“That was weird.”
That was sweet.
“That was just because of the pheromones.”
Still sweet.
I grab another pillow and press it over my face, groaning into it. This is a nightmare. An actual professional nightmare that I will never, ever live down.
Sierra Smith, respected event planner, reduced to a feverish mess while stuck in a beach house with her biggest competitors during a freak storm. This is the kind of story that gets told at industry conferences for years.
“Remember when Sierra went into heat at that team-building thing?”
“Oh my God, yes! With the Knightley Pack!”
“I heard she practically threw herself at them.”
“No, I heard she locked herself in her room and wouldn’t come out for seven days.”
“Either way, so awkward.”
I’m never going to another industry event again. I’m going to become a hermit. I’ll plan weddings exclusively via email and Zoom. No one will ever see my face again.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it, squinting at the too-bright screen.
A text from Mia.
Mia
how’s it going????
I should probably respond, but the idea of typing out a coherent explanation of my current situation feels impossible. My brain is too fuzzy, too distracted by the heat creeping through my body and the awareness of alphas nearby.
I toss the phone back onto the nightstand without responding. Mia will understand. Or she’ll panic and call the coast guard, which would honestly be on-brand for her.
Another crash of thunder, and the lights flicker. The generator hums somewhere in the house, keeping the emergency power running. At least Malik will make sure it keeps running, which means we won’t lose power completely.
Malik.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Malik.
Or any of them.
But my traitorous brain keeps circling back. They’re being so much nicer than I expected.
Which is confusing.
I’m used to them being professional nightmares. Cole jokingly talking about my design aesthetic. Dax calling my work “too soft.” Malik stealing my vendors with that infuriating polite smile.
The Sterling wedding still makes me angry when I think about it.
But that version of them feels hard to reconcile with the alphas who brought me tea and looked genuinely worried about my wellbeing.
People are complicated, I guess.
Or maybe I’m just too feverish to hold on to proper indignation.
I roll over again, trying to find a comfortable position. Everything feels wrong. My skin is too sensitive, and my body temperature is all over the place. There’s this restless energy building under my skin, making me want to move, do something, fix something.
