“Me?” Tristan’s eyes widen. “Why me? She’s probably least mad at Diego!”
“Because you can make a joke,” I say, my voice firm. “Find a reason. Ask her how she takes her coffee. Be charming. Just... assess the situation. See if she’s okay.”
“Assess the situation,” Tristan mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Right. I’m on a recon mission for the state of our mate’s emotional well-being. This is fine.” He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and heads down the hall. We all watch him go, a tense, silent trio.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Zoe
Istep out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy white towel the size of a small tent, feeling marginally more human. My plan is simple: get dressed, find coffee, and avoid all eye contact until at least noon.
The plan lasts for approximately three seconds.
Standing in the middle of my bedroom is Tristan. He’s not looking at me. He’s staring intently at my suitcase, like it’s a priceless, inscrutable piece of modern art he’s been tasked with critiquing.
“Jesus!” I yelp, clutching the towel hard. “Privacy? Knocking? Ever heard of them?”
“I did knock,” he says, his voice strained. He still won’t look at me, his gaze now fixed on the abstract art print on the far wall. “Three times. You didn’t answer. Diego was having a full-blown panic attack that you’d somehow... I don’t know, rappelled down the side of the building to escape us.”
“We’re fifty floors up,” I deadpan.
His lips quirk, and he finally chances a glance at me. Or rather, at my face. His eyes carefully avoid the rest of my towel-clad body. “He sent me on a wellness check. And to tell you... breakfast is... in progress.”
I raise an eyebrow. “In progress?”
“Diego’s cooking,” Tristan clarifies, a flicker of his usual humor returning now that we’re on a less mortifying topic. “It’s not going well. He’s at war with the stove, and I think the stove is winning.”
Just as he says it, a new smell wafts in from the hallway, cutting through the clean, steamy air of the bedroom.
Smoke.
Tristan sniffs the air, his nose wrinkling. “Yeah. The stove is definitely winning.” He’s already backing toward the door, clearly eager to escape. “So, uh, maybe get dressed? We might need someone who knows how to operate a fire extinguisher.”
With that, he’s gone, leaving me alone in the room with the distinct and growing smell of something burning.
I stare at the empty doorway, then down at my towel. So much for avoiding them.
I get dressed in record time, my curiosity and a healthy dose of alarm overriding my mortification. I follow the thin haze of smoke out of the hallway and toward the kitchen.
The scene that greets me is pure chaos.
The kitchen is filled with a light haze of smoke while a high-pitched beeping slices through the air. Diego is standing in front of their ridiculously sleek, futuristic-looking stove, frantically waving a dish towel at the smoke detector on the ceiling while simultaneously glaring at the appliance with an expression of pure betrayal.
Dane is perched on a barstool, disassembling the smoke detector with a screwdriver he’s produced from... somewhere. Rett is jabbing at the stove’s touchscreen with increasing frustration, muttering what sounds like obscenities under his breath. And Tristan is poking at something in a pan with the caution of someone prodding a suspicious package.
“Is this what breakfast looks like in alpha-land?” I ask, my voice cutting through the chaos.
Four heads whip around to stare at me.
The beeping abruptly stops as Dane removes the battery from the smoke detector with a satisfied grunt.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Diego says, dropping the dish towel in defeat. He gestures at the stove. “I wanted to make you a proper breakfast, but this... this demon machine has betrayed me.”
I approach cautiously, peering into the pan. Inside sits what appears to be a single, perfectly round but completely blackened disc.
“Is that... a pancake?” I ask.
“It was supposed to be,” Diego sighs. “The first of many. A stack of perfect, golden pancakes to start your day. But now...” He trails off, staring mournfully at the charred remains.
