Two – Morgan
Two
Morgan
T he expressway curved around the outskirts of the University of Northport, cutting close to Millwright Memorial Stadium before merging onto the on-ramp for the Tolliver Bay bridge. Downtown Northport glimmered in the distance to my left, with the bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
Sunglasses kept the edge off during the deepening sunset, but they were nothing compared to the relief a dark room would bring. All I wanted to do was dissolve into a puddle of blankets with my cats.
As I took the exit for home, a call came in from my favorite menace, Jacobi Zeldin.
We’d been inseparable since our first day of toddler tumbling class—from kindergarten to Wakeland State University. Together, we navigated the intense world of competitive omega gymnastics, eventually earning spots on the same Olympic team.
Putting him on speaker, I asked, “How’d closing go?”
“It was so quick! A few signatures and boom. Done.” He sighed dramatically. “Alas, my poor baby.”
The baby in question was his grand piano. He had no room for it in his current rental in California. The piano was also a beast to move, requiring expensive specialist care. So, he left it behind in Massachusetts three months ago, just like his art gallery and everything else he once swore he couldn’t live without—including me, his best friend.
Why? For love, of all stupid reasons.
Not that Hugo wasn’t compelling—an older, established alpha with the right amount of silver in his hair and enough money in his bank account to dazzle. The problem was that he already had a pack. And an omega.
“Well,” Jacobi drawled, “aren’t you curious who your new neighbors will be?”
“Not particularly.”
I lived in the penthouse loft across the hall from Jacobi’s former residence on the top floor of a converted textile mill complex clad in honeyed bronze brick. He’d named it Tolliver Yards—one of several buildings we’d redeveloped across greater Northport.
After our Olympic success, we pooled our earnings and endorsement fees into real estate. My accident settlement bolstered our budget—putting it mildly—and Jacobi made the most of it, purchasing and redeveloping all the property surrounding Tolliver Yards.
Thankfully, he’d agreed to let my family’s property management company handle the day-to-day operations, so we didn’t have to do much more than square finances with our accountant.
“Seems like a pack bought the place.” A flicker of excitement slipped into his voice. “There’s at least one alpha. Think his name’s Owen? The realtor wouldn’t let me see too much.”
“Nor should they.”
“But what if it’s a pack of hot alphas?”
My smirk was audible. “Thanks in advance for the neighbor upgrade.”
“Traitor!” His faux outrage exploded into a flurry of admonishments. “I was the perfect neighbor—you fickle woman. See, see, I knew it. You don’t miss me!”
“Correct on all accounts.”
“You’re just salty because Chantal won’t let you skip another heat,” he said with a wicked laugh. “So, when do you report to horny jail?”
“December.”
“Bet you’d be in the mood if a certain big ol’ pheromone stud volunteered his services.”
“For the last time,” I said, pulling into the Tolliver Yards’ underground parking garage. “Cal’s off-limits—and stop calling him that.”
“But he’s so—”
I disconnected the call with vengeance.
Cal Carling was the director of Designation Services for the university. His staff managed pheromone regulation and reproductive health care for alpha and omega students. Despite many notable academic and research achievements, he was still better known as an all-star tight end for Northport during his collegiate years.
While Cal wasn’t my boss, he still held a position of authority over me. I couldn’t date him any more than I could date the head volleyball coach.
Besides, six-foot-five, buff yet bulky alphas weren’t really my type—no matter how big their brain or how impressive their CVwas. Not that I had time for alphas. Or men in general.
***
My thumbprint unlocked the loft’s front door, which opened into a two-story foyer lit by a frosted lamp on the entryway table, with an open-plan living area beyond. The walls alternated between exposed brick and a hazy shade of charcoal gray paint. Natural oak floors ran throughout, with the same wood tone as the exposed ceiling beams.
On my way to the kitchen, I closed the blackout curtains, rejecting the warm September sunset and riverfront views. A trio of wall-height arched windows spanned the length of the living and dining rooms.
Dinner was in the oven, something I inferred from the sound of the vent fan. I set my work bag and other daily essentials on the island.
My beloved chunk, Tenny, purred like a rusty motor as he wound himself between my legs, a furry mess of asymmetrical black and white splotches.
His brother, Kip, perched on the stairs to the second floor. He was a far more dashing fellow with a trim build, four snow-white paws, and a black domino mask covering his left eye.
“Headache?” My younger sister Kelsey emerged from the pantry, holding a loaf of Italian bread—a context clue. Dinner was likely lasagna, one of her go-to recipes for busy weeknights.
Papa, our omega father, passed on a mellower version of his radiant softness to Kelsey—all the best omega assets in a heat-free beta package, with a gentle upturn to her freckled nose and caramel blonde hair.
A stylish package, too, with the ability to make fussy retro pieces seem fresh. Today’s sweater was a perfect example, with puffed sleeves and frolicking foxes embroidered along the bust. Leaf-shaped enamel earrings glinted on her ears, sourced from a trendy resale shop downtown.
“I’m fine,” I said as I started unpacking—a water bottle to rinse and refill, ultrasound course notes to review and suggested reading from my fellowship director to finish. “Just hate having to deal with heat nonsense.”
“You’re still wearing your sunglasses.”
Ah, so I was. I swapped them for my regular pair.
Kelsey began buttering slices of bread. “Have you heard from Jacobi?”
“Yeah, he just called. Closing went fine. New neighbors imminent.”
“Do you think they’ll have kids?” she asked, sounding a touch hopeful. She loved having people to bake for.
“I don’t know, but if they do, it better not be the noisy, crumb-laden variety. I do not want to find sticky mystery substances on the elevator buttons.”
Kelsey snorted, waved the butter-laden knife at me, and put on a ridiculous, faux-Southern accent. “Why, doctor, you’re such a woman of the people.”
Tenny made a messy landing on the island, almost knocking my tablet onto the floor. I guided him to a clear spot and indulged in some chin scritches.
“It still feels weird,” Kelsey said, returning to her task. “I keep planning meals for three people instead of the two of us.”
“At least we’re saving money on hot sauce.”
“Barely,” Kelsey scoffed. “You’re just as bad as he is.”
I pulled a face at her and fished out the most recent prospectus for my fellowship research project. Partnered with Designation Sciences, I was trying to integrate PheroPass—a new state-of-the-art health monitoring patch—into clinical care. It’d been touted as a fitness tracker on steroids with a brain, but in reality, it left a lot to be desired.
Kelsey set the knife down and moved the tray aside, leaning across the island, a gentle hand cupping my fist. “Sure you’re okay?”
“Jacobi’s happiness is more important than my reservations about his love life.” I slid out of her grasp and down onto a barstool. “Think of it as a sort of experiment. How long can two omegas stay joined at the hip without killing each other?”
“You make it sound like you’re a pair of poisoned twin popsicles.”
My laugh came out more like a half-grunt. The ever-present threat of a headache turned sharp, digging in behind my eyes.
“You do have a headache. Did you eat lunch?”
“Of course.” The truth was mandatory with Kelsey. I owed it to her.
She was my rock.
For the first three months after my accident, I was a delirious and unreasonable mess. Later, when the fog cleared, I had no choice but to accept the ugly truth. I could not function without help.
My parents tried their best. Dad and Pops were too alpha about it all—pelting my doctors with endless questions, threatening to move me to a different hospital or rehab facility more than once when I wasn’t making enough progress for their liking.
Papa was the opposite, prone to coddling, always encouraging me to take a nap or eat another bowl of homemade soup. Determined to smother me with extra pillows and blankets in case I damaged anything else.
Mom’s beta nature made her the most logical, but witnessing my accident in person impacted her more than she let on, anxiety spiking at odd moments—holding my hand a little too long before being wheeled off for tests, refusing to speak above a whisper on the phone when I was in the room for nearly two years, throwing her arm across my chest if a driver so much as took a speed bump too fast.
Kelsey’s laid-back approach to caregiving was much easier to tolerate. Almost too easy. I gave her access to my bank account and took my pills on time. She managed everything else.
While she no longer had to drive me everywhere, she still insisted in her quiet way on managing domestic issues, like food, so that I could focus on work. Medical school and my residency would have been impossible without her.
We didn’t have a formal agreement, but an implicit one, where she gives, and I take—and make sure it’s worth her while to keep giving. Then I take some more.
While working on her master’s in business, Kelsey launched a successful online boutique. Beaufeather’s featured high-end home goods like cashmere body pillows and imported herbal bath soaks. She tried to appeal to every designation, but most of her clients were omegas, and her themed nesting kits regularly sold out.
Why rack your brains when Kelsey can do it for you? It’s practically my life’s motto.
Kelsey sometimes asked friends and relatives to evaluate new products, and Jacobi was her favorite guinea pig due to his immediate proximity and genuine good taste. His move was a significant loss for her, too—and sometimes, I think she missed him even more than I did.
“When do you get your next shipment of bath bomb samples? I can fill the Jacobi void.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Kelsey teased. “Already have a crate with your name on it.”
Asking for my feedback was pointless. She couldn’t even trust me with microwave popcorn. Guaranteed smoke bomb every time.