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“But I didn’t know how close I was to my heat. I couldn’t get ahold of him though, or remember the restaurant we were supposed to meet at, and then I found you, and here we are. I should probably send him a text so he doesn’t think I stood him up.”

“What an asshole.”

I know.

“Not you. Him. I would never leave an omega on his own, and I would have picked you up at your home.” He squeezes my shoulders and leans closer, surrounding me with his scent. “Elliott, it’s going to be okay. I’m sure he’ll understand, and if he doesn’t, I’ll wrestle him for you like the shark.”

I laugh. “Thank you.”

He smiles. “Now take a deep breath.”

Some of my tension wanes at the request alone. His quiet dominance is exactly what I’ve been missing. I lose so many things when I’m in heat. My confidence. My stability. My control. It can be really scary, especially because my submissive omega tendencies mean I’ll surrender that control to whoever is around me, no matter their intentions.

But this is the first time I’ve surrendered to someone I inherently trust. How could I not trust him when he saved me from near-drowning and potential sharks?

“Can you pass me my phone?” I point to the pants I left in a heap when I stripped. “I’ll try calling him again.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says briskly, like he’s relieved to pass me off to someone else, which… ouch. With clinical efficiency, he takes my phone and hands it to me, but he doesn’t let me take it yet, so we’re just there holding hands.

“Whatever happens, I’ll make sure you’re safe, okay?” He releases the phone and nods.

“Thank you.”

He turns his back to me and rummages through his bag, as if to give me privacy. I click the side button on my phone, but instead of turning on, it flashes a high temp warning and shuts off.

I bite my lip. Fuck.

Tyler reaches back to unzip his wet suit, and peels it down, revealing light brown skin, wide shoulders, and a muscular back. My anxiety fades into the background as he bends and pulls a towel from his bag, then wraps it around his waist and strips.

He glances my way. I drop my gaze to my phone with no chill or subtlety. The wet suit lands on the ground with a squelch, and I sneak a peek again. If that towel drops… But no. He pulls on bright teal swim trunks like he does this every day, and his wet suit is a second skin.

His scent is stronger now, so delicious I want to rub myself on him like a cat, claim him and blend our scents. But those are omega delulu thoughts I definitely won’t be verbalizing.

He turns, brown eyes grave. “Can’t get ahold of him?”

I shake my head. I don’t trust my mouth to speak. Not when my alpha rescuer just revealed stacked abs and tight pecs, long arms and sexy lats. His treasure trail circles his belly button and disappears inside those bright teal swim trunks that contrast strikingly with his skin. His shorts aren’t skintight, but it’s hard to hide when you’re packing a Maglite.

Fresh slick fills my panties. I gulp. “How am I going to take your knot?”

Summoned by desire, by evolution, by instinct, I reach toward him, then stop. Impending heat or not, I can’t just touch a stranger’s cock. Even if said stranger smells like my happily ever after.

We both look down at my hand, so small compared to his size, hovering with a single question: Can I?

He clears his throat, and I look away. How long was I staring at his dick like a pervert?

Another cramp builds, much stronger than the last, and it’s definitely his dick’s fault. I curl over my bridged knees with a whimper.

He clicks his tongue, and rubs my back. “There’s no one else you can call?”

I shake my head, face pressed against my knees. “My phone overheated.” I don’t even know Noel’s number off the top of my head. How do I not know my best friend’s number?

“That’s okay. We’ll figure this out. In the meantime, you should probably drink something to replenish your electrolytes.” How very daddy doctor of him.

He unzips his backpack and pulls out a glass bottle. On the label, black birds stand in a dark parking lot in front of an orange sign that says C-A-W. “Grackle Juice,” I read the label.

“Don’t worry, no grackles were harmed in the process. I think.” At my appalled expression, he adds, “I’m joking. It’s cold-pressed kombucha. My friend invested in the company, which promptly went out of business, and now we have pallets of it.”

He cracks open the bottle, and the scent of fermented gym socks and old fruit punch wafts my way.