Sixteen – Morgan
Sixteen
Morgan
K elsey was in her studio workspace on the second floor, taking photos of new products to add to Beaufeather’s website. She wore a loose constellation-print tunic top and frayed jeans, her hair wound up in a purple scarf.
A softbox light illuminated a blue vintage glass candy dish with a ruffled edge and a pedestal base, piled high with chocolate bonbons.
Her head snapped around as I approached, zeroing in on my neck and torso, a peculiar quiver to her brows as she breathed in what was likely a thick cloud of Cal’s pheromones.
Not the first time I’d forgotten others could sniff out my secrets.
“Huh. I expected Owen to be the main topic of our after-dinner discussion, but—”
“It was an accident. And it won’t happen again.” A light flush betrayed my true feelings, but I wouldn’t change my mind. Couldn’t. Not with my career on the line.
“Jacobi’s never going to let you hear the end of it. Been telling me for weeks that your pheromone stud would make a move.”
“Hey, it’s not I kiss, you tell.” I surveyed the table full of new items along the wall, waiting for their time to shine—lotions and candles, ceramic vases, pillows, robes in silky fabrics, and an open box of the same chocolates in the candy dish. “Besides, he’ll be more interested in Owen.”
“I don’t know about that. ”
Kelsey adjusted the placement of the topmost chocolate, double-checking the composition on the camera’s LCD screen.
“Those pheromones…” She shot me a sly glance. “Are more than a little intense.”
“Funnily enough, so is Owen.” An ornate incense burner sat too close to the edge, a frequent Tenny landing zone, so I shifted it back a few inches to safety. “Want to go out for breakfast tomorrow? Need to pick up my car.”
“Sure, but can we make it lunch?” She gestured to the myriad items still waiting for their turn in the spotlight. “I’m going to be up late.”
“No problem.”
The timing of the meal didn’t matter. It was a rare Saturday with nothing on my schedule, and I could take a solo trip to the café in the morning to get my London Fog fix.
I picked up the open box of chocolates. “Thought you gave up on selling snacks. Are these from a new local chocolatier or something?”
Kelsey’s eyes went wide, and she clamped the corners of her mouth down, doing her best not to show one ounce of outward amusement. I’d seen this reaction before.
“…it’s soap, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sorry,” she said, green eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter.
A second look at the table confirmed the presence of more candy-shaped soaps. The loft probably smelled like a sudsy sugar coma, and I hadn’t the faintest clue. As per usual—and I’d never get used to it.
After talking to Kelsey for a few more minutes, I retreated to the library nest, Kip weaving between my ankles the entire way. Tenny ambled along in our wake.
A text from Cal arrived half an hour later, when I should have been editing my presentation for Redwing.
Instead, I was slumped against the reading wedge, wondering if driving an ice pick into my eye would hurt less than my resurgent migraine—and reading everything I could find about Pack Carling online.
Nine . Cal had nine parents. Ten, including his late mother. Mostly men, who either worked for Chaz Carling or were respected figures in other high-profile professions—an oncologist, a copyright lawyer. Dr. Sethi was an internist. Jorge Campos-Carling was a big name in nanorobotics.
Maybe theirs was a true old-fashioned high-society pack, a vehicle to amass wealth and accolades, more committed to their ambitions than each other .
But none of the parental pack members generated as many results as Cal’s half-sister, Heather Carling. She bore a strong resemblance to her mother, though she had a taller, fuller figure. Business articles frequently credited her with saving Verray millions through data-driven operational changes.
Yet, she was only a mid-level manager. Several gossipy articles claimed she’d been overlooked in favor of male alpha relatives. I didn’t want to believe it, but…
Something was amiss with the women of Pack Carling.
Clicking to another tab, I studied the adorably chubby face of a much younger Cal, maybe four years old, posing for a formal portrait with Chaz and a beautiful woman with generous curves and compassionate hazel eyes. His mother, Laurel Carling.
The founder of Brizo House, one of the largest omega non-profits in the Northport metro area. It offered emergency shelter to at-risk omegas and domestic violence resources, healthcare, childcare, preschool, and career counseling.
It was best known for its mating bond dissolution program, providing pro-bono legal aid and transitional housing to anyone, regardless of their designation. A vital service, a light in the dark for those most in need.
But bond dissolution was expensive.
My older sister, Audra, practiced pack and family law, so I knew how much it cost to dissolve a bond, especially under contentious circumstances. That’s why Brizo House was one of my largest annual donations.
Cal and I had been linked by our mutual desire to help people for much longer than we’d realized.
I pondered his text, uncertain if I should reply. Not wanting to lead him on.
Home. Thanks again for taking a chance.
I had gone way out of my comfort zone, hadn’t I? Pitching an untested proposition to a tech executive over dinner. Kissing a colleague on a city street, where anyone could have seen us. Ignoring that both he and his pack mother could tank my fellowship.
All very normal behavior with no potential negative repercussions. And I was more than content to maintain my delusion for the rest of the evening.
Cal’s next text was a baffling non-sequitur .
Are you more of a burrito or pizza kind of girl?
Does it matter?
Planning a working lunch on Monday.
Your team can send me their notes.
Tuesday? I’ll spring for double cheeseburgers.
My calendar’s full.
Would sushi on Wednesday change your mind?
I had to laugh at his persistence. Shaking my head, I checked my calendar before sending Cal the website for my favorite sushi place downtown
Too bad Kelsey was impervious to sushi bribery. No cheese, no interest. Which meant I needed to update Jacobi before he wheedled the events of the evening out of her in bits and pieces.
After determining he should be home by now, I set a timer to go off in an hour, just in case, so that we wouldn’t lose track of time. Otherwise, I’d be half-dead tomorrow.
Then again, half-dead might be an improvement.
I have an official Owen update for you.
Like I give a fuck.
Just had a business dinner with him and Cal.
TMI. Keep your indigestion to yourself.
Promise not to scream?
A video call came through. The camera zoomed in on a skeptical brow.
“Tell me, my so-called best friend, who likes to keep company with loft thieves and cat piss traitors, why should I care—”
“Remember that grumpy, kind of goth art history professor you used to draw half-naked all the time?”
Jacobi reared back, curls bouncing, and looked down his nose at me. “ Well, that’s an abrupt change of topic.”
“No, no. Just picture him, but maybe ten years younger. Wearing a three-piece suit and glasses. And instead of brooding in the ruins of an ancient cathedral, plunk him in a science lab, playing with lots of sharp objects.”
“Are you claiming that Owen Redmond is not only the scummy asshole who stole my home,” he said, voice rising higher with every word, “but he’s also a smolderingly hot nerd?”
“More or less.”
Jacobi blinked while the cogs of his brain whirred away. “That may require one to three full business days for me to process.”
“Would it help speed things along if you knew I kissed Cal?”
The resulting vocal outpouring wasn’t a scream. But it was close enough.