“Girl, you’ve already eaten two donuts and slurped down a giant iced coffee.”
“First, it’s cheat day. You know that.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Second, best friends don’t track donuts eaten. Golden rule of friendship. Besides, I’m going to need strength and fortitude for this meeting. Since I can’t guarantee either, I’ll take caffeine and sugar.”
“Well then, have another,” Cammie says as she stuffs a donut in my hand then leans in for a hug. “Good luck. Text me after.”
“I will,” I mumble around a mouthful of maple glazed.
“Take your dad’s car. You always feel like a badass when you drive it.”
She’s right. I need all the confidence I can get. And, honestly, who wouldn’t feel like a totally savage diva while driving a ’68 baby blue Corvette?
“And let me know if there are any hot alphas in the look book!”
Lark
There are no hot alphas in the look book. There is no look book.
“Miss Jensen, you may follow me.” The pretty beta woman guides me to a short hallway just behind a lobby door. She’s at least four inches shorter than me, so I’m not surprised when I hear her say, “You’re tall for an omega.”
I’m not. Omegas, like betas, come in every size and shape. And my size is five-seven, curvy but athletic. Still, every beta under five-six comments on my height like I'm a sasquatch walking down Main Street. My grandmother was five-eleven. I can only imagine the comments she caught.
She opens a door on the right, and leads me in. “Have a seat. Alice will be right in to go over the details of our service. In the meantime, can I get you anything to drink?”
I hold up my half-full cup of latte, the lamest possible answer to her question. Her teeth flash before shutting the door.
The room is antagonistically beige. Beige walls. Beige tile. Beige frames on the mostly beige art. There’s a wooden table. Beige stain. Four chairs.
Four!
Are we workshopping my heat? Four chairs is exactly two too many chairs. My pulse spikes, traitorously fast.
Stop it.
I press my palms flat against my thighs.
“Get it together,” I say under my breath.
Seriously, though, who brings a plus one to a heat clinic?
My throat goes dry. Oh my god! What if this is where I meet the alphas? That would explain the extra chairs.
I swallow down a lump of anxiety. “You’ve dealt with harder stuff,” I tell myself.
Seriously, though. I’ve been through worse. Survived losing my parents. Started a thriving company from scratch from my dining room table. Figured out how to run a business from a hospital bed and then living room.
So what if absolute strangers are going to knot me over and over? I sit with that thought for a second. Two seconds. It doesn’t get more comfortable.
And over. My omega’s tail swishes lazily.
I roll my eyes. I’m going to be an omega hit-it-and-quit-it station and she’s over here twitching her bottom.
Meanwhile, I’m sick, stomach rolling, and I seriously regret that third donut.
Rationally, I know this isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me. Heat clinics serve a necessary purpose. Lots of people use them. But…
