“Nah, it’s okay.”
“Ash. Put it on the belt.”
“No. I got this.”
“Ash.”
“How much?” She hands the little tin to the cashier and holds out her bills.
“I swear to god, don’t you dare take her money. Ring everything up.”
The cashier with his pink hair and lip ring looks between me and Ash with a raised eyebrow. Without taking his eyes off me, he scans the tin and hands it back to Ash, and then checks out the rest of my items. A fight with an alpha about money is way above his pay grade.
I pretend to look at something on the phone while my entire system is flooded with emotions I can’t tease out straight. Each beep of the checkout scan seems to punctuate a new piece of information about Ash that is falling into place.
No social media.
Those fake dating profiles.
The second-hand clothes.
Dollar store ramen.
‘I’m a terrible omega.’
‘Papa says rich people pay extra for pretty things.’
‘I’m not allowed.’
She’s jumpy.
Flinches at any little sound or surprise.
She looks for exits.
She freezes.
She fawns.
My hands are shaking, and I can’t get my card in the little slot so I just tap to pay.
“Thanks,” she says, walking next to me as we exit the store. She twists off the cover of the tin and swipes the lip balm across her lips. “You didn’t have to.”
“I did. It’s an alpha thing.” I cringe a little. I hadn’t intended to be that honest. I pop her door open and let her settle in before I nestle the grocery bags in the trunk.
Hiding behind the open trunk, I scrub my face with my hands. “Well, not a gold digger then.” I mumble and slam the trunk shut.
The alpha who was feeling up the mangoes exits the store and raises a hand in greeting like we’re bros. I don’t return the gesture and watch him cross the parking lot and get into his car before I open the door to mine.
Ash’s scent drowns me the second I shut the door and—alpha biology—I feel my heart rate drop as her scent washes over me.
“Here.” Ash turns in her seat, rubs her index finger in the little tin and swipes her finger across my bottom lip. The spicy scent of cinnamon suddenly mingles with Ash’s peach. She holds my eyes for a second too long. Her lips part like she can’t breathe either. I’m going to have a fucking aneurysm.
“Sorry,” she says breathlessly. “That was probably inappropriate.”
“Lip gloss is the least inappropriate thing I could think of right now.” My voice is equally breathless.
“Salve.”
