CHAPTER THREE
Reese
The Business Strategy classroom smells like nothing.
No pine. No ocean salt. No leather or cinnamon or clean cotton.
Just industrial carpet, whiteboard markers, and the faint chemical tang of whatever they use to clean the desks.
I arrive fifteen minutes early, claiming a seat by the window where fresh air might dilute any lingering scents clinging to my clothes.
I spent ten minutes in the bathroom before this, trying to air out my jacket. Even with suppressants working overtime, even with being careful, I know I carry traces of them now. Eight distinct Alpha scents that have somehow started to layer into something uniquely us.
The other students filtering in don't seem to notice. Or maybe they're too polite to mention why I smell like I've been wrestling the entire hockey team.
"Rough morning?"
I glance up to find Sierra, one of the few other females in the business program, sliding into the seat beside me. Her nose wrinkles slightly, and I know she's catching the scent cocktail.
"Something like that," I say, aiming for casual. "Early practice."
"With the rowing team, right?" She pulls out her laptop, but I catch her giving me a sideways look. "That must be... intense. All those Alphas."
"It's fine." The lie comes automatically. "They're just teammates."
Sierra makes a noncommittal sound that suggests she's not buying it, but Professor Hawthorne walks in before she can probe further.
"Alright, everyone, settle down." Martinez is an older Beta who treats all students with the same detached professionalism. "Today we're starting the semester project. Forty percent of your grade, so choose your partners wisely."
A collective groan rises from the class. I sink lower in my seat. Group projects are complicated enough without having to explain why I might need to miss meetings for practice, or why eight overprotective Alphas text me every thirty minutes.
"I've taken the liberty of pairing you based on complementary skill sets," Martinez continues, pulling up a slide. "No switches, no complaints. You're training for the real world where you don't get to choose your colleagues."
I scan the list projected on the screen, looking for my name. When I find it, my stomach does something complicated.
Callahan, Reese - Whitmore, Quinton III
I know that name. Everyone at Sable Ridge knows that name.
Lacrosse captain, old money, the kind of Alpha who was probably born in a suit.
More importantly, he's someone Gray mentioned once in passing as being from his prep school days, though the way Gray's jaw tightened suggested they weren't exactly friends.
"Looks like we're partners."
The voice comes from directly behind me, smooth and pleasant. I turn to find Quinton Whitmore standing there, designer backpack slung over one shoulder, smile perfectly calibrated to be friendly but not overwhelming.
Sierra gathers her things quickly, but not before shooting me a look that says we'll talk about this later. She yields her seat with a polite nod to Quinton, who waits until she's gone before settling in.
He's handsome in that catalog model way. Dark brown hair styled with something expensive-smelling, green eyes that seem to take in everything while revealing nothing. His scent is subtle - sandalwood and leather, expensive and controlled.
"Hi," I manage. "Nice to meet you."
"Quinton," he says, extending a hand. "Though I think we've crossed paths before. You cox for the men's varsity eight, right?"
I shake his hand, noting the firm but not aggressive grip. "That's right."
"Impressive win at Riverside. I caught the end of it." He settles into his seat, arranging his things with easy confidence. "Must be challenging, being the only woman on the team."
"It has its moments."
He laughs, a warm sound that seems genuine. "I bet. I know some of those guys from various places. Gray Lockwood and I actually went to prep school together."
Something in the way he says Gray's name makes me pay closer attention. Not hostile exactly, but... complicated.
"Small world," I offer.
"Smaller than you'd think." He pulls out an iPad and stylus. "So, strategic analysis of emerging markets. Thoughts on which region we should focus on?"
The shift to business is smooth, professional.
I relax slightly. This is manageable. Just a normal class project with a normal classmate who happens to be an Alpha but doesn't know anything about my designation or what happened last weekend or why I currently have a fading mark on my neck hidden under concealer and a strategically placed scarf.
We spend the next thirty minutes outlining our approach. Quinton is smart, focused, and actually listens when I make suggestions. He takes notes in neat handwriting, asks thoughtful questions, and doesn't once make me feel like he's humoring the little Omega.
Not that he knows I'm an Omega. As far as he's concerned, I'm just another Beta student trying to survive Martinez's notorious workload.
"We should probably meet outside of class to work on this," he suggests as Martinez wraps up. "Library? Or there's a coffee shop off campus that's usually quiet."
My phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.
I glance down to see the team group chat exploding.
Bo: Where are you? Zane: Business building, right? Tyler: Her class ends in five minutes. Jackson: Someone should walk her to the dining hall. Beckett: I'm closest. Bo: I've got it. Gray: Everyone calm down. She's fine.
I silence my phone, cheeks heating. "Library works. When were you thinking?"
"Tomorrow afternoon? Say, three?"
Another buzz. I don't look this time.
"Sounds good." I start packing up, aware that Quinton is watching me with what seems like casual interest.
"Everything okay?" He nods toward my phone, which is now vibrating continuously against the desk.
"Just the team. They're..." I search for the right word. "Involved."
"Protective?"
The word hangs between us for a moment. There's something in his tone I can't quite read.
"Something like that."
He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder with fluid grace. "Well, I'll let you get to them. See you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," I confirm.
He leaves first, and I take a moment to check my phone. Seventeen messages. The last one is from Bo: I'm outside your building.
Sure enough, when I exit onto the main quad, Bo is leaning against a tree about twenty feet from the door. He straightens when he sees me, that Southern sunshine smile warming his features.
"Hey, sunshine. Thought you might want company to lunch."
"You didn't have to come get me."
"Wanted to." He falls into step beside me, close enough that our arms brush. "How was class?"
"Fine. Got assigned a semester project."
"Yeah? Who's your partner?"
I hesitate for a fraction of a second. "Quinton Whitmore."
Bo's expression doesn't change, but I feel him tense slightly. "The lacrosse guy?"
"You know him?"
"Of him. Gray's mentioned him a few times." Bo's voice is carefully neutral, but I've learned to read the subtle shifts in his tone. "You'll be working together a lot?"
"It's a major assignment, so yeah."
"Hmm."
We walk in silence for a moment. Around us, campus life continues as normal. Students sprawled on the grass studying, a frisbee game happening on the lawn, the distant sound of someone practicing violin. It all seems so separate from the bubble of complexity the team and I exist in now.
"You don't have to worry," I say quietly. "He's just a project partner."
Bo looks down at me, and something in his expression makes my chest tight. "I know. It's just..."
"Just what?"
"Nothing." He shakes his head. "Come on, Zane made pasta. Claims it's a family recipe, but I'm pretty sure he got it off the internet."
As we head toward the team house, I glance back toward the business building. For just a moment, I could swear I see someone watching from one of the upper windows. But when I look again, there's no one there.
My phone buzzes one more time. A text from an unknown number: Hey, this is Quinton. Got your number from the class roster. Looking forward to working together.
It's perfectly professional. Totally appropriate. So why does something about it make the hair on the back of my neck stand up?
I delete the notification and follow Bo inside, where the chaos of eight Alphas attempting to serve lunch drowns out the quiet unease settling in my stomach.
"Who made garlic bread?" Tyler asks, examining a somewhat charred piece of bread.
"That would be Jackson's contribution," Eli says dryly.
Jackson grunts from where he's slouched against the counter. "It's rustic."
"It's carbon," Beckett corrects, tossing it in the trash. "This is why we don't let you cook."
"Reese!" Zane lights up when he sees me. "Perfect timing. You can be the official taste tester."
He holds out a spoon with red sauce, and I obediently taste it. It's actually good - rich and savory with just enough spice.
"Family recipe?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"My grandmother's," he insists, then grins. "My grandmother being a lovely Italian woman named Google."
The tension from earlier starts to ease as I settle into the familiar chaos of lunch with the team.
Gray appears from the hallway, messenger bag still slung over his shoulder from class.
The moment he enters, I catch his scent - cedar and ocean waves - and have to focus on keeping my breathing steady.
He nods at me before taking his usual seat at the head of the table.
"How was class?" he asks, tone neutral.
"Good. Got assigned a project partner."
I don't elaborate, but I catch the look that passes between him and Bo. Gray's expression shifts minutely.
"Anyone we know?"
"Quinton Whitmore."
The kitchen goes quiet for just a beat too long.
"Interesting," Gray says finally, reaching for the pasta bowl. "He's smart. You'll do well on the project."
It's a perfectly reasonable response. So why does it feel like there's an entire conversation happening under the surface that I'm not privy to?
Cameron, who's been silent as usual, looks up from his plate. His dark eyes find mine across the table, and something in his expression makes me think he sees more than he lets on.
"The library's usually crowded this time of semester," he says quietly. "For project work."
It's the most words he's strung together in days, and I'm not sure what to make of the observation.
"We'll figure it out," I say.
My phone lights up with another text from Quinton: BTW, if you ever need a quiet place to study, my apartment is just off campus. No pressure, just offering.
I flip my phone face down, but not before Bo sees it. His jaw tightens slightly.
"Everything okay?" Eli asks, always too perceptive.
"Fine. Just project stuff."
The conversation shifts to afternoon practice, to the upcoming meet, to anything but the fact that I'm going to be spending significant time with an Alpha outside our carefully constructed bubble.
But I can feel the undercurrent of tension, the way they're all hyperaware of this new variable in our already precarious equation.
As lunch winds down and we start cleaning up, Gray appears at my elbow.
"Be careful with Quinton," he says quietly, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. "He's not what he seems."
Before I can ask what he means, he's gone, heading upstairs to grab his gear for afternoon practice.
I stand there holding a dish towel, wondering what exactly I've gotten myself into.
Through the kitchen window, I can see the lake in the distance, calm and blue under the afternoon sun.
In a few hours, we'll be on the water, where everything makes sense, where the only thing that matters is the rhythm of oars through water.
But first, I have to navigate this new complication. A project partner who seems perfectly nice, who doesn't know my secrets, who offers a glimpse of normalcy in my increasingly abnormal life.
So why does everyone seem so worried?
My phone buzzes again. Quinton: Also, Southeast Asia might be interesting for our project. Emerging markets with complex dynamics. Thoughts?
I type back: Sounds good. We can discuss tomorrow.
Normal. Professional. Simple.
Nothing about my life is simple anymore.
"Ready for practice?" Zane asks, bouncing on his toes with typical pre-practice energy.
"Always," I say, pocketing my phone.
But as we head toward the boathouse, I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something. Some piece of information that would make everyone's reaction make sense. Gray's warning echoes in my head: He's not what he seems.
Then again, neither am I.
The irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, an Omega pretending to be a Beta, surrounded by Alphas pretending we're just teammates, worried about an Alpha who's pretending to be... what?
I guess I'll find out tomorrow at three.