“Well,” I say, straightening my spine, “if someone’s hoping for a mid-air merger agreement, they’re going to be disappointed.”
Caleb chuckles, the sound rich and warm. “The only thing we’re likely to merge is our mutual distrust.”
For the first time since boarding, a genuine laugh escapes me—quick and surprised. Three pairs of eyes snap to me with laser focus, and I immediately regret the momentary lapse incomposure. Something shifts in the air, an almost audible click as the atmosphere charges with new energy.
Caleb grins, looking pleased at having elicited the reaction. Miles’s expression remains neutral, but his gaze lingers on my face a beat too long. And Adrian—Adrian’s scent spikes so sharply I can practically taste the cedarwood at the back of my throat.
“I need to get something from my bag,” I say abruptly, needing to break the sudden intensity. I stand, moving toward the overhead compartment where the flight attendant stowed my carry-on earlier.
The bin is just beyond comfortable reach, even with my arm fully extended. Before I can ask for assistance or find the step stool, movement erupts around me. All three men rise simultaneously, like they’re connected by invisible strings. Adrian is closest, his hand reaching for the latch. But Caleb is quicker, sliding into the space beside me with practiced ease. Miles, not to be outdone, steps into the aisle on my other side, his height giving him clear advantage.
They collide in a tangle of expensive suits and barely restrained Alpha energy. Shoulders knock, elbows jab, and the most ridiculous, primitive sound emerges—three distinct, low-level growls vibrating just at the edge of human hearing.
I freeze, momentarily stunned by the display. They’re literally growling at each other. Over opening a bin. The absurdity crashes over me in a wave of irritation.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, shoving between Adrian and Caleb with more force than necessary. “I can get my own bag.”
I grab the step stool the flight attendant left at the end of the aisle, plant it firmly on the floor, and climb up. The three of them hover awkwardly, hands half-raised as if to spot me, though the step is barely six inches off the ground. I unlatch the bin, grab my tablet case, and slam the compartment shut with more force than necessary.
When I turn, they’re still standing there—three of the most powerful executives in the tech industry, looking for all the world like schoolboys caught fighting over the last cookie. The absurdity of it nearly makes me laugh again, but I clamp down on the impulse.
“Thank you for your enthusiasm,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “but I’ve been managing to reach high shelves all by myself since I was twelve.”
Caleb recovers first, his smile returning. “Force of habit. My mother raised me to be a gentleman.”
“Your mother raised you to be a nuisance,” Adrian mutters, straightening his already-perfect tie.
Miles says nothing, but there’s something almost like amusement flickering in his eyes as he returns to his seat.
I step down, tucking my tablet under my arm, and the brief moment of physical elevation has brought a new awareness—their scents are stronger now, more distinct. The growling triggered something, a release of pheromones that even my industrial-strength blockers can’t completely filter. My hindbrain registers each one: Adrian’s protective intensity, Caleb’s playful challenge, Miles’s quiet dominance.
My skin feels too tight, too sensitive. My Omega receptors firing despite my determination to ignore them. This is precisely whymixed-designation workplaces are so complicated, why I have my rules. Biology doesn’t care about professional boundaries or corporate hierarchies. It just responds, primal and inconvenient.
As I return to my seat, I catch Adrian watching me, his gray eyes tracking my movements with unsettling focus. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite read—concern? Irritation? Something deeper?
“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
The question surprises me. Adrian isn’t one for checking on emotional states. Efficiency, yes. Results, always. Feelings, rarely.
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically. “Just wondering how three grown men survived this long if opening an overhead bin requires a territorial showdown.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “It wasn’t about the bin.”
“I know exactly what it was about,” I say, meeting his gaze steadily. “And it’s unnecessary. I’m perfectly capable of asking for help if I need it.”
“I’m aware of your capabilities,” he says, something shifting in his tone. “That wasn’t in question.”
Before I can decipher what he means, the plane hits a pocket of turbulence. The sudden drop makes my stomach lurch, and I grab the armrest instinctively. Adrian’s hand covers mine for the briefest moment—a steadying pressure, gone almost before I register it.
The contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the turbulence. I pull my hand back, tucking it safely in my lap,and return my attention to my tablet. But the screen blurs before my eyes, my focus scattered by the lingering warmth of his touch and the unwelcome awareness of just how charged the air in this cabin has become.
Four more hours in this flying testosterone chamber. God help me.
four
. . .
Caleb
