“Yep! I wrote a note on the counter, should be here a bit after opening in the morning.” I untie my apron as I head into the back room to grab my purse. I hang it on one of the hooks and then fix my hair, twisting it into a low bun at the base of my neck in the hopes of easing the headache that’s been steadily growingworse over the last hour or so. “I’ll make sure to have everything watered and sprayed before then.”
“Sounds great,” she says. “Have you eaten?”
I shake my head. “If you’re all right with me slipping out for a bit, I was planning to go grab something from that Chinese place down the street.”
Billie nods as she tucks her purse under the counter. Her hair moves as she grabs one of the binders of client orders, revealing a fresh bite on her collarbone, just to the left of the hollow of her throat.
“Good morning?” I ask with a laugh.
She looks up, completely startled. I point to my own collarbone in mirror of hers. For what might be the first time, Billie’s cheeks darken with a deep blush, her pale skin pinkening all the way down her throat.
“Yeah, it was a really good morning,” she says.
I laugh and drape my bag over my shoulder and across my hip. I switch my sneakers for the suede brown knee high boots I’d worn into the shop, my piece of whimsy to offset the practical jeans and dark purple sweater the cool weather dictated I wear this morning. I squeeze her hand as I head to the front door.
“Congratulations!” I offer. “If you want, we can go out tonight to celebrate.”
“Sounds great.” Then she gestures to the door. “Now go get some fresh air and your lunch break. I’ve got this over here for at least the next hour.”
It’s not until I’m several blocks away from the shop that I’m able to realize that the twisting, wrenching sensation in my chest is the same as I felt with Rhett Wednesday night when he’d pulled my dress off seamlessly.
It’s jealousy, so strong it might just swallow me whole. And I have no idea why I feel it at all.
The week leading up to Thanksgiving is an absolute madhouse at the floral shop, worse than even that October rush when Billie first moved here. That Friday is the only moment either of us have to chat, much less go see a movie or get drinks together while the guys are gone. Billie doesn’t complain about any of it, though, the long nights while watching the away games on her phone or the multiple visits to various wholesalers around the city that she insists on running for me despite my assurance she doesn’t need to. Not even the insanity of running the front of the shop while I meet with back-to-back custom clients flusters her unflappable calm.
Now, the day before the holiday, I’m crawling toward my two days of being closed, desperate for the small break before the Christmas rush. Billie’s already gone for the day, relenting only after the final of three last minute arrangements were finished. Only another half hour before I can crawl into my bed and crash for the next twelve hours before the team dinner tomorrow. I finish marking the last of the custom orders for next week and then slip the binder back under the counter with a heavy sigh. Leaning against the small cabinet behind my counter, I close my eyes and stretch my neck, picking at a couple of the scabs left behind from my last minute arranging this morning. I should really wash them off before they get any worse, but I can’t find the energy to move. The bells above the door jingle. I hold in a groan.
A wave of lemongrass hits me, and then I really do groan. Rhett’s chuckle is like a lick of fire over my skin. My scent breaks through my lotion, swirling around me. I open my eyes just in time to see him switch my open sign to closed and flip the lockon the door. He’s in a tan corduroy jacket and black jeans, a ballcap pulled low and hiding his red hair that’s so freaking soft. My stomach clenches as the need to climb him like a damn tree sweeps through me.
When he turns back to me, he holds out a coffee, a large, carefree smile lighting his face.
“It’s a chocolate vanilla latte,” he explains when I arch an eyebrow. “From Vinny’s.”
Happiness lights through me. How had he figured out my favorite coffee order and shop? When I cross the room, my hand outstretched for the drink, he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me tight against him. For some strange reason, tears fill my eyes, so fast a few of them fall before I can blink them away. Rhett only kisses the top of my head, not at all shocked by the strange outburst. He palms the nape of my neck and traces the shell of my ear. I shiver against him.
“Sorry,” I whisper into his warm chest. “I don’t know why I’m suddenly so emotional.”
“Don’t apologize for needing your Alpha, baby girl,” he says without missing a beat. He presses his cheek into the top of my head, his arm still a band around the middle of my back, the coffee he’d brought me warm against my hip. “Fuck, I missed you, too.”
I press my hands flat against his back, sneaking them under the hem of his shirt so I can feel his skin against mine. My skin feels too tight on my bones, a feeling of impending catastrophe sweeping under my sternum and making it hard to breathe. He doesn’t rush to end the hug, only humming while continuing to touch me with every single inch of his body possible. More tears inexplicably fall.
“It’s okay, Omega,” he whispers into my hair. I’ve never heard him be so gentle before. “Just breathe. You’re safe with me.”
It takes nearly a full minute for the strange desire to cry to dissipate. My skin still feels too tight, and the idea of pulling my hands off his skin makes me want to puke. My entire body trembles with it.
“I don’t understand why I’m suddenly not okay,” I admit. “I’m so sorry.”
He presses a thumb into the pulse point just under my ear, the spot he’d bruised a week ago, and presses in a hairsbreadth. I scent all at once, my pussy clenching around nothing as slick drenches my panties.
“You mentioned going on suppressors,” he says.
I nod and tighten my hold on him. He scents in small pulses, like his body is trying to calm me down, too. I breathe them in, and more of the shaking nausea fades, though it’s impossible for me to pull away like a rational person would right now.
He clears his throat. “I did some looking into them while on the road,” he says, sounding sheepish. “Turns out one of the long-term side effects that can happen is a higher rate of becoming touch starved with a lower threshold for developing symptoms.”
“Oh.” I press the single word of understanding into his shirt. Touch starved. That would explain the shaking fear of being pulled away from him right now that’s slowly fading. I point out the concerning timeline. “It’s only been a week.”
His arm tightens around my waist. If I can’t even manage to go a week without touching him like this, how are we going to manage to keep this a secret?
