The use of my first name—my actual name, not the professional “Ms. Park” he’d been using—feels like a deliberate boundary cross. Beside me, Adrian’s scent spikes again, sharper this time.
“Ms. Park is working,” Adrian says before I can respond. “Perhaps you could stretch your legs in the direction of the restroom.”
I close my eyes briefly, counting to three. This is ridiculous. I’m a professional adult woman with two degrees and a resume that could land me a job at any tech company in the country. I don’t need Adrian Cole playing territorial guard dog, even if part of me—a very small, primitive part I refuse to acknowledge—finds it oddly satisfying.
“I can speak for myself, thank you,” I say, keeping my voice level as I look between them. “Mr. Rios, while I appreciate your interest in our work, I do need to finish these adjustments before we land. And yes, five hours is indeed a long time to sit still, which is why I deliberately chose an aisle seat.”
Caleb’s smile widens, appreciative rather than chastened. “Direct and diplomatic. I like that.” He steps back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll leave you to your work. For now.”
He returns to his seat, but not before his gaze sweeps over me once more—a tangible thing that feels like fingertips trailing across my skin. I suppress a shiver and return my attention to the screen, determined to ignore the way my pulse has quickened.
The flight attendant appears, offering another round of drinks. I accept water again, needing the hydration. Flying always leaves me parched, and the heightened Alpha presence in the cabin isn’t helping. My blockers are working overtime, leaving my skin hot and slightly itchy where they’ve been applied.
“You should ease up on the industrial-grade blockers,” Miles says suddenly, his observation so unexpected that I look up sharply. His cool blue-gray eyes assess me with clinical precision. “They’re causing skin irritation. The medical-grade ones without the parabens are less effective but won’t give you that rash.”
Three pairs of eyes fix on me—Miles’s clinical, Caleb’s curious, Adrian’s intensely focused. I resist the urge to touch my neck where I know the blockers have left a faint redness.
Damn my sensitive skin. I can’t even touch my face without causing a proliferation of pimples. I know the blockers I use are a little potent, but I only use them when I’m nearing my heat cycle.
“I prefer maximum efficacy,” I reply, meeting Miles’s gaze steadily. “The irritation is temporary.”
“But unnecessary,” he counters. “Titan Global’s R&D division developed a new formula last quarter. Hypoallergenic, ninety-eight percent effective. I can have samples sent to your office.”
Before I can formulate a response to this oddly specific offer, Adrian cuts in.
“NovaDyne provides all necessary health and comfort supplies for its employees,” he says, each word precise and clipped. “Including the latest blocker technology.”
Miles raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Just making an observation.”
“An unsolicited one,” Adrian replies.
“Actually,” I interject, “I’d be interested in testing the hypoallergenic formula.” I glance at Adrian, whose expression has gone carefully blank. “If it’s truly more comfortable with minimal efficacy loss, it could be worth exploring.”
A flicker of something crosses Miles’s face—satisfaction, perhaps, at having his expertise acknowledged. He nods once, a small concession. “I’ll have them delivered when we return.”
Caleb watches this exchange with undisguised fascination, like he’s witnessing a particularly engaging tennis match. “This is fun,” he declares, swirling his second whiskey. “Three Alphas offering their resources to one very capable Omega. Very primal. Very instinctive.”
Heat crawls up my neck, and I’m grateful for the blockers that hide what would surely be an embarrassed flush. “No one is offering resources,” I say firmly. “This is a professional conversation about scent suppression technology.”
“Of course it is,” Caleb agrees, his tone suggesting exactly the opposite. “Just like this flight is just a convenient coincidence.”
Adrian’s head snaps up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Caleb shrugs, feigning innocence. “Nothing at all. Just interesting timing that all three major players in the Singapore deal happen to be on the same flight with the one person who knows all the details of NovaDyne’s presentation.”
I feel my stomach drop. “Are you implying that I orchestrated this?”
“Not at all,” Caleb says smoothly. “I’m implying that perhaps someone wanted all of us in one place. Someone with access to all our travel plans.”
Miles sits forward, his interest visibly piqued. “The charter company.”
“Bingo,” Caleb points at him. “Overbooked? Please. These jets are reserved months in advance. Someone wanted us together.”
I look at Adrian, whose expression has shifted from irritation to sharp calculation. “The summit organizers,” he says slowly. “They’ve been pushing for collaborative projects between our companies.”
“Forced proximity,” Miles murmurs. “Oldest negotiation tactic in the book.”
The tension in the cabin shifts, morphing from personal to professional, and I feel myself relax fractionally. This, at least, is familiar territory—corporate strategy, manipulation, the games played at the highest levels of business. Not the unsettling awareness of three distinct Alpha scents mixing in enclosed space, or the way my body keeps cataloging their smallest movements.
