Thirty-Three – Morgan
Thirty-Three
Morgan
A capsaicin-fueled hammer pounded against my skull, jolting me awake just after nine—extremely late, according to my body clock. Cal held me tight, his stubbled cheek nuzzling deeper into the crook of my neck, rooting for my absent scent signature even in his sleep.
Kip was draped over my shins while his brother sulked on the cat tree, showing his chubby backside in protest. Apparently, it was a criminal offense to let a man hog the good cuddle spots all night.
A phone buzzed nearby. Jacobi, I assumed, eager for more details about last night—until I remembered my phone was still on the kitchen island.
The temptation to laze about was strong, but a quiet worry crept in. Something might have happened to Cal’s grandfather.
I stroked his arm and whispered, “Your phone’s ringing.”
“Ugh.” Cal reached back without shifting position or opening his eyes, finding his phone with two lazy swipes. Even hungover, the man had better aim than I did on a good day. He dropped the phone on the padding beside me. “Who?”
I squinted at the missed call notification until it came into focus. “Spencer.”
“Need to call him back.”
“Okay,” I murmured, pressing kisses along his solid wrist and forearm. “Take your time. I’m going to freshen up.”
He grumbled in agreement, nose trailing through my hair, heaving a great sigh before finally letting go. Sitting up, I waited a moment for my aching brain to settle, then reached across the mountain range of his bare chest to fetch our respective glasses.
I slipped mine on first before carefully perching his round frames on his crooked nose. Cal’s eyes stayed closed, but his lips curved into a watery, grateful smile. He made no effort to move.
“What’s your preferred hangover remedy—carbs or grease?” I asked.
“A bit of both, if you’re feeling benevolent.”
“That can be arranged.” After slipping on my discarded shirt, I grabbed his phone, tapped the call notification to redial Spencer, and set it on his chest with the speakerphone on. “Meet me in the kitchen when you’re done?”
He nodded just as Spencer’s voice came through. “They’re driving me up the fucking wall. Can I come over?”
“Sorry, bud. I’m not home right now. Can you go for a run?”
“Wait, where are you—your office? I can do myhomework in a conference room. You won’t even notice I’m there.”
A bleary hazel eye cracked open, zeroing in on my backside as I shifted onto my knees. “Not today. Got my hands full.”
When he tried to cop a feel, I swatted his hand away, not caring if his nephew heard me. Cal’s appreciative chuckle filled the air, resulting in a tense silence on the other end of the line.
“Are—are you with someone?” Spencer asked as I left the room, both cats following at my heels.
“Mhm.”
Spencer’s voice went up an octave. “Did you finally get a girlfriend?”
“Maybe.”
I paused, standing in a beam of early morning sunlight, watching as the cats scampered after dust motes.
How long had it been—six, seven hours—and Cal was already dropping hints about me to his family?
Logically, I should march back into the library and pelt him with pillows for being so presumptuous—and obvious—but instead, I rose up onto my toes, raised my arms overhead, and let the warm fuzzies wash over me.
“Come on,” Spencer said, “who am I going to tell?”
“I don’t need you to worry about my personal life.”
Whatever Spencer said in response was blocked by my closet door, but it prompted a hearty chuckle from Cal.
I slipped into a pair of leggings and a sweater before washing my face and brushing my teeth, silently berating myself for not taking a migraine pill the night before. The headache wasn’t unbearable, but it was strong enough to scatter my thoughts if I wasn’t careful.
After grabbing my phone from the kitchen island and sending a few placating texts to Jacobi, I placed a large order at a popular local breakfast spot—fatty foods, waffles, and other easy-to-reheat options for when the trio upstairs decided to rejoin humanity.
Then, I put the electric kettle on and hauled out my basket of medications, taking a seat at the island to refill my pill organizer for the week.
A fully dressed but still groggy Cal shuffled into the kitchen moments later. He fiddled with Kelsey’s premium coffee contraption, managed to get it brewing, then made his way over to me, plastering himself against my back with a grunt.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“He just needed to vent.” Cal rested his chin on my shoulder, watching as I loaded my pill organizer with suppressants. “Are these all prescription?”
“Why—are there more than you expected?
“Yeah.” He picked up the bottle of anti-seizure medication for a closer look. “Surprised they’ve got you on this. It doesn’t always play nice with other meds.”
“It was tough finding one that didn’t give me side effects, but it’s been okay so far.” I recapped my bottle of suppressants and then moved on to my antidepressants. “Food should be here in half an hour.” I nodded toward the cabinet by the cat feeding station. “Medical records are in there.”
Cal toyed with the ends of my hair, studying my expression carefully. “You’re sure?”
“If we’re going to make this work,” I said, dropping the final antidepressant into the appropriate compartment, “you deserve to know what you’re in for.” My gaze found his. “Right?”
His response came in the form of a sweet, reassuring kiss. “Thank you.”
Cal poured himself an extra-large cup of coffee, then grabbed the most recent volume of my medical record. Taking the barstool beside me, he flipped to the back of the binder, starting with my latest blood test results.
“Your birthday’s tomorrow?” he asked. It was an unexpected opening salvo for what would undoubtedly be a long line of questions.
I nodded, focused on adding the last few pills to the organizer.
“Do you want anything?” Cal drummed his fingers against the countertop. “We could get dinner if you don’t have plans with your family.”
“You’ve already given me plenty,” I said, shutting the compartment lids one at a time.
“It’s not a gift if you reimburse me for everything.”
“Then hand over your sweater,” I teased, snapping the final lid closed, “and we’ll call it even.”
“I knew it.” Cal feigned heartbreak with a dramatic turn of the page. “This was all a ruse to get your hands on my sweaters.”
Leaning over, I kissed his stubbled jaw. “And don’t you forget it.”
After returning the basket of prescription pills to the medical supply cabinet and placing my pill organizer on the counter, I made myself a cup of ginger tea.
“Am I safe to assume you’d like to change your heat plan?” Cal asked in a pinched but light tone. Not forced in the slightest, except for the faint drag of his molars.
He was trying to balance the newness of our relationship with the peculiar reality of life as an omega—because he was staring at a formal agreement for me to fuck several anonymous alphas in December.
“Shit, I totally forgot,” I muttered, tossing my teabag in the garbage and feeling like a complete ass. I might not be monogamous by nature, but surely, I could do better than this. “Ignore that, please. I’m sorry. Heats and I… We just don’t mesh. It’s always a mess. I haven’t even submitted the heat leave request paperwork. Six weeks is enough leeway for approval—right?”
“Your commitment to wriggling out of a heat is unmatched, Dr. Van Daal. I pity your designation counselor,” he teased, skimming through the rest of the heat reservation paperwork with a frown before turning the page. “But I’m down for it—if you are.”
“It’s…” I sighed, carrying my tea to lean against the island counter beside him. “Probably not going to be a pleasant experience.”
“For me?” he asked, turning in his seat and wrapping a hand around my hip to gently guide me between his legs. “Or for you?”
“Either. Both. Does it matter?”
The corners of his mouth curled upward. “If last night is anything to go by…”
I shook my head—inadvertently triggering a sharp throb of pain—and frowned. “You haven’t seen me during a heat.”
“No, I haven’t.” He cradled my face, his thumbs massaging my aching temples. “But we’ve got time, Morgan, and I’m a quick study.”
I had no doubt Cal would devote his considerable intellect to reducing me to a puddle of satiated goo. “Are you sure?”
Cal nodded and kissed me, trying to convince me further with subtle flicks of his tongue. I had no choice but to set my tea aside and kiss him back in earnest, marveling at the reassuring breadth of his body and the size of the hands trailing along my curves.
The experience was more than a little surreal.
I finally had a handsome alpha to fool around with on my birthday. It only took a decade, but hey—who’s counting?
***
“Special delivery!” Rory came bounding into the home gym the following morning, wearing the cursed narwhal onesie. The hood was pulled up over his auburn hair, the plush horn flopping with every step, holding a bouquet of autumnal flowers and two Halloween-themed gift bags covered in sparkly ghosts and black cats. Being born on October thirtieth came with some delightfully spooky perks.
I stepped off the elliptical and reached for a towel to wipe away my sweat. “You weren’t supposed to get me anything.”
“I didn’t,” he said, pressing the flowers against my chest. “These were outside the front door when Piper left to grab her rideshare just now.”
My younger siblings had spent most of Sunday lazing in the TV room upstairs, and Piper and Rory had stayed with us for a second night.
Accepting the gifts from Rory, I left the gym, intending to return to my room to shower.
From the profusion of red roses in the bouquet, I had a strong suspicion about the sender’s identity. I went through the motion of smelling the blooms—mentally overlaying the memory of their fresh, floral romance.
“The darker the rose,” Jacobi once told me after venting his anger over a breakup by buying himself three dozen black roses, “the deeper the symbolism.”
Tracing a merlot-tinged petal with my fingertip, I couldn’t help but wonder what message Wyatt was trying to convey—new beginnings, burning desire, or mourning a love that had long since slipped away.
“Do I have time to take a shower?” Rory’s voice interrupted my ruminations. He had class at eight, and I was planning to drop him off on my way to the sports medicine clinic.
I glanced at my phone to check the time. “If you can manage it in the next forty-five minutes.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Rory bounded up the stairs but paused midway. “For what it’s worth,” he said, brushing the narwhal horn out of his eyes, “I like them. All of them.”
“Who—Pack Redmond?”
“Yeah, especially Cal.”
“You know he’s not part of Pack Redmond, right?” I asked, setting the presents on the dining room table and turning to give him my full attention.
“Not yet. But he’s got the right vibe.” Rory hesitated, worrying his bottom lip before unleashing a verbal torrent. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you and Wyatt because I was a kid and didn’t pay attention to that kind of stuff, and I only ever heard bits and pieces about him growing up. So, consider me a blank slate. Very much in your corner, but without any preconceived notions. No one ever mentioned that he’s legitimately super handsome and super fucking jacked. Or that he’s got those eyes. You’ve seen those eyes. Like, it’s unreal how blue they are. But he was nice and thoughtful, catering to his aunts’ whims… And he kept giving you this look . All night. Like you—like he was dying to be with you.”
“Rory—”
“It’s just an observation!” The rascal flashed a cheeky grin before scampering away. He nearly tripped over the excess fabric pooling around his feet as he turned the corner at the top of the stairs.
Heaving a deep sigh, I warily eyed the gift bags. Rory had already jabbed at the wound Wyatt left on my heart, so I might as well go for broke.
I hooked a finger on the brim of the first gift bag and peered inside. Cat toys and treats galore.
The second bag was packed with work tote essentials: hand sanitizer, scent-neutralizing spray, quality lip balm, hand lotion, a nail file, a pack of gel pens, cat-shaped sticky notes, mints, stain removal wipes—the list went on and on. But what really caught my eye was the set of travel-size gourmet hot sauces.
So practical and perfectly tailored, it wasn’t necessary to read the gift tag—but I did anyway.
Thirty-two items you might wish for in a pinch. Happy Birthday. – W
Don’t get emotional. Do not get emotional. Repeating the mantra in my head, I carried the bags to my nest, fighting to maintain control .
Why get upset about a man who couldn’t even manage to look me in the eye at the housewarming? So what if his gifts were perfect? Beyond perfect. I didn’t need them. Didn’t need him. I needed someone I could trust.
Like Cal.
I dropped the bags on the console table, next to the red bag containing Wyatt’s earlier gifts and the cream cashmere sweater I’d accepted from Cal as his not-birthday present.
Irrefutable proof of encroaching distractions. No matter how thoughtful or endlessly kissable they were.
I had to be careful. Focused. Committed to my professional goals.
Because my fellowship hadn’t even reached the halfway point yet, and I was not looking to build an altar to futility in my wasteland of a nest.
It wasn’t until hours later, during the fifteen-minute reprieve between clinic appointments and radiology rotation, that I remembered the abandoned flowers on the dining room table. Rory had cannibalized my last iota of focus on our way out the door.
They were probably wilted by now, if not dead.
I bypassed the influx of birthday text messages to open my thread with Kelsey, ready to ask if she could rescue them—only to find she’d already sent a photo. The bouquet was perfectly arranged in a sleek vase, the red roses taking center stage.
Of course, she had.
Because she was Kelsey. Ever mindful, effortlessly creative, endlessly loyal, and the unflappable keeper of my sanity.
The sanity is currently being tested by Owen—who’d just texted me yet another revision to the revamped blood sugar monitoring proposal.
What part of final did he not understand?