Eight – Wyatt
Eight
Wyatt
R esigning after the start of the school year was a power move, especially when you’re defecting to a gymnastics archrival. So what if my co-workers froze me out at the end? It didn’t bother me. I’d be jealous of myself, too.
I couldn’t get on Northport’s pirate ship fast enough. Something about my current life weighed on me. Not sure if it was the dead-end job or the distance from family, but I felt drained. Scraped too thin.
Which made everything about my new job even more perfect. Northport had better results and better funding. There was a clear path for advancement in the future. I could finally live near Owen, Aunt Tabitha, and her pack.
Ahoy, Captain Tusker, set a course for glory.
Or at least spare a chest of buried treasure. My finances were tapped out.
Breaking my lease and getting a moving pod at the last minute cost a small fortune. I crunched numbers for days, but the conclusion never changed, even after selling as much of my stuff as possible. Anything decent near the university was out of my price range. What I could afford was too far from campus, and the public transportation commute times were hellish.
My old car was in okay shape but couldn’t withstand a 2,000-mile road trip. Its sale earned a pitifully small amount. I could live without a car, but not without a roof over my head. There was only one way to make the move work .
I called my brother.
Unsurprisingly, Owen didn’t pick up. My brother didn’t do phone calls, at least not with me. I texted him the gist and asked him to call me when he had a minute. His emailed invitation for a video meeting was even less of a surprise. I don’t exist unless he can look me in the eye.
When our video chat connected, Owen skipped the empty pleasantries, as usual, and solved all my problems in less than three minutes. I didn’t even have time to say hello.
“What fortuitous timing. We’re closing on our new place the weekend before you arrive.” A link for a real estate listing popped up in the chat window—converted industrial building, fancy staging, lots of concrete, shocking price tag. “Joaquin and Alijah took the studio upstairs. Pick whatever room you want.”
“Shouldn’t you go first?”
Owen’s steely gaze warmed for a split second. “I’m the head alpha. My needs are secondary to those of my pack.”
“I’m still not sure about the whole pack thing, Owen.”
“That’s for the best.” His crocodile smile never failed to creep me out. “I would hate for you to think any of my prior offers afforded you the luxury of joining at will.”
It took everything in me not to laugh. If it kept a roof over my head, I could put up with his displays of dominance.
Owen had asked me to join his pack at least two dozen times over the years. The first time he asked, I was nine years old. So young that my designation hadn’t even been confirmed. He wasn’t about to deny me now, not if I was a good fit with the rest of his pack.
“Send me your flight details. One of us will collect you from the airport.”
“Thanks, I really—”
Really hated it when he logged off in the middle of a sentence. Didn’t even give me a chance to say goodbye.
Or thank you.
***
I made my connecting flight from Chicago to Northport with minutes to spare. The plane was fuller than I expected, so I had to jostle for room in the overhead bins for my carry-on.
My seat was a few rows back, with a hooded figure already by the window. The hood was a good sign. Maybe they were also running on fumes and wouldn’t want to make small talk while I listened to an audiobook.
As I approached, they looked up— she looked up. Trendy eyeglasses, angular nose, bow-shaped lips.
Morgan.
“Wyatt.” She tilted her head back to take me in. The hood slipped off, revealing a mussed reddish-purple bob. Never seen her with such short or flashy hair. “It’s been a while.”
Although her facial expression remained neutral, her wide eyes betrayed her. At least I wasn’t the only one unprepared for this encounter.
Sure, we followed each other on social media, but we hadn’t talked since that day. Six weeks after her accident. I didn’t know what to say to her then, and I sure as hell had no idea what to say to her now.
“Hi, Morgan.”
I eased down into my seat, overly aware of the breadth of my shoulders and how my body mass crowded her space. I tried to move as little as possible while fastening my seatbelt. Thankfully, the airline had pumped the cabin full of scent neutralizers. I probably smelled like a sweaty pile of plant compost.
Morgan placed her tablet face down on her lap. “Congratulations on your new job, coach.”
“Assistant coach—I’m the assistant coach for the alpha girls. And thank you.”
The corner of her lip twitched. Had I already done something wrong?
“I don’t suppose they told you the names of your team physicians yet.”
My pulse sped up. “Uh, no, they didn’t. Don’t start until Monday.”
“Would you like to know?” she asked.
“O-only if you’re one of them.”
Morgan angled toward me a bit so we could look one another in the eye for the first time in years. She had beautiful eyes. A true golden amber. Just like I remembered them.
“I support all the women’s gymnastics teams.”
Christ on a cracker. How was I supposed to react in this situation?
I was excited to work on the same campus as Morgan. It meant there would be plenty of chances for us to cross paths. If we exchanged enough greetings, maybe she wouldn’t mind having the occasional quick conversation with me. We could talk about sports or her cats.
Or fantasy books. I’d even try to read one if it gave me a legitimate reason to talk to her.
We could get drinks. Tea for her, coffee for me. Morgan didn’t like coffee.
The possibility of working together—on the same team—had never occurred to me.
But it made sense for the university to assign her to women’s gymnastics. As a former world-class gymnast, she understood all the skills and their associated risks. She was also the very definition of calm and collected. A consummate professional. Always had been.
At least, that’s how I liked to remember her.
“What other teams do you work with?” I asked, eager to keep the conversation going.
“Football. Women’s basketball and volleyball. Home games only.”
At the front of the cabin, the flight attendants ran through the standard safety demonstration, pointing out emergency exits and reminding everyone that scent-canceling spray was available upon request.
As if the cabin wasn’t already pumped full, preventing me from catching even a hint of her scent. That scent. The one ingrained so thoroughly in my soul that it might as well have been my own.
Asking for a fresh hit of her pheromones first thing after a decade apart would be the height of stupidity. Thank fuck work seemed like a safe topic.
“I’ve never worked with a mixed-designation team before. Is it weird?” Perfect. It was only the second stupidest thing I could’ve said.
“Yes and no,” she said, thumb running along the edge of her tablet. “The volleyball team has a good handle on ruts and heats, but the football team leaves something to be desired. Not that they aren’t trying. Being an inherently alpha-centric sport doesn’t help.”
“Enough to put you off working with them long-term?”
“I’m not sure.” Morgan’s attention drifted to the runway outside as we taxied. “Depends on where I go after my fellowship ends and what they need me to do. I’m still job hunting.”
That’s when I realized Morgan wore a dress shirt and nice pants under her hooded sweater, clearly on her way back from an interview. She might move to a different state next year.
I could lose her—I never had her.
Regret filled my stomach with lead knots. The cabin lights turned off. Our conversation died out.
She slid her tablet into the seatback pocket and pulled her hood back up. The plane picked up speed. We sank deeper into our seats, upper arms pressed together. Morgan closed her eyes. As if resigning herself to my presence for the next two hours.
The plane jolted as it went faster, faster—and then we were flying.
Flight.
Her trademark sign flashed to the cameras at the start of every competition and whenever she won a medal. I never found out why. It was just one of the many things I wanted to ask her that night in Montreal.
On the date we never got to have.
***
Morgan woke up with a start. She scanned her surroundings without recognition and pulled her hood forward, shielding her pale face from view as she took a few deep, shuddering breaths.
Questions piled up in the back of my throat. Was she in pain? Did she need water to take medication? Did the cabin pressure bother her head? I didn’t even know if it was safe for someone who’d had a TBI to fly.
There was so much—so, so much—I didn’t know about her. Didn’t have the right to ask. But I had to ask something.
“Are you okay?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
She wedged against the window, keeping me and my worries at bay. “Just tired.”
When we touched down, Morgan retrieved a professional work bag from under the seat before her. She took out her phone and a pill organizer. Mindful of her privacy, I looked across the aisle, studying our fellow passengers—okay, making faces at the cute baby two rows in front of us, earning slobbery giggles for my efforts—until she finished taking her meds.
She stared at her phone, her face pale, oblivious to the cabin door opening. I wasn’t convinced she was fully awake.
“Don’t forget your tablet.”
Morgan’s expression was downright distrustful as her hand dipped into the backseat pocket and pulled out the tablet. Looked at it like she’d never seen it before. Like it didn’t belong to her. “Oh. Thanks.”
Yeah, she wasn’t fully back online yet.
She slipped the tablet into her bag, then returned to looking at her phone. I followed suit. There was a message from Joaquin. He and Alijah were on their way, and they’d meet me outside baggage claim. Then we’d get tacos.
The carne asada, he promised, was orgasmic.
When it was our turn to deplane, I blocked the aisle to keep anyone from rushing Morgan as she got to her feet. I pulled down her suitcase while she reached for her coat in the overhead bin.
“Thanks again,” she said but didn’t quite mean it.
Sensing that she was running low on tolerance—both for me and traveling—I was careful to keep space between us. When I paused to snag my carry-on, the distance increased from three feet to eight.
Morgan exited the jetway first. I expected her to leave me in the dust—but she didn’t. She lingered near a column at the edge of the gate’s seating area, eyes still dull. I hated seeing her in pain. But there was nothing I could do about it.
“Heading to baggage claim?” she asked.
“Oh—yeah, I am.” Hopefully, she couldn’t tell how excited I was to spend a few more minutes together. “Can’t wait for this move to be over, and my bag seriously better be here. It’s got all my essentials in it. The rest of my stuff won’t get here for at least two more weeks.”
I walked a half-step behind Morgan to protect her if anyone got too close. She was an omega, after all. The least I could do was keep her safe in a crowd.
“Did you manage to find a place near campus?” She tucked some hair behind her left ear. There was a piercing on the inner cartilage, just above her ear canal. I didn’t remember her having it before.
“No, staying with my brother’s pack for a bit.” A pack with a rotational chore schedule. That wanted to make Sunday pack dinners a thing. Damn Owen and his house rules. “Might be a total shitshow.”
I was relieved to see a bit of color in Morgan’s face as she glanced over. “The perfectionist?”
“That’s the one! And he’s only gotten worse. Now he’s all corporate on top of being a dictator. Still a giant nerd, though. Don’t get me wrong, he’s brilliant and all, but also mildly insufferable.”
Morgan’s laugh was brief and low. It lingered deep in my chest, like a church bell on a quiet morning.
Several yards ahead, a trio of alphas in ugly tracksuits came out of a burger joint. They shouldered through a pack dressed for a tropical getaway, almost knocking down an older man in plaid shorts. A beta woman with a stroller hurried out of their way.
They headed straight for us. For Morgan.
Hell no, my inner alpha snarled. Demanded action.
I might only be five-seven, but I could take all three without breaking a sweat.
Stepping into Morgan’s path, my body became her shield, halting her progress with an outstretched arm, rolling my carry-on suitcase between her and the alphas to serve as an extra buffer.
They got close enough for one of their arms to brush my chest. I caught a whiff of their combined scents, an overly sweet mix of gasoline and stale spice. Like finding a bowl of powdery after-dinner mints in a truck stop bathroom. Right next to the urinal. Gross.
Thankfully, they had a sense of self-preservation and kept walking. I turned to Morgan, feeling satisfied with the outcome—for all of one second.
Morgan was angry.
Back ramrod straight. Jaw clenched. Throbbing pulse at the base of her neck. Extra firm grip on her luggage handle. Her stormy gaze searched my face. It was a silent interrogation. Demanding an explanation that I couldn’t provide—what were you thinking, you damn pushy alpha?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The desire to wrap her in my arms and apologize was so overwhelming that it hurt. I would apologize for overstepping. For assuming she welcomed my protection. For everything— everything —if it meant she’d stop looking at me like that. Like she was going to tell me to get lost.
Again.
Morgan bit back whatever curse was on the tip of her tongue. “This is where I leave you.”
“See you, Morgan,” I said. Totally useless. I knew she didn’t want me. Didn’t need me. But what if she couldn’t even tolerate me? “Thanks for the company.”
She walked away. Didn’t look back. Not even a spare glance. And I only had myself to blame.
***
The Tolliver Yards fitness center could put most professional gyms to shame. Whoever designed it knew their stuff. Despite the early hour, a handful of residents used the treadmills and stationary bikes, while a beta couple went to town on kettlebells.
As the lone man on the rowing machine, I was trying to put as much mental distance between Morgan and myself as possible. Trying and failing.
After an hour of self-torture, I called it quits. But I wasn’t ready to head back to the loft. Something about the space bothered me. It felt off, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. Not quite déjà vu, but close—and yet not.
So, I decided to kill some time checking out the resident amenities: the hot tub and steam room, the business center, and the lounge. Everything was top-of-the-line, too shiny to be meant for mere mortals.
The indoor playground was fantastic, though, with its climbing wall and reinforced play structure shaped like a treehouse. A safe space to burn off energy without having to keep burgeoning alpha strength in check.
Something I could appreciate, having left a trail of bent bike handles, decapitated toys, dented walls, and ripped hammocks in my wake growing up. A constant drain on my mom’s wallet, as she liked to remind me to this day.
An overpowered runt that didn’t know the value of a dollar.
I lingered at the door to the riverside patio. Boxwood hedges surrounded the entire building. Endless amounts of boxwood, as far as the eye could see.
And here I thought I couldn’t feel any more self-conscious about my scent signature.
A text from Alijah arrived. For strangers-turned-temporary roommates, we got on surprisingly well. We’d probably keep hanging out even if I didn’t join the pack.
Post-workout breakfast? Joaquin’s treat.
Works for me.
As I stepped off the elevator into the sixth-floor hallway, I heard the stairwell door click shut. Turning, I caught a brief glimpse of our possible neighbor through the inset window—a woman in a black coat, carrying a work bag…with purple-red hair.
Great. Now I was seeing shit.
“Pull yourself together,” I said, giving my cheeks a pair of light slaps, then headed inside. “You can’t go to pieces after one encounter.”
Early mornings were supposed to be my thing. Not Owen’s time to hold court in the dining room, wearing a suit vest, taking uniform bites of plain wheat toast. My brother acknowledged my presence with a nod and continued reading the news on his tablet.
Alijah’s voice echoed from the lofted secondary living room as I went upstairs.
“I like the chaise up here, don’t you? Perfect for a relaxing cuddle. Drink some wine, have some snacks, admire the skyline, look at the stars. But it needs something, don’t you think?” He buzzed about, arranging framed photos on the built-in industrial pipe shelving. A ballerina en pointe here, a touchdown celebration there. “Maybe some throw pillows—or a lot of throw pillows?”
“Sure. Pillows.” Joaquin lay sprawled across the massive gray chaise. Arms folded behind his head, on the verge of falling asleep.
“Too fussy for this room?” Alijah paused to look at his mate, elbow-deep in a packing box. “We could move it back downstairs.”
“Heavy.”
“I know it’s heavy, but that shouldn’t—”
“No. Too heavy.” Joaquin let out a monstrous yawn. “Pillows, yes. Hauling it downstairs again, no.”
Pillows . Realization slammed into me. My steps faltered as I crossed the walkway to my room.
Throw pillows. Big fat ones. An eclectic mix of vintage velvet fabrics. Tassels. Arranged behind Morgan’s back on a super-wide, dove gray chaise. Sitting next to Jacobi Zeldin. His blinding smile overpowering her subdued happiness.
The photo she’d posted on her birthday last year.
Buoyed by an odd concoction of panicked certainty—and leaking a massive amount of pheromones—I retreated to my attached bathroom, slamming on the exhaust fan. I sped through Morgan’s social media profile on my phone.
There. A photo of Jacobi sitting on the chaise. Massive silver Christmas tree glittering in the background. Decorated to the max. Watching a blonde woman play a grand piano. Not just any woman—but Kelsey Van Daal.
That very same grand piano was downstairs, shoved in the corner of the living room.
And there. A chunky black and white cat loafed on the windowsill of Morgan’s bedroom. The Wittara River meandered through the background. Brick buildings stood in the distance.
Almost identical to the view out the window of Owen’s overloaded new kitchen. The view I’d admired while downing my pre-workout coffee this morning.
Even the directions of the lofts made sense. Jacobi was an artist, who would naturally position his studio for northern exposure, and the same diluted light would also be ideal for Morgan’s bedroom because of her headaches.
Scrolling back even further, tearing through time, I kept looking for definitive proof. Until, at last, there it was. Dated eight years ago.
Jacobi stood in the middle of a half-collapsed brick building, arms wide, grinning like an idiot. Totally at odds with Morgan’s sedate caption: A fool and their money .
She lived in a building she bought with Jacobi. A former mill building.
This building.
Morgan was my brother’s new neighbor.
Should I tell the others? No, they didn’t know her. Didn’t need to know our history.
Or that the universe was taunting me. Putting me within diabolically close reach of my dream girl—who had become the woman I’d never be allowed to touch.
Divine retribution for being a dipshit.