I push off the wall, reaching past her to press the ground floor button. My arm brushes hers—just barely, just enough to catch another wave of that vanilla-caramel scent.Focus, Nash. Stop acting like a teenager with his first crush.
"Ladies first," I say simply.
The elevator starts moving, and she seems to relax slightly. "Thanks. And thanks for, you know, catching me. Again. Even though we're basically strangers, you made things a bit easier. I really needed that today."
Again? Have I caught her before? The furniture incident, maybe? She'd stumbled when I'd taken the box from her hands. Or is she talking about something else?
"And what do you have to figure out?" I ask, genuinely curious.Which is weird. I don't usually care about strangers'problems. But there's something about her that makes me want to know more.
She laughs, but it's slightly hysterical. "Well, I need to find a pack if I want to get a twenty-five-thousand-dollar brand deal that would set me up for success for the new year after my ex-pack screwed me over in every way—financially, emotionally, probably in the actual bedroom too if we're being honest—or it's going to be given to someone else. Which would be incredibly shitty because opportunities like this don't just fall into your lap."
Wait. What?
She needs a pack. For a twenty-five-thousand-dollar deal. Her ex-pack screwed her over. She's going to lose the opportunity if she doesn't find one.
And she just told me all of this in an elevator like it's casual conversation instead of deeply personal information that most Omegas would guard carefully.
Her voice cracks slightly on the last word, and I can smell the anxiety spiking in her scent—turning the vanilla sharper, more acidic. She's trying to play it off as a joke, but this is clearly eating at her.
The elevator dings. Ground floor.
She turns back to me, forcing a brighter smile. "Nice to see you again, Nash. Thanks for the quick chat and for catching me. I've been clumsy these last few days, jeez."
She steps out, then pauses, glancing back over her shoulder.
The elevator doors start to close, but her scent lingers. Clinging to my jacket, my skin, the air around me. That sugar-plum-fairy sweetness that makes me want to follow her out of this building and figure out what the hell is going on.
Having an Omega as bubbly as her would probably be a death sentence.
The thought hits me as the doors close completely, trapping me with the lingering traces of vanilla and caramel. She's all sunshine and energy and enthusiasm. We're three grumpy, serious Alphas who can barely manage our own shit, let alone deal with someone who has that much life radiating from her.
Grayson's got a spark—but only on good days. Days when the seasonal depression isn't crushing him. Days when he's not lost in his own head, wondering if his writing is worth anything or if he should just give up and accept that he's going to be a rancher forever.
Theo's too broken by his past, by the things he saw overseas, by the people he couldn't save. He goes through the motions—works at the hospital, bakes in the middle of the night when the nightmares won't let him sleep, teaches self-defense classes because helping people feel safe is the only thing that makes him feel useful.
And me? I'm just angry. At the world, at myself, at the fact that I'm stuck in this town fixing cars and doing legal work I hate because leaving feels like giving up and staying feels like slowly drowning.
We'd crush someone like her. Dim that light until there's nothing left but disappointment and regret.
But my heart aches at the thought. Actually physically aches in my chest, and I press a hand against my sternum like I can somehow stop the feeling.
It has to be the seasonal changes. That's all. The fact that winter's coming and everything feels heavier and I'm probably just latching onto the first Omega who's shown me kindness in months. Nothing more.
But her scent is still clinging to me, and it reminds me of a sugar plum fairy—sweet and magical and completely out of my reach.
The elevator reaches the third floor. Time to focus. Time to handle this legal consultation and get back to the Aston Martin and stop thinking about Omegas with vanilla scents and sunshine smiles.
I push the interaction aside as I step into the hallway, my expression settling into something professional and serious. Conference room B is easy to find—third door on the right, exactly where the receptionist said it would be.
I knock, two sharp raps against the wood.
"Come in!"
Charlotte Webb is exactly what I expected from her phone voice—professional, polished, the kind of Beta who runs a tight ship and doesn't take shit from anyone. She's sitting behind a sleek desk, tablet in front of her, wearing a burgundy suit that probably costs more than my truck payment.
The office smells like expensive perfume and coffee—the good kind, not the burnt crap they serve in the lobby. Everything is organized within an inch of its life, color-coded folders on shelves, motivational posters that actually look tasteful instead of tacky.
"Mr. Nash," she says with a warm smile, standing to shake my hand. "Thank you so much for showing up on such last minute notice. I know it's asking a lot."
