Chapter 3
Itoss the phone onto the couch, biting out a low curse before running my hands over my face. Jasper fucking Miller is going to stay here for weeks. As if seeing him nearly every day at rehearsal isn’t torture enough.
Why the hell did I say yes?
I blow out a breath and walk into the extra bedroom, going through the motions of making sure it’s picked up enough for someone to stay here. I pull both of my guitars off the wall, digging the stands out of the closet.
Of course, I know why I said yes. It’s unspoken code that you help out another member of the orchestra when they need something. They’d all do it for me. Some of them have done it for me. But, fuck, I don’t want it to be Jasper that needs help right now.
I can barely keep my eyes off of him as it is. Having him in my space? It’s going to be nearly impossible to keep up my feigned indifference, my ruse of complete disinterest in him. And that’s going to be a problem. I’d flirted with him relentlessly the first few months he joined the philharmonic three years ago. He was cordial, even friendly, but at no point did he reciprocate.
So why can I not manage to get him out of my head, even now?
The two soft knocks on my door mean I’m out of time to muse—or spiral, as some would probably call it. I set down the last of the guitars in the living room and then open the front door, holding my breath the entire time. Huntley greets me with a too-aware smile, her hazel eyes sparkling. I scowl, and her smile widens. Before I can say anything, she’s stepping into the living room, leaving the person of my greatest sexual torment standing on the threshold, two laundry baskets in his hands.
I smooth out my expression and force my body to be unresponsive, offering him a polite nod as he steps into the apartment.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Sure thing,” I mutter. Pointing toward the extra bedroom, I say, “Feel free to take up whatever space you need in there. Should all be empty.”
Huntley takes both baskets from him, heading into the bedroom.
Like the fucking meddling traitor she is. I make a note to pester her about it tomorrow at rehearsal. Jasper blows out a breath, messing with the chain of a thin silver necklace tucked under his crew neck. I don’t dare move from my spot beside the door, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from doing something absolutely asinine.
“The maintenance guy said it would be a few weeks. Insurance is convinced it’ll take three,” Jasper says after a moment. “I’ll do what I can to get out of your hair as quickly as possible. I know having a roommate isn’t what you signed up for.”
I shrug and run a hand through my hair, scratching at my tattoo. “It is what it is,” I say eventually. “Don’t stress too much about it.”
He offers a single nod and then grabs the suitcases Huntley abandoned, rolling them into the spare bedroom. Against my better judgment—who knew I even had a good one, yeah?—I follow a few steps behind him and lean against the threshold, crossing my arms, trying to exude calm, collected control. Huntley and Jasper make a good team, working together seamlessly. They don’t bump into each other, don’t accidentally go to the same space at the same moment. It’s mesmerizing.
At least that’s what I’m going to tell myself is mesmerizing.
Because it’s definitely not Jasper’s ass in those jeans. And certainly not the way it fills out those jeans as he leans down and grabs something he dropped on the ground.
Blood rushes to my groin, and I sigh, adjusting my stance, ignoring the sudden bergamot bleeding from me as I scent for a goddamn Beta.
“Need anything?” I ask.
Huntley glances up with a smirk across those lips, and I scowl at her. She cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, glancing over at Jasper where he’s paused in front of the night stand.
Staring at me.
His gaze flicks down, noting my erection pushing against my sweats, before darting back to Huntley. It’s easy enough to see the conclusion he’s drawn.
“We’re fine,” he says, polite as ever despite it being a clear dismissal. He turns back for the nightstand, adjusting something in the top drawer.
I scowl at Huntley again as she bites her lip before closing the door.
This is going to be a long three fucking weeks.
“Of course, he’s a fucking morning person.” The comment is useless, but it makes me feel better as I cross from my ensuite to the closet, grabbing a set of briefs and pulling them on before picking out a set of jeans for the day. “Everyone has to have a downside. Lucky for me, he has two: he likes mornings, and he thinks I’m straight.”
I shake my head, blowing out a breath and running my hands through my hair, making it even messier.
Just walk out there, Rylan. He’s your goddamn roommate, not the fucking police.
Maybe this time I’ll actually listen to myself. I look around my bedroom, trying to come up with another thing to do to justify hiding in here. But the shelves are spotless and the clothes are actually put away. Even my music is organized within an inch of its life.
Fuck it.
I cross the room and pull the door open, too aggressively, and walk into the living room before I can decide to take a second shower. Jasper is quietly making something at the stove, his back to me. I breathe out a sigh—of relief. Definitely relief. There’s no way I’m disappointed he didn’t catch me all hung up over him out here.
He glances over his shoulder as I grab one of the protein shakes from the fridge, shaking it before opening it and drinking it all in three large gulps. I pretend I don’t see the way his throat ripples with his swallow.
“Morning,” he says. “I’d say ‘good’ but then I’d still be asleep and not waiting for this stove to work so I can get to my private lessons before rehearsal.”
I frown. “What’s wrong with the stove?”
He shrugs, stepping to the side. “The Jasper Touch, apparently. Mom’s given me shit for it since I was a teen. I’m just lucky it’s only snapped bows and not the cello.”
I cock an eyebrow as I toss the empty shake into the recycle and then cross the kitchen. Bows still cost hundreds of dollars.
“How many have you snapped?”
Jasper frowns. A rock settles in my gut, but I ignore it. Just a lovely side effect of being Alpha: I don’t like hurting those that are dependent on me. I viciously tell those instincts that Jasper isn’t, in fact, one of those people, but they just ignore me.
I finally register the blue sauté pan Jasper holds.
“Oh. It’s the wrong pan,” I say, grabbing the other from the rack above the stove. “Induction cooktops have certain types of pans that work. I haven’t gone through all my extras yet.”
Jasper nods, taking the frying pan from me and switching them out, transferring the uncooked French toast without managing to drop a single piece of egg onto the ground.
“Thanks.”
I back up several steps, trying to ignore the way my body responds to his nearness. The distance, of course, brings the rest of him into sharper focus. Just when I’ve managed to keep my dick from getting involved in all this, I notice what he’s wearing.
Jasper in a tux is devastating. In gray sweats? He’s every wet dream I’ve ever had come to life.
They hug his ass and ride low on his hips, and the simple tee he’s wearing rides up every time he does something to the French toast, revealing that sliver of skin just above the waistband. He twists, and I can see the hard line of his hip.
I force a swallow and take another step back, trying to remember that we’re fucking coworkers. Sure, people fuck around between sections all the time. But Jasper is practically orchestra royalty. Everyone adores him. If I fuck him and he hates it, it’ll ruin my already precarious standing with the concertmaster.
“You want a ride to rehearsal?” I ask.
Jasper glances up before shaking his head. “I have a date afterwards, so I’ll just take a ride share.”
A date.
Right.
I ignore the roaring in my ears, the flash of anger that heats my skin, the clench in my belly. I shove all the pieces of my Alpha instincts rumbling uneasily just below the surface until I can’t feel them, sense them, until I no longer have the urge to rut. I might need to swing by the Council’s heat facility and see if there’s a fucking Omega that needs someone. Because there’s no way I will survive three weeks of my instincts doing this.
I force my voice to be calm. “Sounds like a plan.”
I turn and head back to my room, managing to grab one of my electric guitars from the stand in the living room—and pretend I don’t notice how my hands shake.