Chapter 13 Beth
Beth
Developing a fixation on an alpha you're supposed to pretend to be in pack with is an awful idea.
On Monday, I round the corner from the hallway and nearly walk directly into Mason's chest. He's just out of the shower, looking incredibly sexy with his damp hair, and we both freeze.
"Sorry," he says, stepping aside.
"No, sorry, I—" My hand brushes his arm as I walk past him. The contact lasts maybe half a second. I feel it for the rest of the afternoon.
The thing is, Mason isn't making anything weird.
Mason is being perfectly, maddeningly normal.
He makes coffee in the morning and leaves the pot on for me.
He texts the group chat about groceries.
We sometimes hang out with Knox and Arthur.
All without him radiating tension or expectation, which sucks, because it means the weirdness is entirely mine.
I'm totally the one lying awake at night replaying the kiss.
By Friday evening, the memory has set up permanent residence in my brain. It has unpacked, decorated, hung little curtains. It is not leaving.
Which is exactly when Knox knocks on my bedroom door and leans in with a grin, reminding me tomorrow is his turn to show me around.
"Wear something you don't mind getting wet in," he says.
That sounds dirty.
"That's ominous," I say instead.
"It's going to be great, it's supposed to be seventy-three degrees." He taps his knuckles against the doorframe twice, already taking a step backward into the hall. "Anyway. Have a good night."
***
"You'll be fine," Knox promises, already straddling the jet ski.
He's wearing a wetsuit, and I am having a private crisis about it. The neoprene clings in a way his usual henleys and button-downs absolutely do not, outlining shoulders and arms that have clearly been doing more than writing code.
He catches me looking and his grin widens.
"You've done this before, I assume," I say, crossing my arms.
"At least forty-three times." He pats the seat behind him. "Never lost anyone."
"Promise?" I ask.
"I do."
Famous last words.
I settle my hands on his waist. The wetsuit is warm from the sun, the thick neoprene doing nothing to hide the hard, solid lines of his obliques beneath it.
My pulse does a stupid, fluttery little kick.
Straddling the seat directly behind him, my thighs bracketing his, feels wildly, dangerously intimate.
The engine roars to life and we pull away from the dock.
Okay, this isn't too scary. It's even—
"Ready?" he asks.
"For wha—"
He twists the throttle, and the world accelerates.
The wind hits like a wall as the jet ski rises, skimming the surface, and my hands tighten on his waist, a sound leaving my mouth that is part laugh, part scream, and entirely undignified.
We carve across the lake in sweeping turns that send water in wide arcs.
He wasn't lying. Knox is a great driver, confident and smooth, and after a few minutes I stop bracing for death.
Lake Vienne blurs past, the treeline smearing green and gold, and for the first time all week my brain isn't running circles.
At one point we hit a sharp turn and my grip slips. Before I can overcorrect, Knox reaches back with one hand and catches my forearm, pressing it firmly against his side.
"I've got you," he says over his shoulder.
The anchoring weight of his hand pinning my arm against his solid ribs sends a hot, sudden spike of electricity straight to my core. I am instantly, deeply grateful he can't see my face.
After maybe twenty minutes, he slows to an idle and kills the engine entirely.
The silence is almost absolute, broken only by distant motor boats, birds calling from the shore, and the lap of water against the hull.
Knox leans forward over the handlebars, rolls his shoulders, and just sits there. Face tipped up toward the sun.
"You okay?" I ask.
He inhales, long and slow, and lets it out like he's been holding it since Tuesday. "Yeah, this is a part I really like."
We sit like that for a while, the jet ski rocking gently on the water.
The sun is warm on the back of my neck, and the heavy, secluded peace of the moment pulls my mind straight back to that night at the clearing.
I remember how deeply intoxicating his scent was, and how badly I wanted to just bury my face in his neck and stay there.
Thinking about this is terrible for my self-control, though.
Because right now, pressed flush against his back with the sun baking the wet neoprene and the lake rocking us in tandem, the boundary between "comfortable" and "intimate" is dissolving fast. I force myself to lean back just a fraction of an inch, putting a sliver of polite, necessary distance between us before the friction and my own runaway thoughts cause my nipples to pebble against his spine.
As if on cue, Knox turns his head, catching my eye with a slow, devastating smirk. "Alright. Ready to take the wheel?"
We manage a clumsy, rocking swap of positions right there on the water.
He holds my elbow while I awkwardly swing my leg over the console, the jet ski tilting dangerously under our shifting weight.
I grab his shoulder to catch my balance, and his large hand immediately lands on my hip to steady me.
For about four breathless seconds, we are a tangled, slippery mess limbs.
And when I actually manage to take the driver's seat, I'm terrible at it. Overcorrecting, wobbling, and aggressively spraying him with lake water on every single sharp turn.
"You're a natural," he says.
"I'm a menace," I reply.
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
Eventually, we beach the jet ski on a sandy strip on the far side of the lake—a secluded sliver of shore tucked between two rocky outcrops and shaded by massive pines.
The sand is coarse and wonderfully warm under my bare feet when I step off, and I welcome the deep shade after the full, blinding glare of the water.
Knox retrieves a small waterproof dry-bag from the storage compartment and produces two bottles of water and a bag of trail mix.
We eat in comfortable silence, sitting side by side in the sand with our legs stretched out toward the water.
"Thank you for taking me here," I say eventually.
"Don't thank me yet." He takes a swig of water and screws the cap back on. Then he reaches into the waterproof bag and pulls out something small wrapped in a paper towel.
I look at it. I look at him.
"It's not a big deal," he says quickly, handing it over. I unwrap it.
I unwrap it, turning the small envelope over. There's a handwritten label on the front. I read it twice, my jaw dropping. "Knox... are these Himalayan Blue Poppy seeds?"
"The authentic ones, yeah," he says, suddenly very interested in the sand by his feet. He draws a small circle with his index finger, erases it, draws another one. "You mentioned last week that our apartment balcony gets the exact weird microclimate needed for them."
I look from the impossibly rare seeds to him. "Knox, this is—these are incredibly hard to find."
"Good thing I know someone who knows someone, then." He smirks, then reaches up to rub the back of his neck, his voice dropping. "You've been... a really good roommate. And I figured the balcony needed something worthy of your skills."
A warm, heavy flutter kicks up in my chest, spreading rapidly outward from my sternum.
I just sit there in the sand, clutching the tiny envelope to my chest and beaming at him.
He glances up, catches the full force of the beam, and his ears go distinctly pink.
The color starts at the tips and works its way rapidly down to his jaw.
He clears his throat. "Anyway." He stands, brushing sand off his legs. "We should get moving."
"Heading back already?" I ask.
He offers me a hand up. "Nope, time for part two."
***
The foot massage parlor is tucked between a bookstore and a coffee shop on a quiet side street I've never noticed before. The sign is hand-painted with golden characters on a dark green background, slightly uneven.
Knox holds the door, and we step from bright afternoon into warm, dim quiet.
With the scent of lavender in the air, amber lighting, bamboo flooring, and a small fountain on the reception desk burbling over smooth river stones, the whole space breathes deep, restorative zen.
I catch a glimpse of myself in a decorative mirror on the wall.
My hair is still a damp, tangled mess at the ends, and there is a distinct, dark waterline drying on the bottom of my jeans.
I look like something the lake just spat back out.
A woman in a flowing tunic leads us to an alcove near the back with two plush reclining chairs. A small table sits between them with a teapot, two cups, and a dish of candied ginger. Gauze curtains partition us from the rest of the room.
I sink into my chair, and two massage therapists appear with two basins filled with water. The male therapist lifts my feet into the warmth, and I let out a groan that is definitely borderline indecent. Judging by the sudden, arrested look on Knox's face, I think he thinks so too.
"Tense?" he asks, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"A little," I admit, sinking deeper into my chair.
"Living with three massive alphas will do that to a person," he says lightly.
A surprised laugh suddenly bursts out of me. "You're literally one of them, though."
"Right, but I'm the easy one," he says, entirely deadpan.
Well. I'd actually give that title to Arthur, but I do appreciate Knox bending over backward to keep everything good in the apartment.
We let the therapists work in rhythmic, heavy silence for a moment, the tension physically draining out of my calves.
"So," I say eventually, rolling my head to the side to look at him. "The jet ski."
"What about it?"
"It's just—" I wave vaguely at him. "You. Doing that."
He raises an eyebrow. "Me doing what?"