaurants for new ideas and cooking methods, more than anything I took joy in experimenting for myself.