"Then go," she says softly. "Sharon could use someone in her corner right now."
I don't need to be told twice. I grab my jacket and head for the door, my mind already working through what I'm going to say when I find her. My cedar scent rising around me, like it is lifting me up and out the door to go apologize the sexy, albeit anxious, omega. Do you think she would taste like chocolate covered strawberries if I drizzled chocolate on those fantastic tits?
3
SHARON
My stomach rumbles again, and I ignore it. I could do with losing a few pounds anyway, and the only thing I want to eat is croissants, brownies, and anything that isn't good for me. Pine Hollow has one too many bakeries, and they all make my mouth water just looking at them. I gain pounds just driving past them.
I headed back to the hotel after the disastrous meeting, forgetting to check my watch because I didn't put my clock back when we changed the time a few weeks ago. I'm a complete chaotic disaster ever since I learned I'm planning Ben's wedding, and I have no idea why Savannah thought this was a good idea.
I'm sitting in my hotel room at Pine Inn, staring at my laptop like it's going to magically solve all my problems. It won't. My spreadsheets are everywhere. The wedding timeline. The vendor list. The budget breakdown that makes me want to cry. The RSVP tracker that shows almost every single person Ben and Penelope invited said no. Thirty-eight out of forty people.
I hate my ex, but evenI’dshow up to his wedding just to judge it in person.
The room is small. Generic. One of those paintings that could be anything or nothing on the wall. The bed is neatly madebecause I haven't actually slept in it. My clothes are still in my suitcase in the corner because apparently I'm not staying long enough to bother unpacking. Or maybe I'm just subconsciously preparing for the moment when this all falls apart and I have to run away.
My phone buzzes. It's Savannah.
"Jett's coming to help. Let him."
I stare at that text for way too long.
Jett Burnside. Ben's brother. I haven't seen him in five years. And now he's coming here because, apparently, I had a meltdown on a phone call and told Savannah that Jett walks around showing off his scars like he invented fire. Which, to be fair, is accurate. But also not something I should have said where other people could hear it.
I look down at myself. Coffee stain on my sweater. My hair is doing that thing where it's trying to escape the bun I put it in this morning. Probably. I'm not actually sure what time it is anymore. My lip gloss is completely gone, worn away by stress-chewing. I look like someone who's been having a prolonged emotional crisis for the last several hours.
Which I have been.
There's a knock on the door.
My heart does something weird. Jumps. Stays jumped. I'm suddenly very aware that I look like a disaster and Jett Burnside is apparently about to see me looking like this.
My scent spikes before I can control it. Strawberry panic mixing with honey and something that smells like wildflower anxiety. The scent of an omega who is definitely not fine but is trying very hard to pretend she is.
I take a breath. I can do this. I'm a professional wedding planner. I've handled worse than Jett Burnside showing up at my hotel room door. I haven't actually, but I can pretend.
I open the door.
And suddenly there's Jett Burnside, and Jesus, he got even hotter.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "Did you get hotter, or did I just forget how to look at attractive men without short-circuiting?"
His dimple appears. "Both."
God, I hate that he's right.
He's wearing a burgundy henley shirt that fits him in ways that should be illegal. His dark hair is styled back but not in a way that looks like he spent time on it. More like he just ran his hands through it and decided that was good enough. His forearms are covered in tattoos. I count at least three new ones I don't recognize. There's one on his inner wrist that looks fresh. Something intricate. Something that probably means something.
His warm brown eyes are looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen all day.
His scent hits me. Cedar and sweat and gunpowder. It's so strong in the doorway that I can barely breathe without inhaling all of him. It settles into my lungs, and my body reacts immediately. My scent spikes again. More strawberry. My skin gets warmer.
"Sharon," he says. His voice is exactly how I remember it. Low. Direct.
"Jett," I manage, trying to sound professional instead of like I just had a minor cardiac event. "You didn't have to come here."
"Savannah called," he says, stepping into the room without waiting for invitation. He moves with that casual confidence of someone comfortable taking up space. "Said you were spiraling. Said the wedding was chaos. Figured you could use help."
