I’m thirty years old. I wire entire buildings for a living. I crawl into crawlspaces filled with live circuits and fire hazards and God-knows-what. I don’t get nervous.
Except apparently tonight.
Because tonight I’m going on a date. Withher.
I button the charcoal shirt halfway, tilt my head to check the fit, then unbutton the damn thing again because suddenly it feels too formal. Too stiff. Too much.
“This is stupid,” I mutter. “It’s just dinner.”
“Then why are you sweating like a virgin at prom?” Milton’s voice cuts through my spiral.
He’s lounging on my bed with his feet kicked up, scrolling on his phone like a man who has absolutely no respect for the anxiety of others. He glances over the top of the screen with a shit-eating grin.
“You’ve changed outfits three times,” he adds. “I counted.”
I glare. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help,” he reminds me, stretching like a cat. “I’m here strictly for entertainment.”
“You need new hobbies.”
“No,” he says, “I need popcorn.”
I flip him off and pull on the navy shirt instead. It’s softer, fits better across the shoulders, and is much less formal. My hair refuses to cooperate, so I run my fingers through it, and hope for the best. The mirror reflects a man trying to look calm, but the twitch near my eye gives me away.
Milton whistles. “Where are you taking her again?”
“Riverside Grill,” I say. “Quiet. Good food. Neutral ground.”
He nods, impressed. “Romantic, but not ‘I’m proposing in the parking lot.’ Strong first-date energy.”
Before I can congratulate myself, Korbin strides in chewing on an energy bar. He takes one look at my outfit and snorts. “Are you seriously losing your mind over a date?”
I shrug. “You say it like you didn’t beat a guy half to death over her.”
He stiffens instantly. “That was different.”
“Was it?” I cock an eyebrow.
Milton looks up. “Wait—are you still thinking about that?”
Korbin grumbles something under his breath and shoves the rest of the bar into his mouth. “I just didn’t like the way that asshole was talking to her.”
I smirk. “Or maybe you just like her.”
He glares like I just kicked his dog. “Shut the fuck up, Lincoln.”
Milton raises his brows. “You’re awfully defensive for someone who allegedly doesn’t care.”
“I don’t,” Korbin snaps, crossing his arms so hard it looks painful. “She’s a Lennox. End of story.”
But he doesn’t leave the room. He stands there watching me pull on my jacket like he’s waiting to judge my life choices. Hell, maybe he is. But something tells me his stare has more to do with his life choices than my own.
I grab my keys off the counter. “You two need to stop acting like I’m walking into a bear trap. She’s an omega, not a landmine.”
“You sure?” Milton asks. “Because kinda the same thing.”
Korbin grunts. “You’re both idiots.”
