Special Delivery: Autumn: An Mpreg Romance Collection

by Leyla Hunt

  I wound up going over the word requirement by a lot. But I decided I didn’t want to hold back. I’m putting myself out there.

  “A college education would let me keep a promise made to my younger self.”

  That’s the first line of my essay. I think it might be a little too sappy. Honestly, I’m pretty sure the board for this scholarship fund will probably laugh and chuck my stack of paper in the “denied” pile before they even read the whole thing. They get hundreds, maybe even thousands, of scholarship applications every year. I doubt they’re going to take the time to read an essay that fails to meet the basic word count requirements.

  Still...I can’t bring myself to edit it. A lot of the things in this essay have never been put to paper before. I’ve never confided all of my hopes and dreams to anyone before. I’m a private person by nature and I rarely open up to anyone.

  My roommates and I aren’t even really friends. We just sort of live together. They know me as the guy that’s punctual about rent and utility payments, and that’s either not home or shut up in his room. I don’t really hang out with them. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a meal with them either. And it’s not because I don’t like them. They all seem nice, but I just...I’ve never liked trying to fit into an established group. I always feel like I’m the outsider and I don’t belong. The impostor that they’ll eventually ask to leave.

  So I do my best to make sure that I bother them as little as possible. I’m friendly when we happen to meet in the hallway, but other than that I avoid them.

  It’s a hell of my own creation. One where I’m eternally surrounded by people, but forever alone.

  Yet another reason why I want to go back to school and finish my education. I want a clean slate. I want a piece of paper that gives me the right to step into a new place and negotiate a salary instead of just taking whatever’s on offer. I want...I want to change my life and this is the only way I can think to do it.

  The essay on the screen is only one of a dozen I’ve written today. I’ve been filling out scholarship applications and applying for financial aid left and right. My hands ache from all of the typing, but it’s time to call it a night. I’m done.

  I’ve got a busy day tomorrow and my alarm goes off at six.

  Cracking my knuckles, I grit my teeth and submit the essay.

  Thirty-Six

  Flemming

  I rub my eyes and sigh as I toss the paper print out onto the floor. This is pointless.

  I sink back against the couch cushions and stare up at the ceiling of my living room. The Victorian style mansion that I’ve lived in for most of my life has these impossibly high ceilings. I’ve got to pay special cleaners to come in and dust the light fixtures every month or so. The whole house is so needlessly excessive and yet, I can’t bring myself to sell it. There are too many memories here. Too many people that loved this place. All of whom are gone now.

  But my current dilemma is entirely of my own creation.

  Lifting my head, I drag myself back into the present. There’s a stack of papers, neatly piled on the coffee table in the middle of the room. I had my assistant print out all of the submissions we received for the scholarship fund so that I could review them manually. I hate squinting at the computer screen for long hours every day.

  Now, however, I’m wishing I’d asked my assistant to pare the list down a little bit more first.

  It was only the first year of setting up this scholarship fund. Against the advice of many, I had declined the creation of a board to manage the submissions. I was sure I’d get a few. Maybe a hundred. Nothing too unreasonable. But this is ridiculous.

  The deadline for entry was last night and at that point there were already over two thousand different entries.

  We culled a bunch that had failed to answer all of the questions on the entry form. We culled a few more that had ignored the instructions and had written things by hand. Between both of those we brought the number down by about a thousand.

  I made an executive decision early on that I wasn’t going to cut a submission just because the essay ran a little long. I strongly believe that if someone makes a compelling case they deserve to be heard. I’m not going to cut them short just because they need more space to tell their story.

  Unfortunately, most of these entries aren’t making use of that space.

  Of the thirty submissions I’ve looked at so far today, only one has written more than a paragraph for the essay section. That one was barely intelligible. The lack of regard for the basic rules of the English language was frightening. While I know that many of these omegas have had a hard life, the scholarship will, unfortunately, be wasted on someone who will likely flunk out of their writing classes. Or any class that requires any sort of essay at all.

  “Would you like to break for lunch?” My housekeeper, Marjorie, asks as she peeks into the living room. “Or should I serve something here?”

  I look up at her and do my best to retain my composure as the competent master of the house. “No, Marjorie, just some water will be fine, if you don’t mind.”

  Marjorie purses her lips. I’ve known her my whole life. She was the daughter of my parents’ housekeeper and one of my closest friends in childhood. She knows me better than I know myself sometimes.

  “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” she asks as she hovers in the doorway. “I thought you might want a little break from those memories.”

  I clench my jaw. Not in anger, but in frustration. I know she’s right. I should take a break, put all of this on the back burner for a little while and try to focus on something other than the scholarship fund. But I can’t.

  “There’s too many applications to go through,” I say with a sigh as I look back up at her. “The scholarship awards need to be handed out before the end of the month so the students can calculate their financial aid requirements. If I stop now, I’ll never get through them all.”

  “Would you like a hand?” she offers with a hopeful smile. “I was close to him, too. I might be able to help.”

  “I don’t want to take you away from your work,” I say as I look away. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

  “Nothing that can’t wait,” she assures me. “It’s not like the old days.” She looks around the living room with a slightly melancholy smile. “Back when we were kids and there was a full staff working in the house and your parents were always throwing parties or having guests over. There was always something going on.”

  “We’ve certainly fallen far, haven’t we?” I ask, tilting my head back towards the ceiling again. “I don’t remember the last time we had a guest.”

  “It’s just been you and me for a long time now,” she says with a nod. “So there’s no rush to polish the silver or vacuum the guest rooms. Not just yet, anyway.”

  “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into,” I tease as I gesture at the overstuffed armchair across from me. “Going through these is more time consuming that I expected.”

  “I suppose the floor is the reject pile?” she asks as she settles into the chair. “Where are the ones you’re considering?”

  “There are none, yet,” I admit. “They’ve all been...underwhelming.”

  “I’m sure between the two of us, we’ll find something.” She reaches across the coffee table and splits the stack of papers in half. “I’ll take these, you take those. In an hour, we’re breaking for lunch. No arguments. Then we’ll get right back to it, understood?”

  I nod. A slight smile touching my lips. “Thank you, Marjorie.”

  “I promised your papa I’d look after you,” she says, looking quite proud of herself. “I’m not going to break that promise.”

  Together, we begin to sift through the massive pile of papers. More rejects get tossed onto the floor. At first, I was worried that I was just being too picky but, after seeing Marjorie reject just as many, I feel a little better.

  There are a few that I set aside to go over later.
The more submissions I read, the more I realize I’m probably going to have to relax my standards a bit. The measuring stick I’m using would be impossible for anyone to meet, anyway.

  It’s closing in on the end of the day and the stack on the table seems just as big as it was before. Discarded papers carpet the living room and my tiny pile of “maybes” looks pathetic by comparison.

  “It only takes one,” Marjorie reminds me as she starts cleaning up the rejected papers and arranging them into a neat stack. “The person who needs that scholarship the most is still in that stack somewhere, I know it.”

  She moves the reject pile off to the side to be recycled later. “I’m going to go make some dinner,” she tells me, glancing at the clock on the wall.

  “Don’t worry, I’m only going to go through a few more,” I assure her. “Then I’ll start fresh in the morning.”

  She nods in satisfaction and leaves the room with a flourish.

  With an air of trepidation, I reach for yet another essay.

  I frown as my fingers close around this new collection of papers. It’s significantly thicker than all of the others I’ve looked at today. At first I’m certain that my assistant accidentally stapled two or three different submissions together. A quick flip through the pages proves me wrong.

  This is all one person’s work.

  This is either going to be very good, or very bad. I’m already trembling with anticipation before I even start reading it. There’s an electric tingle in my fingertips as I flip through the first few pages of questions. The answers aren’t particularly revolutionary or original. They’re fairly typical and they paint a picture of a very generic sort of omega.

  I’m losing hope by the time I reach the final essay.

  My heart stops when I read the first line.

  “A college education would let me keep a promise made to my younger self.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Cyrus

  I’m on cloud nine as I sip my coffee and sit in the corner of the coffee shop with my laptop. I was approved for several scholarships and my financial aid requests were approved. My first year of college is fully funded with only a minimal amount of debt accrued on my part.

  What’s really got me over the moon, however, is that one of those scholarships was particularly massive. It’s a recurring payment over the next four years, too. All because I wrote that over the top essay that completely smashed the word count requirements.

  The award letter was accompanied by a note that said I probably should pay closer attention to word counts in the future, but they loved my essay all the same and couldn’t disqualify me because of the length.

  I guess sometimes it pays to be a little vulnerable and let people see the real you.

  I’m grinning from ear to ear as I skim the class listings online. I’m trying to figure out my fall schedule and I’m still struggling to fit everything. I met with a school guidance counselor who suggested I only go half-time since I’m trying to balance both work and school. But I can’t.

  Since I plan to keep working throughout school, if I follow the counselor’s advice that means I’d have to go half time for eight years instead of four. I’m fairly certain I can handle four years of juggling school and work, but not eight. Eight years is a long time, especially when you’re worried about growing old with nothing to show for all of your years of life.

  I’m not going to back down on this. Even if everyone else thinks I’m crazy.

  “Can I sit here?”

  The deep, masculine voice startles me out of my thoughts. I was so focused on my computer that I didn’t even see the dark-eyed alpha approach my table.

  I quickly glance around the coffee shop. There’s quite a lot of people packed into the tiny room and very few free places to sit. It’s not entirely unreasonable for him to be asking to share my table.

  I swallow the momentary panic that’s bubbling in my throat and remind myself that I’m trying to make a change. Clean slate and all that. I’m never going to change anything about my life if I keep doing things the way I’ve always done them.

  “Y-yeah, sure,” I say with a nod as I move my laptop bag from the free seat and tuck it beside me.

  “Sorry for bothering you,” the alpha says as he sits down. “I usually stop in for a coffee and a pastry before heading to work and this place is never this crowded. I wasn’t expecting to have nowhere to sit.”

  “It’s my first time here,” I admit with a nervous chuckle. I’ve never had anyone come up to me and make small talk before. I’ve been told that I give off an aura that says “don’t bother me” to anyone that tries to come close. So this is a completely new experience for me.

  “You a student?” he asks, gesturing to my laptop.

  “Um, I guess, yeah.”

  “You don’t know?” He laughs.

  I flush. “Well, I mean, it’s my first year.” It’s embarrassing to say that aloud. What must he think of me? An omega my age going back to school. I don’t think he’s that much older than I am and he clearly has his life together. Which, of course, isn’t surprising. He’s an alpha after all. The world is designed for them to succeed.

  “I think that’s great,” he says before taking a sip of coffee. “Anyone that wants to put in the effort to educate themselves is worthy of respect in my book. If they’re serious about it, that is. You get all these young people going to college and treating it like one big party. They rack up a mountain of debt and stumble out of school four years later with a degree and only a vague idea of what they’re doing with their lives.”

  He presses his lips into a thin smile and shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m rambling,” he says with a light nod. “I’m Flemming, by the way.” He extends a hand towards me.

  “Oh, Cyrus,” I say as I shake his hand.

  “Friends call me, Flea,” he says with a broad smile. “Which, I guess you’re a friend now.”

  “Flea?” I can’t help but frown at that nickname.

  “Well, it’s better than Phlegm,” he says with a laugh. “I got that a lot in high school. Everyone thought they were so original.”

  “People can be cruel sometimes.”

  “Eh, high schoolers are insecure and make fun of people because no one ever taught them how to cope,” he shrugs.

  He’s so strange. He seems unable to give short answers about anything. Offers up excessive information about things and doesn’t seem to possess any qualms about talking to a complete stranger. But I feel this tug in the pit of my stomach that’s dragging me towards him. I want to get to know him more, spend more time around him.

  Plus, “he’s hot.”

  “Who’s hot?”

  My gut spasms. Did I say that out loud? “Mmm, no one,” I blurt, trying to recover. “I said, ‘It’s hot.’” I hold up my coffee cup as if that explains everything.

  “Ah, yeah, it’s coffee,” he says with a chuckle. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe me for a minute, and I just want to crawl underneath the table and die from embarrassment.

  “So then, Cyrus, what are you going to school for?” he asks, moving the conversation right along as if nothing strange happened at all.

  “Oh, um, well...” my voice trails off. I’m almost embarrassed to tell him for some reason. “Photography,” I say at last. “I want to travel and take pictures of exotic locations, people, animals, everything.”

  “That’s a lofty dream,” he says with a little nod. “But it’s not unobtainable. Getting there will take a lot of work. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “I’ve been running my own business for the better part of a decade,” I tell him without hesitation. “After everything I’ve had to juggle, I’m not afraid of hard work.”

  A smile passes across his lips and he sits up a little straighter.

  “I’m glad,” he says as he reaches into his coat pocket. “You seem like the sort of person that can achieve anything he sets his mind to. Which is why I want to take you out to dinner,”
he hands me a piece of paper with a phone number on it.

  “Dinner?” I gasp as I lean back from him. I’m fighting the overwhelming urge to scoot closer to him. Every fiber of my body wants to lessen the distance between us and I’m doing everything in my power to keep from making a fool of myself.

  “Call it a date, if you want,” he continues.

  My body screams at me. I clutch the edge of my chair and try to keep my heart in my chest where it belongs.

  “I...I don’t think I know you well enough--”

  “How else are you supposed to get to know someone?” he asks with a grin. “If you don’t want to go out with me, that’s fine. I realize I can be a little much sometimes. If you’re honestly not interested in me, then I will admit defeat and back off without another word.” He holds up his hands to signal surrender. “But if you’re just being shy, let me assure you that I will be a perfect gentleman. Until you tell me otherwise.” He winks.

  My balls twitch in response to his taunts. The look in his eyes is enough to make me hard as it is. I don’t know if I can handle sitting across from him in a more intimate setting. Besides, I’ve got so much more to worry about…

  “It’s not that I’m not interested,” I admit, shaking my head slowly as I try to regain control of my body. “I’ve just got so much else to focus on right now. School for one thing, but I’m still managing my business too. I’ve got a full schedule of classes, a full-time job, and zero time for anything else. I just...I can’t afford to be distracted right now. I’m sorry.”

  Hopefully being honest with him will get my point across loud and clear. If he keeps insisting I don’t think I’ll be able to resist.

  Flemming looks down at the table for a moment before making up his mind about something. He rises from his seat and pushes the paper with his number towards me.

  “Call me, or text, when you change your mind,” he says with a confident wink. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”