CHAPTER EIGHT
Zoe
Ipress my forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall and try to collect my scattered dignity.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to the empty bathroom. My legs are still trembling, my body humming with aftershocks that have no business feeling this good. The reflection in the mirror shows a woman I barely recognize. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and wild eyes that look like I’ve been possessed by some horny bathroom demon.
I splash cold water on my face and adjust my turtleneck, which is still feeling like a wool noose in the overheated gallery. I smooth my hair, straighten my skirt, and give myself a stern look in the mirror.
“Get it together,” I mutter. “You are a professional. A curator. Not some omega in heat who jumps the first alpha who walks by.”
Except I did jump him. Or he jumped me. The details are fuzzy, lost in a haze of ginger-scented pleasure that still makes my thighs clench when I think about it.
What is happening to me?
I’ve had good sex before. Great sex, even. But nothing that short-circuited my brain like this. Nothing that made me forget I was at work, in a public bathroom, with my boss potentially looking for me.
Oh god. Helen.
I check my watch and realize with horror that I’ve been in here for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of bathroom debauchery while Helen is probably wondering where her assistant disappeared to.
I give myself one last once-over, confirm that I look relatively normal aside from the suspicious flush across my cheeks, and brace myself before opening the door.
The gallery seems mercifully normal as I slip back to the main exhibition space. No one is pointing and whispering. No one seems to be sniffing the air suspiciously. The Davelles are deep in conversation with Helen near the entrance, which means I might actually escape this mortifying episode with my professional reputation intact.
As I scan the room, I realize Tristan is nowhere to be seen. He must have had the good sense to leave immediately. Small mercies.
I make a beeline for my office, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass. Once safely behind my computer, I take a deep breath, willing my racing heart to slow down. Work. Focus on work. The Sparne catalog won’t write itself.
But my brain refuses to cooperate. Every time I try to focus on the screen, all I can see is Tristan’s face, his eyes dark with desire as he?—
“Zoe?”
I nearly jump out of my skin, letting out a small, embarrassing squeak. Jade, our receptionist, is standing by my desk with a concerned expression.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” she says, tilting her head. “Are you feeling okay? You look... feverish.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Just, um, concentrating.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Helen wants to see you in her office when you have a moment. Something about the Davelles?”
Great. Helen probably wants to know why I abandoned our wealthiest potential donors to have a quickie in the bathroom. Except she doesn’t know about the quickie part. God, I hope she doesn’t know about the quickie part.
“Thanks, Jade. I’ll head over now.”
She nods and starts to walk away, then pauses. “Oh, and that alpha who was here? The cute one with the dimple?”
My stomach drops. “What about him?”
“He left this for you.” She holds out a folded piece of paper. “Said it was important.”
I take the note with what I hope is a casual smile, not the grimace of mortification it feels like. “Thanks.”
The moment she’s gone, I unfold the paper, expecting... I don’t know. An apology? A crude drawing? A phone number?
Instead, I find a neat list in Tristan’s surprisingly elegant handwriting:
Things to remember tomorrow:
