She sees someone she loves…
I push that aside to examine later. Much later. Possibly never.
“So lie to her,” I say. “That’s what you’re suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that the truth doesn’t need to come up.” Atticus shrugs, but his eyes remain sharp. “It’s not lying if she doesn’t ask the right questions. And it’s certainly not lying if you just…redirect the conversation whenever it gets close.”
“That’s semantics.”
“That’s survival. And it’s your call.” He settles back against the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head. “Which reaction from Phoenix do you think will be worse? What she’ll do if she learns the truth, or what she’ll do if she never does?”
I don’t have an answer for that. Both options feel like different flavors of disaster.
Enough time passes that I wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but then Atticus’s soft whisper floats over the tense silence.”For what it’s worth, I think you should consider reconciling with them.”
“With who?”
“Your alpha. The one who bonded you.” His voice softens in a way that feels almost genuine. “Even if the relationship stays platonic. No alpha could ever feel strongly enough about an omega to bond with them and then never want to see them again.”
My throat tightens. “You don’t know what happened.”
“I know alphas. And I know omegas.” His eyes hold mine, unblinking. “Especially one like you. No alpha with even half a brain would let you walk away without a damn good reason.”
The words land strangely in my chest and I have no idea how I’m supposed to take that.
Is he flirting with me?
The thought is so absurd that I almost laugh out loud. Atticus Sloan, famous musician, notorious ladies’ man, flirting with Phoenix’s assistant while Phoenix herself lies three feet away?
But the way he’s looking at me…
Before I can formulate a response—or even figure out what response I want to formulate—Atticus winks. Actually winks, like a character in a bad romantic comedy.
The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam and the scent of lavender soap. Phoenix emerges in an oversized t-shirt that probably cost three hundred dollars and was specifically designed to look like a five dollar thrift store find. Her copper hair is damp and curling at the ends, and her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, revealing the faint freckles across her nose that she usually conceals.
She looks young. Vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Bathroom’s free,” she announces, then stops, looking between us. “Why is it so quiet in here? Were you two talking about me?”
“Why would we be talking about you?” Atticus’s smirk is back in place, smooth as silk. “We have other topics of conversation, you know.”
“Name one.”
“The weather.”
“It’s October in Maine. Cold and miserable. Topic exhausted.” She crosses to the bed and stands at the edge, arms folded. “Move over.”
Atticus makes a show of spreading out even more. “There’s plenty of room.”
“There’s plenty of room on the floor too. Which is where you’ll be sleeping if you don’t make space.”
“I thought I was sleeping on the floor anyway?”
“I changed my mind. It’s too cold and I’m too tired to fight about it.” She climbs onto the mattress, claiming the far edge with the kind of territorial aggression usually reserved for wild animals. “Stay on your side. If any part of you crosses the invisible line down the middle of this bed, I will remove it.”
“Kinky.”
“Goodnight, Atticus.”
