Chapter 12 #2
I shrug, trying to seem disinterested even though my heart is pounding. “She came home happy. Smiling a lot. Kept humming and spinning around the apartment like she’d had the best night of her life. Talked about you, actually.”
His head snaps up, and the grin that spreads across his face is pure male satisfaction. “Yeah? What’d she say?”
“Just that you were nice. And hot. She mentioned the hot part several times.” I’m digging my own grave here, but I can’t seem to stop. “No idea what you did to her, but she was acting weird.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
“Good, I guess. She seemed…” I trail off, trying to find words that don’t give me away. “Really into you.”
The grin widens, and he appears so pleased with himself that I want to simultaneously kiss him and punch him.
He leans back against the counter, coffee in hand, completely relaxed. “So what’s she into? Like, what makes her happy besides drawing and mythology? What does she do for fun?”
I pause, considering how to answer this without repeating things he already knows.
“She’s obsessed with weird history. Like, she’ll spend hours reading about obscure historical events or forgotten civilizations.
She loves thunderstorms, says they make her feel alive.
And she has this thing where she collects vintage postcards from places she’s never been. ”
He’s nodding, absorbing every detail like it’s vital information.
“She also talks to herself when she’s working,” I add, because it’s true, and I can’t help myself. “Full conversations with her characters. Argues with them sometimes about their choices.”
He grins, wide and unguarded, like I just gave him the best gift in the world.
“That’s fucking cute,” he says, and I swear to God my insides just collapsed in on themselves.
Up close to him, that smile is lethal. There’s a small indent on his left cheek, not quite a dimple but enough to captivate me, and his eyes crease at the corners. And his lips are soft-looking and just a little chapped, like he chews on them when he’s thinking.
“She’s pretty great,” I admit, throat tightening. Talking about myself in the third person should feel silly. But somehow it gives me space to feel everything. To open the dam a little. “She’s also stubborn as hell. Once she decides something, there’s no changing her mind.”
He leans forward. “I’m getting that impression.”
There’s a beat, half a second too long. His stare doesn’t waver, and I swear the room tilts. Heat blooms low in my stomach.
“She ever mention what she’s looking for? In a partner, I mean?”
His voice drops at the end, and it’s not fair. It’s all rasp and intention. He’s not just asking; he’s fishing.
And it ruins me.
My heart punches against my ribs. My whole body goes still, like my skin is trying to catch every breath, every word, every twitch of his mouth. This is dangerous. So fucking dangerous.
“Why?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t shake. I lift my coffee, hands too steady to be real. “You planning something?”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t blink. “I can’t stop thinking about her. About last night. She’s got me completely fucking lost, and I barely know her.”
And just like that, I forget how to breathe.
My mouth dries. He’s staring past me, at nothing really, like he’s ready to risk everything for a chance to fall. And I’m the only one who knows how deep this goes. I remember every heated glance, every second of tension from last night, every brush of his fingers and mouth.
And now he’s standing here saying he’s wrecked, and I believe him.
Because I am too.
I want to reach over and touch the stubble on his jaw. To breathe him in so badly it burns. But I’m not her. Not right now. So I school my face into something neutral, something brotherly, and pretend my entire world isn’t crumbling.
“Look,” I say carefully, setting my coffee down like it doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds. “I don’t know what your plans are, but don’t get too hung up on her.”
He frowns, just a flicker of it. And it hurts to shut him down. But I have to.
“She’s not staying in town permanently. This is temporary for her. She’ll be gone in a few weeks, maybe less.”
His eyes darken, jaw tightens. But he nods, slowly, like he already knew that but just didn’t want to believe it.
I swallow hard, unable to stop myself from memorizing him in the silence that follows.
The tiny scar near his temple.
The way his forearm flexes when he shifts.
The soft scrape of his thumb against the rim of his coffee cup.
The tension in his throat when he swallows like he’s trying to keep something down.
And God help me, I want to be the reason he loses control.
But I’m still pretending and hiding behind someone else’s name. So I just smile, tight and fake, while my heart howls.
His expression shifts. Determination, maybe. “Then I guess I’d better make the most of the time I have.”
I stare at him, completely floored. “Fuck,” I mutter. “You really do have it bad.”
“Told you.” He grins, then glances at his watch. “I need to get back to work. But hey, if you talk to her later, tell her I had a good time. And that I want to see her again. Soon.”
“I’ll pass it along.”
He claps me on the shoulder and leaves the kitchen.
I stand there for a long moment, clutching my coffee mug, trying to process what just happened.
He likes me. Really likes me. Wants to see me again.
And I’m in so much trouble.
I’m about to head to my desk when Slater appears in the doorway, his presence immediately commanding attention.
“Ash.” His voice is serious, clipped. “You got a moment to talk? My office.”
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees, yet his voice lingers in my mind, the one I’ve heard thousands of times before, just not like this. Not directed at me. It pulls at something low in my spine.
I nod, trying to not let the hitch in my breath show, and follow him down the hallway to his office, every step loud in my ears, the click of my boots against the floor like a countdown. He’s too quiet. Too serious.
Has he found something out? Does he know?
I run a hand down my shirt as discreetly as I can, checking the hem, making sure nothing is out of place. The wig feels too hot suddenly, like my scalp knows the jig is up.
His office is exactly what I’d expect from someone like him—practical, minimal, with an orderliness that screams control freak.
The desk is massive, solid wood, and behind it, wide windows frame a postcard-perfect view of the harbor.
Nautical charts line the walls in crisp symmetry.
His bookshelf isn’t just for show either.
It feels like a room meant for confrontations.
He sinks into the leather chair behind the desk, posture stiff, arms resting heavily on the armrests like a judge settling in to hand out a sentence. He doesn’t glance at his computer, just stares straight at me.
Gestures to the seat across from him. “Sit.”
My legs hesitate before following orders, and I swear my palms leave faint sweat marks on the seat when I finally lower myself.
I try to mirror his calm. I don’t fidget, don’t crack a smile, but my pulse is thudding at my throat from the voice and the command that come right before a heroine in one of his romance books melts into a wall and begs to be ruined.
My thighs tense, and I’m clenching them.
Not now. Not here!
But my body doesn’t care when it hears that voice and goes straight to heat prep as if I’m about to star in a very different kind of story. Right now, I’m close to combusting from just one damn syllable.
He’s still quiet. Just watching me with that unreadable expression that makes it impossible to tell if he’s mad or thinking of which body of water to toss me into. I force myself not to squirm.
“I’m not particularly happy with you after last night,” he says finally.
God.
I keep my face blank, even as panic tries to claw its way up my throat. What did he see? What did he hear? Did my voice slip? Did the suppressant wear off? Did he catch the scent of—
“Oh?” I say, making my tone just curious enough without sounding defensive. My throat is dry. I hope he can’t hear it.
“Yeah.” He leans forward, elbows on his desk.
“Leaving a work dinner early without telling anyone. Vanishing to hook up with someone. You showed no respect to us or to her. I can’t speak for Nina, maybe she wanted exactly what you gave her, but as far as our work goes?
We expect loyalty and respect from our employees.
And on your first day, pulling a stunt like that makes me think you’re not taking this role seriously. ”
Oh.
Oh, this is about Ash leaving the dinner. Not about anything else.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by guilt because he’s absolutely right.
“You’re part of a team now,” Slater continues, his voice firm but not cruel. “That means showing up. Being present and not chasing after the first attractive person who crosses your path. We hired you because we thought you’d be dedicated. Prove us right.”
I nod, keeping my voice low and sincere. “You’re right. I fucked up and got carried away. It won’t happen again.”
And inside, I’m stunned.
Because this is exactly the kind of management I’d want. Fair. Direct. Holding people accountable regardless of designation or gender.
He just disciplined a Beta male for unprofessional behavior. No excuses. No boys-will-be-boys nonsense.
If he treats everyone this way, then what happened to those Omegas who left?
Was that caller wrong? Or is there something else going on that I’m missing?
“See that it doesn’t happen again,” Slater states, leaning back. “We’re giving you a chance. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t. Thank you for being direct with me.”
He nods, and I stand to leave.
“Ash.”
I turn back.
“Tomorrow we’re taking clients out on a fishing charter. Seven a.m. departure. I need you there with your camera and your social media magic. Lots of live content, photos, posts. Think you can handle that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Don’t be late.”
I leave his office and close the door behind me, and despite the lecture, I’m smiling because part of me doesn’t want to find them guilty anymore.
Ihead to my desk, settling into the chair and pulling up social media accounts.
Time to get busy and act professional. The morning passes in a blur of work.
I edit photos from previous tours, schedule posts, respond to comments, and try very hard not to think about Jasper or that conversation or the fact that I’m lying to them.
Around eleven, Dylan pokes his head out of his office. “Hey, Ash! We’re heading down to the harbor. New boat just arrived. Want to come check it out?”
“Sure,” I say, standing.
“Actually,” Slater says from his office doorway, not looking up from the papers in his hand. “Ash, you stay here. We need someone to man the phones. We’ll only be twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
The four of them file out, talking animatedly about the new boat and what tours they can use it for and how much they can charge.
The door closes behind them, and suddenly the office is silent.
I sit back down, staring at my computer screen, but my mind is racing.
I’m completely alone in the office.
In moments, I’m on my feet, staring out the window at the harbor view. It’s stunning with boats bobbing in the water, the town spreading out beyond, mountains in the distance. The guys are down at the dock, gesturing at a sleek white vessel.
This is my chance, I decide.
I glance back at the empty office, my heart starting to pound.
If there’s sensitive information, files on past employees, HR records, anything that might explain why those Omegas left, it would be locked away. Probably in one of their offices.
I’m moving before I can talk myself out of it.
Slater’s office is first. The door isn’t locked, which surprises me. I slip inside and move to the filing cabinet in the corner and try the drawer.
Locked. I try the next one. Also locked.
His desk has a few drawers. I check them quickly, but it’s just supplies. Pens, notepads, a stapler. Nothing useful.
His computer is password protected. No luck there.
I leave his office and move to the next one. Dylan’s.
His office is a chaotic mess compared to Slater’s. Papers everywhere. Coffee mugs stacked on the desk. A guitar propped in the corner.
The filing cabinet is unlocked, but it’s full of tour schedules, equipment manifests, and maintenance logs. Nothing about employees.
Mason’s office is next, and I immediately spot the filing cabinet in the corner.
It has a small label on the top drawer: HR.
My hands are shaking as I try the drawer. It opens.
I glance at the door quickly, my heart hammering so loud I’m sure someone can hear it from the harbor.
The cabinet is full of files. Dozens of them, organized alphabetically. I draw out the first female name. I see the word Beta. Seasonal employee. Called back every summer. Nothing unusual. So I keep flipping through more Betas, some Alphas. All standard employment records.
Then, near the back, I find a folder that’s thinner than the others.
I pull it out.
The name is crossed out. Omega designation clearly marked at the top.
And underneath, in red pen: Not on books. Let go due to safety concerns.
That’s it. No other details. No explanation of what “safety concerns” means. No date. No signature.
Now I’m really curious about what happened.
Voices outside.
Oh, fuck.
I shove the file back into place, close the drawer as quietly as I can, and dart out of Mason’s office.
I’m rushing back to my desk when the front door opens.
I drop into my chair just as the four of them walk in. My breath is racing, pulse on fire. Sweat is beading at my hairline under the wig.
“How does it look?” I ask, trying to sound casual even though my voice comes out slightly strained.
“Fucking stunning,” Dylan says, grinning widely. “Most luxurious one we’ve ever had. We’re thinking we can use it for the premium tours. Sunset cruises, private charters, that kind of thing.”
“We’ll need to adjust pricing,” Mason adds, pulling out his phone to make notes. “Market it to the higher-end clients. Maybe offer champagne packages.”
“Could be a game changer,” Jasper says, and there’s excitement in his voice.
“If we do this right, we could double our revenue on those tours,” Slater adds.
They’re all talking over each other now, brainstorming ideas, throwing out numbers, and I’m nodding along like I’m listening.
But my mind is locked on those words in red pen.
Let go due to safety concerns.
What the hell does that mean?