“You’ve got this,” I tell my reflection. “You’re going to nest, eat ice cream, read smutty books, and emerge in a week ready to take on the world. And maybe finally land that tech mogul wedding.”
Oh right. The product launch.
I grin, remembering. That was this morning’s email. A meeting request from the Traynor pack, founders of that location-sharing app everyone’s obsessed with. They’re planning amassive product launch for next spring and want an event planner who can “think outside the box.”
Apparently, their last planner quit when the alphas suggested zip-lining into the venue for their grand entrance. Or maybe it was the keg stand competition during the CEO’s speech. Either way, it sounds like a lucrative headache waiting to happen. I’d responded with my availability before I’d even finished my coffee. This is it. This is the contract that’ll prove I belong in the big leagues. That I’m just as good as the Knightley Pack, suppressants or not.
But that’s future Sierra’s problem. Present Sierra has more important things to focus on.
Like the fact that I’m definitely going into heat in the next twelve to twenty-four hours.
I wander to the living room windows, drawn by the sound of waves. The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It’s beautiful. Peaceful.
Exactly what I need.
I notice the clouds then, dark and heavy on the horizon. Still distant but definitely there. The weather report mentioned a storm system moving up the coast. Nothing serious, just some rain probably.
A little rain won’t hurt. Might even be nice. Cozy nest, sound of rain on the roof, nothing to do but relax.
The thought makes my skin buzz.
The heat prickle is getting worse. I can feel it building under my skin, that restless energy that means my heat is approaching faster than I expected. I should probably start my nest soon, get everything arranged before the full heat hits.
But first...
I look at the ocean. At the empty beach. At the fading daylight.
When was the last time I just... played? Just did something impulsive and fun without worrying about being professional or appropriate?
Screw it.
I grab a towel from the bathroom and head for the back door, leaving my phone on the nightstand. No distractions. I could dig for my bikini, but that feels like too much effort. The beach is private, part of the rental property. There’s no one to see me. No one to judge.
I drop the towel on the deck and walk down the wooden steps to the sand. It’s still warm from the afternoon sun, soft under my bare feet, and the ocean stretches out before me.
I have one week. One week of freedom before I go back to being Professional Sierra who lands impossible contracts and pretends alpha packs don’t drive her to fantasies of arson.
I pull off my t-shirt, wriggle out of my sleep shorts. My soft cotton bra and underwear are basically a bikini, right? Close enough.
The first touch of water on my feet is shockingly cold. I gasp, then laugh. Perfect.
I wade in deeper, letting the waves crash against my legs, my thighs, my waist. The cold is exactly what my overheated skin needs. I dive under, come up sputtering and grinning.
No alphas. No competition. No Knightley Pack to ruin my week.
Just me, the ocean, and seven days of blissful solitude.
I float on my back, watching the clouds gather on the horizon, and feel something in my chest loosen.
I’ve earned this.
And nothing—absolutely nothing—is going to ruin it.
CHAPTER TWO
Sierra
I’m stress-baking.
