"Thank you," I say stiffly, taking the bags while Whiskey grabs the box.
"Good luck with your 'sister,'" she says with a knowing wink.
I growl and head straight for the door, pushing through it with my shoulder and breathing in the blessed fresh air of the parking lot. I stride toward the car as Whiskey trails behind me, desperate to put as much distance between myself and that store as possible.
"So," Whiskey starts to drawl as I pop the trunk and he drops the box in.
"Shut up." I shove the bags in alongside the box and slam the trunk shut with more force than necessary, narrowly missing his fingers as he jerks his hands out of the way.
"Geez, Plague, chill?—"
"Get in the fucking car."
I move to open the driver's side door, but Whiskey blocks my path, forcing me to stop short. We stand there for a moment, too close, his broad body radiating heat in the evening air. His cinnamon-tinged scent is stronger without the overwhelming artificial sweetness of the omega store surrounding us.
"What now?" I ask, not bothering to mask my irritation.
Whiskey doesn't move. He just studies me with those honey-brown eyes that seem to see too much despite him being an absolute meathead. "You know, for someone who prides himselfon being so fucking rational, you're not very good at hiding how you feel."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, my voice deliberately neutral despite the sudden tightness in my chest.
"Yeah, you do." He leans in slightly, not enough to be threatening, but enough to make it impossible to ignore him. "And I can see right through you, pretty boy."
"Move, Whiskey," I say through my teeth. "We have supplies to deliver, in case you've forgotten."
For a moment, I think he's going to push it further, crossing one of the many boundaries I've carefully erected between us. His eyes drop to my mouth, and not for the first time. Then he steps back, the maddening grin returning to his face.
"Sure thing,honey."
I push past him with more force than necessary, sliding into the driver's seat and slamming the door. My heart hammers against my ribs and I grip the steering wheel to steady my hands, focusing on the feel of the leather beneath my fingers, the familiar clean scent of the car's interior, anything to ground myself in reality rather than the chaos of my thoughts.
Sometimes it feels like Whiskey's a fucking brain cell vampire. Like he enters my personal space and starts sucking my mind dry. If there's such a thing as emotional vampires, why not mind vampires?
He gets in the passenger side, still wearing that insufferable grin. I start the engine without a word and tear out of the parking space with a squeal from the tires.
Whiskey lets out a low whistle at the rare loss of control over my temper and I turn out of the parking lot hard enough to jostle him against the door. He chuckles, but he doesn't say anything.
And for once, hestayssilent.
Normally, within the first five seconds of being trapped in a car together, he's already filling the silence with chatter and jokes. This time, he stares out the window, uncharacteristically quiet as we navigate through evening traffic.
The only sound in the damn car is the occasional piercing ding from my dashboard because he didn't put on his seat belt. He doesn't fix it, of course.
This alpha exists to drive me insane.
"What?" I finally snap, the silence rapidly becoming somehow more unbearable than his voice. "No commentary about the store? No jokes about the employee thinking I was an omega? You're actually choosingnowto develop self-restraint?"
He doesn't rise to the bait, just turns to look at me with an expression I can't read at all. "Nope. Just thinking."
"That's alarming."
A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but it's fleeting. "Sorry to disappoint you."
"I'm not disappointed," I say, too quickly. "Just surprised."
"Yeah, well, surprises are good for you. Keeps you on your toes."
Then he lapses back into silence, turning to look out the window again. His right knee bounces, the only sign of the restless energy always simmering beneath the surface.
