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  Zane licked the taste of Grant’s scent off his lips, swallowed it with a gulp of hot tea, and kicked back in his chair. He’d picked a seat near the cafe window, a little apart and away from a crowd of regulars who loved nothing better than lounging around and talking about everything. And everyone. Especially anyone new.

  Spilling tea wasn’t his usual thing, but there was no doubt it could come in handy. For example, he wanted more information about Grant and his family. Sitting here, all he had to do was open his ears and listen.

  A sturdy, square-shouldered Alpha waiting for his breakfast sandwich -- to wit, Grant -- addressed the tall, rangy Alpha at his elbow -- someone Zane didn’t know, but who looked vaguely familiar. “How long do you think it’ll take to clean out the mess and get the shop up to code?”

  Ahh. There we are. Zane tilted his head in their direction. Must be that buddy he was talking about. Give it up, mi cariño.

  “God knows, I don’t.” Rangy shrugged. “Good intentions only get you so far. Two months at least. I’ll bet three.”

  “Not that long!” Grant objected. “Maybe a month, at most. Three weeks. I can make it happen. The new autoclave should be here next week. Got it online, military surplus, shipping from Switzerland. I have my own tools, too. Two tattoo machines, plenty of inks, gloves, disinfectants, the works. So we don’t have to wait on those.”

  “Still. Three weeks? Maybe. If we work around the clock,” Rangy said. “You’ll wear yourself out.”

  Grant made a gesture of dismissal. “Not me. I’m tough enough. You saying you don’t feel up to a little scrubbing, a little painting?”

  “Hell no, I’ve got nothing going for weeks and I can’t stand to get bored. If that means we scrub floors, then we scrub floors. We paint until the whole place sparkles good enough to pass inspection and we hang your sign out front.”

  “Uh-huh. See, that’s what you say, Marshall,” Grant said, eyeing Rangy. “Until you decide you want to go wandering again.”

  Ah. A name. Good. Zane had been getting tired of calling him Rangy. Were they brothers? They didn’t look a thing alike, one short and compact and one tall and broad as a Viking, but they sure acted like brothers.

  “Not until we’re done here,” Marshall said firmly. “I promised.”

  “Who?”

  Marshall stuck his jaw out. “Myself.”

  Which seemed to settle the point for both Alphas. They collected cardboard trays full of paper cups of coffee and brown paper bags full of breakfast sandwiches, already spotted with grease, and elbowed their way out of the shop, bickering amiably as they went.

  Zane watched them go. A few more things made sense now. His come-ons were rare, but they didn’t usually fall flat. Given the job Grant had taken on with the shop, that’d send anyone’s libido into second place. Though it shouldn’t. In Zane’s opinion, with plenty of experience to back it up, nothing beat a good, old-fashioned, rough, hard, balls against the wall, heels pointed to heaven, no-holds-barred fuck for stress relief.

  From its place in his pocket, his phone trilled. Zane frowned at the sound. No one should have been calling him at that hour, and when he glanced at the number of the incoming call his frown deepened. He answered before it could ring again. “Something wrong?”

  A rusty chuckle answered him. His neighbor, Eduardo, sixty and spry as he’d been at sixteen. “Not unless you consider someone wanting cookies for breakfast a problem, but mijo wouldn’t give me any peace until I called to get your answer.”

  Zane snorted. “Are you serious? No, I know you are, and I know my boy. Put him on.”

  Jostling noises indicated the phone had been taken by force. “But they’re Wardo’s, they got fiver in them!” a little voice piped.

  “Hadrian…” Zane started, trying not to grin. He’d named his son after the legendary wall in Scotland, hoping he’d be just as sturdy, and he’d turned out just as hard-headed instead.

  Zane wasn’t complaining. The son of a single Omega needed to be tough. Besides, now he could call the kid Hades when he really acted up, or shout Hell! and not worry about corrupting a little mind. Win/win.

  “Fiber,” Eduardo corrected in the background. “So? You want fiber? How about a prune for breakfast? I can give you a hot buttered prune on toast.”

  “Gross,” Zane and Hadrian said at the same time, making Hadrian laugh. Zane too. “Do what Wardo says, and you can have a real cookie after dinner. Chocolate chips and everything.”

  That satisfied all demands, and Hadrian hung up without complaint. Or another word, but that was his boy. Why waste many word when little word will do. Zane laughed quietly to himself. He’d never planned on being a single father, but he wouldn’t have traded his son -- too young yet to know if he’d end up an Alpha or an Omega -- for the world on a silver plate and all the kingdoms thereof for seconds. Grant probably felt the same way about his family legacy.

  Zane liked a family man almost as much as he liked a fierce one.

  Though his heat cycle wasn’t far off, he remembered with a sudden shock of arousal, and he’d better be wary of that. Probably half of why he wanted Grant as much as he did, come to think of it. And that should have cooled his ardor, but should-have never had lit Zane’s fuse. The notion just made it burn hotter, and Zane pressed his thighs together again to ease the kindling ache between them.

  Mmm. Risky, that. Dangerous. He knew how it went. Get a little too involved, get a little careless, end up pregnant.

  Zane toyed with his nearly empty cup, thinking hard. A smart man would walk away. It’d be safest, smartest.

  Thing was… Zane never had been able to resist playing with matches, and the Alpha in his sights was a damn spitfire. Renovating a storefront in such rough shape was more than even two willing Alphas could manage in a month. They’d need help, and Zane needed a job. Needed a job badly. He usually did contract work, but jobs had been thin on the ground for a couple of weeks now. Eduardo wouldn’t take a cent for babysitting unless Zane was employed or he’d have had to tote Hadrian around wherever he went while he looked for work.

  But if he could convince Grant to hire him… well now. That’d pad his pocket and set him and the Alpha up for a sweet bit of quid pro quo.

  Question answered, decision made.

  He’d just set off across the street and see what kind of spark he could catch.

  * * *

  By the time he and Marshall strode through Legacy Tattoo’s doors with the vast quantities of breakfast two working Alphas required, Grant was more than ready to eat. His stomach rumbled and roared in appreciation of the savory, salty, greasy smells topped off with the rich fragrance of strong coffee.

  “One of almost everything, and two of the rest,” Marshall said in satisfaction. “Where do you want it?”

  Grant pushed his tools aside and wiped his hands on his hips. “In my stomach. But for right now, put it on the front counter.” It was still sturdy enough to serve as a table. “And grab whatever works for chairs.”

  Marshall raised an eyebrow at him -- you’re not my CO, asshole -- but did as he’d been told. Grant pitched in to help while Marshall scattered bags of food in a haphazard imitation of plating up a feast, and together they parked their asses to tear into the goods. Some things never changed, Grant thought, amused. Alphas always ate this way, more like a pack of starved piranhas than a horde of men, one of them small and skinny. Every time he turned around he half expected to hear David Attenborough narrating the feeding frenzy. Coffee, ham and egg breakfast burritos with crispy hash browns, pancakes, and a cup of mixed fruit to keep his arteries from clanging shut on the spot. He took a taste of each, then nodded in approval. “Good job.”

  Marshall grinned at him. He took a massive bite of a bear claw and asked around it, “So who’s the Omega eye-fucking you while we were in line?”

  He whooped with laughter while Grant face-palmed. Might have known he wouldn’t get away with that one for long. “Just an Omega,” he said before Marshall
could jump in with a Greek chorus of perverted commentary. “A guy from the neighborhood who loaned me a hand.”

  “That all he offered?”

  Grant whipped a tortilla crust down the counter at his friend. It bounced off Marshall’s forehead, but didn’t stop him from being highly entertained at Grant’s expense. “Alpha’s got his temper up, huh? He must have made an impression.”

  “Marshall, shut it.”

  “Nah.” Marshall kicked back, still gnawing at his pastry. “You, my friend, need an Omega to cool you off. How long’s it been since you got laid, buddy? A year? Two?”

  More like twenty-three months specifically, but Marshall didn’t need to know that.

  And he still didn’t take the hint and stop. “Looked like that Omega wouldn’t mind volunteering for the job. You’re thirty and you don’t have a serious squeeze to tap on the regular. Thirty! If you’re not careful it’ll dry up and fall off.”

  Well now, that couldn’t go unanswered. Grant gestured at a plastic cup of syrup provided for their pancakes. “Is that hot?”

  “Hot enough it made my fingertips all red. Why?”

  “Because if you don’t shut it I’m gonna dump the whole thing on your crotch.”

  Marshall yelped and covered his dick with both hands, one of which still held half a bear claw. Grant’s turn to laugh, then, which was good. Come on. Thirty wasn’t senior citizenry. He growled under his breath. Dry up and fall off, his ass.

  At least, it’d better not.

  “Let me make this clear,” Grant said while he had Marshall’s full attention. “That long tall drink of Omega is not my concern, and he’s not any of your business either. And my sex life is def-i-fucking-nitely not up for discussion. I’m married to the shop until it turns a profit, and so are you, so finish your breakfast and get moving. We’ve got a long day ahead of us and you’re gonna need the energy.”

  He got a muttered gripe, a glower, and a grumble for that, but it was followed by the sound of speed-eating so Grant decided to call it a win. He put his chin in his hand and sighed. Marshall might be a mannerless heathen and a hellion bastard, but his heart was in the right place.

  Food. Work ethic. Focus. Check, check, and check.

  Now all they needed was luck.

  Grant crumpled up his rubbish, dropped it in a bin, and started wandering the shop front to go over his mental plans for the day. He glanced over his shoulder as he paced, making sure Marshall stayed on track. He seemed bent on scraping the box for any stray crumb, but so far so good.

  Just Grant and his friend, and an empty storefront.

  So who, Grant wondered, was whistling to himself in the back room?

  Grant detoured by the crowbar and strolled toward the noise. They’d left the back door unlocked for unimpeded access to a rented industrial dumpster parked there -- granddad’s old partner had been a bit of a hoarder, and the work rooms in the back were packed to the rafters with assorted crap -- but now he suspected that might have been a mistake. Unless whoever was in there wanted to steal any of the rubbish, in which case they were welcome to it.

  But when he got there, the source turned out to be neither.

  Grant stood in the doorway, blindsided for the first time in years, staring at his unexpected guest. Zane, who had exchanged his studded vest for worn-in workman’s gear, busy hefting an armload of assorted debris. A path through the diminished mess showed that he’d been doing it for a while now, possibly during the whole breakfast break. He gleamed with the sweat of hard work and looked good enough to eat.

  Zane must have felt Grant’s gaze on him. He looked up and winked at him. “Took you long enough.”

  “The fuck,” Grant said, too baffled for words. “What are you doing?”

  “Me? Working.” Zane nodded down at his armload. “We haven’t talked about pay yet, but I figure you’re the kind of man who’ll offer a fair wage for a good job done.”

  “There is no job.”

  “No?” Zane gestured around himself, turning in a slow circle for emphasis and finishing by facing Grant without a drop of shame. Giving him a good look at cobblestoned stomach muscles under the ripped band shirt, and a fine gander at firmly muscled arms, too. “Then what am I doing?”

  The noise must have drawn Marshall, who leaned over Grant’s shoulder and did some whistling of his own. “Damn, Omega, you’ve got some guns on you. I can’t lift that much.”

  “Just takes practice.” Zane grinned. “Lots of opportunity for that here. I’ve carried five loads to the dumpster while you two were hoovering up enough breakfast for five. See the difference I made already?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Grant folded his arms. “And your point is?”

  “That he needs a job, and he’s already doing a good one. What? Don’t turn that glare on me, friend.” Marshall was enjoying this far too much. “Give him a trial, see if he can keep up. What’ve you got to lose? Your dry streak?”

  That got another hand bounced off the back of his head, but not Grant’s. Zane’s.

  Marshall boggled at him. “Excuse the fuck out of you, asshole? Did you miss the part where I’m on your side?”

  “Nope.” Zane wiped his forehead on his arm and came up cheekier than Marshall had ever dreamed of being. “Mind your mouth, and I’ll mind mine.”

  Zane paused for a second, in which Grant was one hundred percent sure he wasn’t finished. He was right. A wicked twinkle lit in Zane’s eye. He waggled his tongue at the pack. “And while I’m at it, I’ll mind Grant’s too.”

  Oh yeah. Marshall loved Zane after that. He’d won himself a fan for life.

  Grant gave in. “Fine!” he told Zane, who brightened up brilliantly. “One trial for one day, with a fair wage paid at quitting time. Tomorrow is up for discussion if you earn it. Deal?”

  Zane slapped a hand into his. “Deal. You won’t be sorry.”

  Yeah, well, that remained to be seen. “Stay with me. We’ll keep clearing out the debris.” That ought to sort out his willingness to work long term. And besides… while Grant still wasn’t planning to go there, if the scenery insisted on being present then there was no harm in looking while keeping his hands to himself. No one ever died from just looking.

  Zane bent fluidly at the waist to scoop up another armload. Smooth muscles flexed, lean and springy and inviting of naked taste tests. Grant bit his tongue instead. No, no one ever died from just looking. Except maybe from a raging case of blue balls. Fuck.

  * * *

  Eight Hours Later

  Had Grant worried that Zane wouldn’t hold up his end of the bargain? Not a chance. He was everywhere, sweeping up sawdust, applying elbow grease to the windows and scraping off enough grime to make them see-through again, levering up cracked squares of linoleum and wielding a ruler around ragged corners in need of repair. He seemed to know what was junk and what might be worth up cycling, recycling, or sold. A very effective worker bee. Grant almost wanted to see what’d happen if he handed Zane a plunger and pointed him toward the old broken toilet.

  Zane beat him to it. Even got the damned thing running again.

  And had he wondered if Zane would lay off the flirting for the sake of working?

  Not a chance.

  Oh, he put his back into the job. Grant couldn’t fault him on that. Always moving, but always glancing over his shoulder too, with a wicked look aimed just at Grant. He put a little extra sway into his hips every time he caught Grant looking back, and though Zane smelled of sweat and hard work, a hint of Omega musk still teased Grant’s nose at every turn.

  “Are you like this with every Alpha, or am I just special?” he asked when the work brought him and Zane within arm’s reach of each other.

  Zane’s eyes danced. “You make me sound like a flirt.”

  “No. Really?” Grant asked, dry.

  Zane laughed at that, a little more scent coming through as he did. “Everybody should be allowed one vice.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Isn�
��t it?” Zane knelt to scoop up an armload of what looked like old coupon sheets, faded and cracking at their corners. He glanced up at Grant and winked. “Are you like this with every Omega?”

  Grant shook his head, but for all that he couldn’t help grinning back at him. Zane’s humor was infectious.

  Marshall noticed all the banter, of course. “Not interested in him, huh?” his friend murmured, setting down icy cold bottles of water for all three of them.

  Grant took his with a hiss, the bottle so very cold that chips of ice clung to its sides. “Shut your cakehole.”

  “I told you so,” Marshall sang. “You do have good taste, I’ll give you that.”

  At least Zane overheard that one and tossed a ratty old magazine at Marshall as payback. Grant approved.

  “Forgive me for the ass crack?” Marshall asked Zane, with a straight face, even, which even Grant had to admire the ballsiness of. So to speak.

  “I’ll lick it over,” Zane replied without batting an eyelash. “Oops, did I say lick? I meant think. I’ll think it over. Real hard.”

  Grant’s jaw ached, and he realized he’d been grinding his teeth. He eased his jaw open carefully, frowning at himself. He shouldn’t care if Marshall and Zane flirted with each other. Neither should it bother him that Zane willingly shared his rakish charm with anyone willing to banter back.

  And yet… and yet. It grated. Made something deep and primal inside Grant want to snarl and say No. Mine! So. What was he going to do about that? He knew what he wanted to do. Even if the larger of his two heads knew better. But…

  Marshall and Grant were still going. “Thinking does a body good. Lots of thinking does a body even better. I --” Marshall stopped mid-sentence and glanced his way, delight written across his face. “Grant. Buddy. Were you growling?”

  “You know, I think he might have been. Not sure.” Zane cocked his head. “Do it again, gorgeous.”

  This time a genuine growl did escape Grant, and not accidentally. “Back to work,” he said, using the Voice of God that these two better know meant business. “Now.”

  Marshall beat a hasty retreat, cackling all the way, but Zane wasn’t done yet. “Are you two brothers? You sure act like you’re related.”