The Alpha's Cranberry-Kissed Omega: An M/M Non-Shifter Mpreg Romance (Alpha Kissed Book 3) Read online

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  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.

  The Alpha’s Cranberry-Kissed Omega Copyright 2018 Lorelei M. Hart

  ISBN: 978-1-68361-307-7

  Editor Wizards in Publishing

  Cover design by Fantasia Frog Designs

  Published by Decadent Publishing LLC

  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

  Epilogue

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  Also by Lorelei M. Hart

  About the Authors

  Blurb

  Of course I’ve noticed him.

  He’s Hal, the singer who everyone loves and fawns over all night. There is no shortage of suitors surrounding his piano while he sings songs that drive directly into my heart. I wouldn’t stand a chance. So I sit here on my barstool and listen and pretend he might know I’m alive.

  But he never takes anyone home, and I doubt he’s going to start with me.

  I’m not the type of guy who approaches a man like him. I see him every night I perform at the Moonlight Lounge. The songs I choose are pointed in his direction, but nothing seems to make him look my way for more than a few seconds. His sweater vests and ties make him look a little uptight but I know there’s more. The way he bites his lip. The smooth manner in which he tips back his drink. The outline of biceps under the button down shirt I need to know him. Because my gut says he´s mine.

  The Alpha’s Cranberry-Kissed Omega is a MM non-shifter mpreg with a hot musical alpha, a ninja competitor, psychologist omega, and a holiday surprise meeting that sets everything in motion. The Alpha’s Cranberry-Kissed Omega is part of the Alpha Kissed series but can be read as a standalone.

  The Alpha’s Cranberry-Kissed Omega

  By

  Lorelei M. Hart

  Chapter One

  Hal

  The week before Thanksgiving brought more kids in since school started. With the almost-year-round school schedule giving them the entire week off, parents tried to schedule their cleanings and fillings and since we were only open three days, they all had to cram into that time frame. Not that we minded, but by Wednesday afternoon, Dr. Patrick Chen, my boss, his assistant, Suzi, and I were more than ready for some time off.

  And while they were done working, I had my other job to do every night starting tonight at the Moonlight Lounge. Usually I only played piano there three or four times a week, but the other entertainer was heading for Hawaii and her family for the holiday, and we always filled in for one another.

  Still, at this point, I’d welcome any environment that didn’t involve screaming toddlers and cranky parents who were making them scream because they were in a rush to get to the market to buy a turkey. Apparently, they’d just gotten the memo that they should serve that on Thanksgiving.

  To make matters worse, the pre-Thanksgiving night crowd at the lounge was a crowd in name only. It seemed even half-price beer and wine wasn’t enough inducement to bring the folks in. Hell, they were probably home making pies. Tomorrow was going to be even worse. With the twenty or so people scattered around the maroon leather booths and seated at the bar, there was no chance of missing the one omega I’d hoped to see.

  He’d been in a few times, either by himself or with a friend, and he wasn’t without a date because he had no offers. He’d sit on a barstool and have a glass of cab, leaning against the bar and watching me play. Alphas approached him every time, but he waved them off. I couldn’t figure out his game. He seemed to enjoy my music, but never came and joined the crowd around the piano. Never called out a request or approached me when I took a break.

  And since lots of guys wanted to chat up the piano player, I never managed to get to him, either. Okay...and because I wasn’t sure if he’d want me to and didn’t want to be embarrassed. Cowardly.

  But this weekend, no more cowardly lion. The guy looked like an ad for surfing the waves in on a California beach. His sun-bleached hair was a little long, like getting it cut wasn’t a priority. He had deep-brown eyes and full lips that revealed very white teeth when he laughed at something his friend said. His usual tight T-shirts showed admirable upper-body development. Not like a weight lifter, everything just as it should be. If you were a hot beach guy, that is. The bartenders didn’t know a thing about him—a total rarity for those nosy parkers—and I didn’t want to keep asking because they liked razzing me about it.

  The night fizzled to a close with not much in the tip jar and only one slightly inebriated alpha requesting a lot of Black Sabbath. Not that I couldn’t accommodate him, but it wasn’t really lounge fare.

  Maybe my surfer boy was out of town with his folks. He sure wasn’t born and bred here, and those who weren’t cooking dinner for twenty people tomorrow were attending a dinner for that number, so the manager made the decision to call an Uber for tipsy-Sabbath guy and shut down early.

  A dreary, cold late fall weekend seemed in my future. Awesome.

  But once I drove home and climbed into bed, the long day and night overwhelmed me and I fell asleep right away.

  Thanksgiving dawned bright and clear. At least I think it did. I didn’t wake up until nearly eleven and then had to scramble to get showered and shaved and dressed for the Friendsgiving at Patrick and his omega, Damon’s house. I didn’t really know why I was going. It was just another day for single guys who didn’t have any local family and especially single guys who had to work afterward.

  But they were so anxious to have me, Damon so worried about me being all alone, that I’d caved. With my tremendous lack of cooking abilities, I’d been assigned to bring assorted olives and “fancy” paper napkins. As usual. It didn’t bother me, much. Nobody wanted scorched pumpkin pie or half-raw mashed potatoes, both of which I’d managed to create in the past. With a fine plan in place to grab what I needed at the store then hit the coffeehouse on the way to Patrick and Damon’s house, I climbed in my convertible and zoomed down the street.

  The grocery store was mobbed. I’d made fun of the patients’ parents who didn’t know they had to buy a turkey on Wednesday, but I’d had no idea how many would be buying them at noon on Thanksgiving Day. Even with my lack of skill in the kitchen, I knew it took a long time to cook one of those big birds. What time were they planning to eat?

  I stood in line at t
he olive bar and when I got my turn, grabbed two plastic tubs and filled them with the varieties that looked tastiest. Then, swinging my plastic basket by the handles, I headed for the paper products where I spent fifteen minutes trying to determine what made paper napkins holiday worthy vs. not holiday worthy. Finally, an elderly lady took pity on me and showed me the ones on the top shelf that cost five times what the others did and actually were called “deluxe.” I also picked up a couple of bags of ice just to be extra helpful.

  There. I had accomplished my Thanksgiving Day shopping and filled with a sense of accomplishment, added a box of cookies decorated like pumpkins and pilgrims to my purchases.

  I ate half of them standing in line at the self-checkout, starving and pretty sure I was going to be late.

  Turned out self-checkout was not a good choice on Thanksgiving. People were buying things they bought only on that holiday. Oddly shaped vegetables and strange-looking cheeses. Most either didn’t have barcodes, or they were so messed up, the readers couldn’t handle them. And, frankly, since I hadn’t had coffee yet, I couldn’t handle any of them. If I didn’t want to show up at a meal where everyone else had made something amazing with nothing in my hands, I’d have dumped my plastic basket and left.

  But I persisted. As I shuffled forward, I became aware that the store was playing Christmas music. I had nothing against carols, but felt they were best after Thanksgiving. Or at least after coffee. Finally, after two hundred ten years or fifteen minutes, one or the other, I was in purchasing position. I lifted the napkins from the cart and slid them over the reader and froze.

  “Oh my gods…” A guy was heading out the door, and not just any guy. I couldn’t be sure from the back, but the man exiting had that same sun-streaked hair, tight little butt, and was wearing a jacket I’d seen on the guy at the bar.

  “Sir?” The high whining pitch of the self-checkout assistant cut through my stasis. “Are you having trouble?”

  “I…” What to do? I shoved the three items over the reader, figuring if I moved fast enough, my quarry would still be heading for his car. I swear I finished in under twenty seconds and was racing for the door, chased by the assistant holding the game cards I’d earned and didn’t want for their holiday sweepstakes.

  Outside, I stopped and looked around, and my heart sank into my stomach.

  He was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Kipling Taylor

  As I climbed my front steps, I patted my pocket for my phone out of pure habit and with a constricted feeling in my stomach, realized I’d left it at the debit card machine inside. I turned around since the store was walking distance to my house and made my way back in a hurry. That phone not only had my contacts, but sometimes I jotted down notes about patients in the verbal note-taking app my assistant had suggested.

  “It’s you,” a male voice spoke in my direction. I figured he was speaking to someone else so I pushed the exit door open and headed for the ATM, letting out a long breath of relief seeing my phone still there where I left it.

  Gotta love a small town. In New York where I’d studied at NYU, that phone would’ve been long gone.

  With a lighter heart, I headed for the door I’d used to enter.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” the same voice said, and I turned this time, phone retrieval no longer on my mind, to see what was happening. That’s when I realized who the voice belonged to. Hal—the guy from the Moonlight Lounge who sang like a displaced angel. I often went there for a drink after a hard day and let his voice soothe all the bad things away.

  “Hi. You’re Hal, right?” Stupid, stupid, stupid. Everyone knew this guy was Hal. He was like a local celebrity, or he was to me. His smile took my breath away.

  “I am. And you’re…”

  I stuck out my hand after shuffling around my shopping bag with an embarrassing amount of unhealthy food contained within. I shoved my phone in my pocket and waited as he gawked at my hand. “I’m Kipling. You’re a great singer.”

  He took my hand, but we didn’t shake at all, instead, held hands like longtime friends or lovers, mostly the latter. Then he covered my hand with his other one after putting down his bag.

  “I’ve seen you sitting at the bar.”

  I nodded and then looked to the floor. There were many times I’d wanted to approach him, but it seemed he already had a group of people and I wasn’t sure of his relationship status. Plus, most of the time I was still twisted up from the day.

  “I go in to unwind. Your music certainly helps.”

  He chuckled loud and hard. “That cheesy, huh?”

  I took the opportunity to look at him like this, in regular clothes. He wore a V-neck sweater in navy which suited him well. Gray slacks accentuated his legs and I was sure other parts as well.

  “Not cheesy. You have an amazing voice. It eases me.”

  Shouldn’t have said that last part without knowing if he had an omega already. A crisp fall breeze hit us and almost barreled me over, carrying his scent, all cranberry and tangerine and cinnamon.

  He should be a cocktail all by himself.

  “I am glad to be of service. Oh, I must be leaving but…”

  “Where are you off to? Big plans for Thanksgiving?” None of your business, man. Jeez.

  “Yes, actually, and you?”

  I was caught between not wanting to sound pathetic and actually being pathetic.

  “Um, I’ve got an obscene amount of cheesecake and fried chicken. And the parade is on, so…”

  Yep, A+ in Pathetic Arts.

  “Well, that just won’t do, omega. How about you join me for Thanksgiving. I’m going over to spend it with some friends. I’m not allowed to cook things for other people to eat, so I was in charge of the olive platter, napkins, and I picked up ice, my specialty. I also bought cookies but I’ve eaten most of them. I had to keep up my strength in that long line.”

  I laughed and felt my cheeks heat at the sight of his smile. This wasn’t the one he flashed in the club, rather, this was a genuine grin. Somehow I knew that.

  I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. Not only had this man featured in my dreams of late, but he took main stage in my spank bank and had for months.

  I needed to know him.

  “I’d actually love that. And what Thanksgiving couldn’t use another cheesecake?”

  “Perfect. Do you trust me to give you a ride? I can bring you home afterward.” His tone told me that bringing me home might hold a little bit more.

  “That would be great. I live just down the street. I walked.”

  “Then let’s go. At least this year I have a good reason to be late. I picked up one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen.”

  ~~

  “I wish we had candles floating up there like Harry Potter,” Anderson mused while looking up at the ceiling, beautifully decorated with fall decor hanging from the rustic chandelier.

  “But that’s Dumbledore’s magic, not real. Notice the candles don’t drip hot wax onto the students.”

  Who knew Hal had an extensive knowledge of Potterworld.

  “I know. But I can wish. What kind of name is Kipling?” The boy I saw once a week in counseling pointed to me with a fork in hand. It was different to see my patients and their parents outside of my office. Anderson was especially surprised to see me.

  “You mean Kipling?” I asked. Hal had introduced me as Kipling, and Anderson had looked at me weird ever since. To him, I was Dr. Taylor. Maybe I should be less formal and let my clients call me by my first name all the time.

  He scoffed and stabbed at a piece of turkey. “That’s a weird name.”

  I leaned back in my chair, appalled at the education system for a minute but then remembered the boy was only eleven. I was such a snob. “It’s after an author. Joseph Rudyard Kipling. You’ve seen the movie The Jungle Book?”

  Liam interjected, “Anderson, we read that book. Mowgli and the jungle. You know it.”
>
  Anderson looked to be thinking as a smile rose to his face. “So you wrote that book and you’re a doctor?”

  I sighed. “No, I was named after him. Good book, right?”

  He nodded. “Hal brings Robbie books sometimes and he shares them with me.”

  Over Anderson’s head, I looked at Hal, barely touching his food, already staring at me. His eyes on me had my stomach fluttering overtime. I bit down on my lip and wished it was him doing the biting instead. “Do you?”

  He shrugged. “I got lost in books when I was a kid. Kids don’t read enough these days, and I know Patrick and Damon aren’t big on TV other than the video games, so I do what I can.” He reached over and tickled Anderson’s ribs, making the kid giggle. “So you like them, too, Anderson? I need to double down on my book buying.”

  Anderson bobbed his head. “Who wouldn’t like a book full of tigers and snakes and bears.”

  “And now? Do you read now, Hal?” I cut in, craving every bit of knowledge about him.

  “Yes, when I find time between my office job and singing. And you?”

  First date questions. We were surrounded by strangers to me and kids, yet, I felt like Hal and I were the only ones in the room. I told him that I loved to read, but only on audio.

  “Well that’s easy. Hal likes to sing which is kind of like telling a story. He can tell you stories,” Robbie contributed from across the table.

  Hal’s eyebrow popped up at the notion. “Bedtime stories are my favorite.”

  “It’s been a long time since I had a good bedtime story,” I said, taking a bite of the homemade cranberry sauce and thinking about how Hal probably tasted sweet and tart like his scent portrayed.

  “Well, maybe it’s time we fixed that.”

  Chapter Three