“Fucking stunning,” Dylan says, grinning widely. “Most luxurious one we’ve ever had. We’re thinking we can use it for the premium tours. Sunset cruises, private charters, that kind of thing.”
“We’ll need to adjust pricing,” Mason adds, pulling out his phone to make notes. “Market it to the higher-end clients. Maybe offer champagne packages.”
“Could be a game changer,” Jasper says, and there’s excitement in his voice.
“If we do this right, we could double our revenue on those tours,” Slater adds.
They’re all talking over each other now, brainstorming ideas, throwing out numbers, and I’m nodding along like I’m listening.
But my mind is locked on those words in red pen.
Let go due to safety concerns.
What the hell does that mean?
13
ANITA
I’m climbing the stairs to my apartment, exhausted from a day of pretending to be someone I’m not, when I see the flowers. A huge bouquet of deep red roses sitting on my doorstep, so large I can barely comprehend how I’m going to carry them inside.
My heart stutters, and I’m grinning before I can stop myself.
I crouch next to the bouquet, finding a vintage card tucked among the blooms. The handwriting is masculine, confident strokes in black ink.
Found this card at an antique shop today. Thought of you. —Jasper
It’s faded and beautiful, showing a Norwegian fjord with mountains rising dramatically from the water. The colors are muted with age, and I absolutely love it. He remembered that I collect vintage postcards.
The roses come with an elegant glass vase, which is perfect because I definitely don’t own one. I manage to wrestle everything inside, set the vase on my small dining table, and spend probably too long arranging the flowers just right.
They’re beautiful, and I’m standing here in my apartment, staring at roses like some lovesick teenager.
This is getting complicated. He has no right to make me swoon.
I need a shower to wash off the day, the wig adhesive that’s been pulling at my scalp, the chest binder that’s left marks on my ribs.
The hot water is heaven. I stand under the spray, letting it cascade over my shoulders, down my back, cleaning away Ash and leaving just me.
Just Anita.
I’m thinking about Jasper as I shampoo my hair, about that kiss from last night. My body responds immediately to the memories. Heat pools low between my thighs where slick starts gathering, and I have to brace one hand against the shower wall.
This isn’t normal. I’ve never reacted this way to any Alpha before—this intensity, this desperation, this overwhelming need that seems to bypass all my rational thought.
Maybe heismy scent match, and that’s why everything feels so amplified, so consuming.
The thought terrifies me.
Because if he’s my scent match, if any of them are, then what am I supposed to do? Walk away? Pretend this investigation is more important than finding someone who makes my biology sing? I would need to come clean, and that idea scares me.
But if I abandon the investigation, I’m letting down everyone who listens to my show. Everyone who’s counting on me to find answers, to stand up for Omegas who can’t stand up for themselves.
And Reed is still out there, spreading his poison, and someone needs to fight back.
My head is starting to throb from the circular thinking.
I finish washing, scrubbing my skin until it’s pink, trying very hard not to let my hands wander to where my body is begging for relief.
