Chapter 9
chapter
nine
Emma
Bridget please pick up the phone
pleeeeeeeeeease
with sugar on top.
and whipped cream.
and chocolate sauce.
Bridgeeeeeeeee
Bridget
I don’t want to talk about it yet
Emma
ok
just tell me this
whose butt do I need to kick?
Bridget
Mine
I have a mantra.
Cry about it today. Kick its ass tomorrow .
So tomorrow, I’ll put my makeup on and do my hair and guzzle enough iced coffee to get me through work.
But for today?
I called out sick, and I plan to spend the day in my nest, crying and eating carbs.
The tabloids have every detail of my shame, splashed over gossip websites and social media.
I am officially The Fake Fiancée.
Or, according to one particularly clever outlet, The Faux-ancée .
Either way, the word is out. Which means, on top of being national news, I’m probably losing my little house as soon as the guys figure out how to cut their losses.
My painted patio with its rocking chairs. My back porch where I hung my hammock. My hydrangeas. My nest-in-progress ? —
The doorbell chimes. It’s muffled in the walls of the spare room that serves as my safe space, but there’s no missing the upbeat buzz.
For a second, I worry it’s TMZ or something. Then I remember.
Oh, right . I ordered coffee cake.
After I give the Uber driver the requisite two minutes to get back to their car, I shuffle out of my pile of blankets and tumble into the narrow hallway.
God. It’s way too bright out here. All this natural light.
What was I thinking? Didn’t I know that, one day, I’d be so horribly mortified that I wouldn’t want to face the sunshine? I should have thought ahead, for fuck’s sake.
Still sniffling, I tuck my green floral kimono around my body and throw my front door open.
Oh.
My.
God.
The whole house seems to shiver as I immediately slam the door closed.
Oh my God. Oh my God. OH MY GOD.
This is not happening.
Not. Happening.
The Locke Pack did not just see me in my underwear.
Again .
Not to mention whoever that huge, handsome man behind them is. A lawyer, maybe? Here to dissolve any rights I have to my house?
Their house.
Am I hyperventilating?
Is that what this sob-breathing thing is?
“Bee?” Jesse calls through the slab. “It’s, uh, me. And the guys. And, um, Adrian. He’s the new team manager, and uh… he wanted to come meet you.”
Come meet me ?! I’m in a nightgown not much more modest than the one I had on last time we all had a “meeting.” It’s sheer luck that I happen to also have my kimono on right now. Although the silk is pretty thin…
Dear God. Did I just show Jesse Locke my nipples again ?
And Dante?
And Colt …?
And their team manager, too?!
For that matter, what the hell is he doing here? Damage control?
Because that’s me. The damage.
I’d be more outraged, normally, but I don’t think I’m breathing. Or, at least, oxygen isn’t touching my lungs. Which probably explains how my banished Omega manages to get a word in edgewise. A high, thready whine ekes out of me, the sound strangled.
“ Omega .”
Oh , the voice in my middle freezes, her anxiety forgotten. Oh, hello…
This hoe, I swear.
Even I have to admit, she has a point this time. The strange alpha’s bark is pure steel, dripping with honey. I swear my blood stops pumping. Every particle in my body tunes into the commanding voice, begging me to obey.
“ Deep breaths, ” it goes on. “ And get the door, please .”
Air hits my cramped lungs. I move, flinging the door open and stepping back, hugging my arms around myself. I realize I have no makeup on, and the irony of that—of me making my face up every day for years, only to be caught like this , now —nearly sends me into hysterical, snorting giggles.
Seriously, what is my life ?
A comedy of errors, apparently, where I’m somehow always in my damn lingerie, with every effing roll and dip on display and a literal group of professional athletes staring at me.
Of course they all look incredible. Jesse with his blond hair curling against his collar and around his ears, hazel-green eyes glinting under the brim of his blue-and-gold Kings hat. The look on his face is a lot like relief. Probably because he knows he’s about to be rid of me once and for all.
If Dante is similarly appeased, he doesn’t show it. Instead of looking at me , he eyes my front porch with a half-sneer. Judging its size, most likely.
He might seem oblivious to the way his fitted white T-shirt clings to his pecs and matches the straight rows of his teeth— and how the pristine color sets off his rich skin, which is already extra-gorgeous thanks to the early-morning sunshine.
But Dante is one hundred percent the kind of guy who kisses his own reflection before he leaves the house. Even when he has sweatpants on.
Then, there’s Colt.
Glaring.
Always.
In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen a different expression on his face since that weird moment we shared in Alicia’s hallway.
He’s lucky rage works for him. The dark thoughts swimming in his gray eyes go well with his thick brows and the over-long hair tucked under his baseball cap—identical to Jesse’s, except Colt forever wears his backwards.
He continues glowering, even when the crutch tucked under his good arm wobbles slightly. The strange man behind him places a steadying hand on his shoulder and meets my gaze with— wow —the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.
It’s unfair, really. No alpha should be this dominant and this fucking hot .
Tall and broad, he fills his charcoal dress shirt and silver-gray slacks like a model from a cologne ad.
In fact, that’s his entire aesthetic. The sort of effortless elegance that belongs on an Italian male model stepping out of a Ferrari on a cool evening in Rome.
Only, this man is in his late-thirties, with a worldly air that takes him from beautiful to sexy as sin.
And his hair .
John Stamos, who? Plus a touch of silver at his temples?
Take me now .
As if reading every dirty, ridiculous half-thought bubbling in my brain, the strange alpha’s winged brow raises slightly.
“Good morning, Bridget,” he says, sending a quiver to my core. “May we come in?”