Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zoe
Ipress my forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall and try to collect my scattered dignity.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to the empty bathroom.
My legs are still trembling, my body humming with aftershocks that have no business feeling this good.
The reflection in the mirror shows a woman I barely recognize.
Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and wild eyes that look like I’ve been possessed by some horny bathroom demon.
I splash cold water on my face and adjust my turtleneck, which is still feeling like a wool noose in the overheated gallery. I smooth my hair, straighten my skirt, and give myself a stern look in the mirror.
“Get it together,” I mutter. “You are a professional. A curator. Not some omega in heat who jumps the first alpha who walks by.”
Except I did jump him. Or he jumped me. The details are fuzzy, lost in a haze of ginger-scented pleasure that still makes my thighs clench when I think about it.
What is happening to me?
I’ve had good sex before. Great sex, even. But nothing that short-circuited my brain like this. Nothing that made me forget I was at work, in a public bathroom, with my boss potentially looking for me.
Oh god. Helen.
I check my watch and realize with horror that I’ve been in here for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of bathroom debauchery while Helen is probably wondering where her assistant disappeared to.
I give myself one last once-over, confirm that I look relatively normal aside from the suspicious flush across my cheeks, and brace myself before opening the door.
The gallery seems mercifully normal as I slip back to the main exhibition space.
No one is pointing and whispering. No one seems to be sniffing the air suspiciously.
The Davelles are deep in conversation with Helen near the entrance, which means I might actually escape this mortifying episode with my professional reputation intact.
As I scan the room, I realize Tristan is nowhere to be seen. He must have had the good sense to leave immediately. Small mercies.
I make a beeline for my office, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass. Once safely behind my computer, I take a deep breath, willing my racing heart to slow down. Work. Focus on work. The Sparne catalog won’t write itself.
But my brain refuses to cooperate. Every time I try to focus on the screen, all I can see is Tristan’s face, his eyes dark with desire as he—
“Zoe?”
I nearly jump out of my skin, letting out a small, embarrassing squeak. Jade, our receptionist, is standing by my desk with a concerned expression.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” she says, tilting her head. “Are you feeling okay? You look... feverish.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Just, um, concentrating.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Helen wants to see you in her office when you have a moment. Something about the Davelles?”
Great. Helen probably wants to know why I abandoned our wealthiest potential donors to have a quickie in the bathroom. Except she doesn’t know about the quickie part. God, I hope she doesn’t know about the quickie part.
“Thanks, Jade. I’ll head over now.”
She nods and starts to walk away, then pauses. “Oh, and that alpha who was here? The cute one with the dimple?”
My stomach drops. “What about him?”
“He left this for you.” She holds out a folded piece of paper. “Said it was important.”
I take the note with what I hope is a casual smile, not the grimace of mortification it feels like. “Thanks.”
The moment she’s gone, I unfold the paper, expecting... I don’t know. An apology? A crude drawing? A phone number?
Instead, I find a neat list in Tristan’s surprisingly elegant handwriting:
Things to remember tomorrow:
- Call Sparne’s agent re: installation details
- Email high-res images to catalog designer
- Lunch with Mortons @ 1 pm (brING CATALOG!!!)
- Pick up dry cleaning before 6 pm
And, at the bottom, in slightly smaller script:
Your planner misses you. So do we.
My cheeks flush all over again. It’s... weirdly thoughtful. And undeniably effective. I had completely forgotten about the Sparne installation call. And the dry cleaning.
Those sneaky, manipulative alphas.
I tuck the note into my desk drawer and head to Helen’s office, bracing myself for the worst. But when I knock on her door, I’m greeted with a smile so wide it borders on manic.
“Zoe! There you are. Come in, come in.”
I step inside, closing the door behind me. “About the Davelles—”
“They’ve committed to sponsoring the entire Sparne exhibition!” Helen interrupts, clasping her hands together in delight. “Full naming rights, VIP reception, the works. It’s our biggest sponsorship of the year!”
I blink in surprise. “That’s... wonderful.”
“It certainly is. And it seems we have your... connection to thank for it.” There’s a meaningful pause as her eyes flick to my neck, where the turtleneck hides the claiming marks. “Mr. Davelle was quite impressed by your friend Mr. Sterling.”
Friend. Right. Is that what we’re calling it?
“Tristan Sterling has a way with people,” I say neutrally.
“Indeed.” Helen leans forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Now, Zoe, I’m not one to pry into my employees’ personal lives...”
Yes, you absolutely are, I think but don’t say.
“...but if your relationship with the Sterling pack could benefit the gallery in any way, well...” She trails off, the implication clear.
My stomach churns. “Helen, I don’t think—”
“Just something to consider,” she cuts me off smoothly. “In the meantime, excellent work with the Davelles. Take the rest of the afternoon to work on the Sparne catalog. You look like you could use some quiet time.”
I recognize a dismissal when I hear one. “Thank you.”
Back at my desk, I collapse into my chair, a fresh wave of mortification washing over me. Great. Now my boss thinks I’m sleeping with powerful alphas to bring in donations. Which, technically, isn’t completely wrong, but it’s not like that was my intention.
The quiet hum of the gallery continues around me as I try, once again, to focus on work. Meanwhile, the claiming marks continue pulsing gently beneath my turtleneck, a constant reminder of what happened—of what’s happening—to me.
My phone buzzes with a text message. I check it, half expecting and half dreading to see something from Tristan. Instead, it’s Leah.
Leah
UPDATES??? Did they show up at your work? Mason says alphas always show up at work. It’s like, a thing.
I groan and type back a quick response.
Me
I hate that your beta is right. Will call you later.
Her response is immediate.
Leah
OMG, WHICH ONE CAME??? DETAILS OR I’LL SEND BABY PHOTOS UNTIL YOU brEAK
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes again with a picture of one of her twins covered in what appears to be pureed carrots. It’s followed quickly by another.
Me
FINE. Tristan came. Brought chocolate. We... talked.
Leah
“Talked” talked or TALKED talked?
Me
The second one. At work. In the bathroom. I’m mortified.
Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear for a solid thirty seconds before her response finally comes through.
Leah
I’VE NEVER BEEN PROUDER TO CALL YOU MY FRIEND
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. Trust Leah to find the silver lining in my workplace indiscretion.
Me
I’m planning to have dinner with all of them. I need to sort this out.
Leah
Or sort out your lingerie drawer.
Me
I’m blocking you now.
I set my phone down, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips despite everything. At least I can count on Leah to find the humor in this disaster.
The afternoon drags on, each minute feeling like an hour as I jump at every sound, convinced that someone will walk in and somehow know what happened in the bathroom.
But gradually, as nothing catastrophic occurs, I start to relax.
Maybe I can handle this after all. Maybe these claiming marks and whatever bizarre effect they’re having on me isn’t the end of the world.
I’ll have dinner with them. We’ll talk like rational adults. We’ll figure out what’s going on with these marks and this strange pull I feel. And then...
Well, I don’t know what happens then. But at least I’ll have some answers.
I pull out my phone and stare at it for a solid minute before finally tapping on Rett’s contact. I take a deep breath and type:
Me
Dinner. Tomorrow. 8 pm.
I text them the address of a restaurant I like, hesitate, then add:
Me
All four of you. We need to talk.
His response comes almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting with his phone in hand.
Rett
We’ll be there
Just three words, but they send a weird flutter through my chest.
I punch the date into my calendar and set the phone down, a slow smile spreading across my lips. Time to grab the wheel of a runaway ship and steer it back onto a course I recognize.
By late afternoon, I’ve managed to make actual progress on the Sparne catalog. The words are finally flowing, and I’ve hit my stride describing the technical aspects of his metalwork when a shadow falls across my desk.
“Hard at work, or hardly working?”
I look up at the familiar, teasing voice to find Rudy Lewis standing over me, a warm, easy smile on his face. He’s impeccably dressed, as always, in a tailored navy suit, the wire-rimmed glasses giving him that intellectual air he cultivates so well.
“Rudy,” I greet him, a genuine smile touching my own lips. “Don’t you know better than to interrupt a curator in her natural habitat?”
“A risk I was willing to take,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I heard about the Davelle sponsorship. A major coup. I came to offer my congratulations.” He gestures to the chair beside my desk. “And to maybe steal you away for a celebratory coffee?”