I cross my legs under the table. Uncross them. Try to ignore the desire curling low in my belly, tight and insistent.
My glands are banging on the inside of my skin, yelling, “Mate him!”like I’m some kind of deranged feral soap opera character. And don’t get me started on the slick dribbling out of my body, threatening to soak through my underwear.
“I read about the petition you started in Camden,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “That made some changes too, right?”
I nod. Smile again. Blink, trying to disguise the fact that I’m sweating through my bra. “Yeah, it’s still moving in the right direction.”
Hayes whistles. “Damn.”
God, stop looking at me in that way. With respect. With that warm pride that used to make my stomach flutter even back then, before I knew what fluttering really meant.
“Lo,” he says, quieter now, “that’s serious work.”
“Mmhmm,” I say, willing myself to keep it together.
I press my thighs together under the table, trying to relieve some of the pressure, but it’s no use. I’m flushed, I’m dizzy, and my scent is slipping past my control fast as steam through a cracked pipe.
Excellent. Great. Love that for me.
“And all that time,” Hayes continues, tapping the side of his mug, “you didn’t reach out. Not once.”
Oof. There it is. That one digs in. I keep my face perfectly blank, but inside I flinch like I’ve been slapped.
“Well,” I say lightly, “I figured this town didn’t need me anymore.”
“I missed you,” he says.
I can’t do this.
I reach for my mug again and knock it over instead, spilling coffee across the table. Hayes is already reaching for napkins, calm as ever, while I pretend I’m not internally screaming.
“Sorry,” I say too loudly. “My reflexes are a little shot today.”
“It’s okay,” he says, pressing napkins into the mess. “You’re okay.”
I amnotokay.
I am melting into a puddle of scent-drunk shame and unprocessed emotions. I am seconds away from snapping and climbing across the table, showing how much of a deranged Omega cliché I am, with slicked-up panties and heat wrapping around my spine as if my body is full-tilt forcing me into a heat.
I am seconds from asking him to take me home, and not in the chaste,walk me to my doorkind of way. More likecarry me over the threshold and fuck me against the nearest surfacekind of way.
Before I can embarrass myself further, Hayes’ phone buzzes against the table. He glances at the screen and winces.
“Shit. Sorry, just a sec.”
He picks it up, stepping a few feet away toward the corner of the café. I try not to look at the line of his back or the way his shirt pulls tight over his broad shoulders.
When did his thighs get so muscular? And that pert little ass of his—shit, I’m staring. I try not to look.
I try not to breathe, either, because even from here his scent is still hanging in the air, hot as laundry on a summer afternoon.
He hangs up a moment later, sighing as he slides the phone into his back pocket.
“That was the mayor,” he says. “There’s an issue with the digital signage for the Winter Gala tonight. Apparently, it’sglitching and showing last year’s sponsor, which would be fine if that sponsor wasn’t currently suing the town.”
I blink, forcing my brain to keep up. “Wow. Big drama for small graphics.”
“You have no idea,” he says with a sheepish grin. “I have to get back to it.”
