Chapter 23
MORGAN
The room is… a disaster. Too many shades of red clash with white and cream in what is clearly meant to be a romantic color palette.
“This is garish,” I mutter.
“It’s kinda cute,” Jamie offers, totally sincere.
A heart-shaped box of chocolates sits on the coffee bar next to a bottle of rosé champagne and two glasses. Rose petals litter the bed. There’s a heart-shaped hot tub lined with red tile next to the window, and a mirror set into the ceiling above it.
The cancellation was clearly a honeymoon.
The beast pants, claws, whines.
I am quiet. I am still.
“You actually like this?” I ask Jamie.
“Yeah,” he says with a shrug.
I think he’d be more outwardly excited if I weren’t raining on the parade.
“It seems sweet,” he continues. “I hope whatever couple is alright.”
“Raise your standards,” I grumble. “I’d do far better for you than this.”
Jamie’s eyes flick towards me from under his lashes, and his scent thickens in the room. At least there’s a balcony. I stuff my hands in my pockets, and let myself out.
My ears tense as I hear our luggage arrive, but if I go into the room, I’m going to bite somebody’s head off, so I let Jamie handle it.
Once it’s settled, he walks up behind me.
“I have good news and I have bad news,” he says. “The bad news is that they’re out of rollaway beds too. The good news is I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”
“No,” I snap. What kind of alpha would I be if I let an omega sleep on the floor?
Jamie laughs, as if I made a joke. “It’s not like you’re going to sleep on the floor.”
I open my mouth to say something. But he’s right. Shit.
The beast grins. It’s practically slobbering.
“I’m capable of sharing,” I grit out. It’s the only option. If I can’t manage this, I don’t even deserve to be called an alpha.
“You really don’t have to—”
“Stop that,” I snap.
“What?”
“The martyr act.”
“It’s not an act.” Jamie’s voice is quiet. Wounded. Shit.
I sigh and brace my arms against the railing, head against my hands. The fresh air brings a reprieve from his scent.
“I… misspoke.” No apologies, no weakness, the CEO in me hisses. But this is Jamie, not a shark. “What I mean is… constantly… prostrating yourself is not the favor to other people that you think it is.”
“It’s not about favors,” Jamie murmurs.
Fuck. Let’s try an ‘I’ statement, Gia’s voice chimes. I click my tongue with annoyance, but make an effort. “I feel… irritated… when you throw your needs away.”
“Why?” His voice softens. This is finally the right track.
“Because you deserve better.”
“Oh…”
The beast finally wants something other than violence or sex, and it catches me off-guard. It wants to fold around Jamie, to pull him in close, to make sure his needs are always taken care of.
But that impulse is even more dangerous than the others, and I force my gaze back over the horizon and take in a deeper breath of fresh air.
Jamie shuffles. “It’s been a long day. I think we both deserve room service.”
“Hm. You didn’t have to lay it on so thick before,” I say, stepping back inside to find the menu.
“When?”
“Are you really that excited about room service?”
“Yes,” Jamie scoffs. “It’s like… magic. You ask for food and it just… appears.”
My eyes narrow slightly as I analyze his face, but I see only his usual earnestness. “That’s also how restaurants work.”
“Yeah, but… you’re at a restaurant. Room service like… shows up in your bedroom.”
I glance at the menu, make my selections, then hand it to Jamie so I can go check on the bottle of rosé.
“Would it make me sound out of touch if I said, ‘That’s what private chefs are for’?”
Jamie snorts and throws a pillow at me.
“Hey!” A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “Watch it.” I level a finger at him.
Jamie’s spine goes straight, his cheeks flush. My blood roars. Fuck. I turn away and focus on the rosé. It’s a sub-par vintage. Normally, I would send something like this right back, but as it is, I need a fucking drink. I peel the foil off and get to work on the cork.
Jamie buries himself in the room service menu.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I don’t know… there’s so many choices…” There’s a rustle as he turns the page again.
I twist the bottle opener with brisk, practiced movements. “Pick the one that you like best.”
“Everything looks so good though…”
“Then order everything.”
Jamie chuckles.
“I’m serious.”
“But I can’t eat everything. Not even close.”
“So?”
“That would be wasteful,” Jamie says firmly.
I scoff. “So you have at least one opinion.”
“Yes, I do,” Jamie says with a hmph. “It just takes me time to decide. Not all of us are ultra-efficient like you are.”
I leave Jamie be for the moment and pour two glasses of rosé, swigging down half of mine before offering the other to him.
“Done yet?”
“Impatient much?”
“Well, apparently, I’m hangry.” A growl rumbles in my words.
“Oh. Right. Okay, yep.”
Jamie changes his mind three more times in the process of ordering, and I end the call by ordering the last two things he was stuck between.
He winces, then says, “I guess I’m pretty hungry…”
“Whatever you don’t eat is mine. Or do you really think fish and rice is enough of a dinner for me?”
Calm spreads over Jamie’s face. “Oh… Thank you.”
He’s sitting on the bed, and I leaned against it to make the call.
We’re so close.
“W-want to watch TV?” he offers, scrabbling backwards for the remote.
“Sure,” I breathe. My stomach twists. I must be so hungry I’m nauseated. Because I couldn’t possibly be… nervous.
Something squirms in my chest, and it’s not the beast.
“Oh, I can’t believe this is on! It’s my favorite.”
“What is it?” On the screen, a group of people climbs down into a disgusting basement.
“Home Wreck Fixer. Have you ever seen it?”
“No.”
“Well, the homes start as wrecks. And then they fix them. It’s very satisfying.”
“Hm.”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. Reality TV is a sacred pastime. C’mon, what’s your guilty pleasure? Maybe it’ll be on after this.” The shifting lights of the TV play across his sincere expression.
“I don’t watch TV.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
Jamie looks at me with pity. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I have better things to do.”
“Unlikely. We’re watching this, and at the end, you’ll see.”
Five minutes later, the format of this show is already painfully clear. Shock and awe for the first third. Neatly edited construction for the second. Glossy reveal for the third. Predictable.
Jamie gasps at every made-for-TV twist. “Oh no, do you believe that? …oh shit. …wow, that’s smart.”
I watch him as much as I watch the show. I love the way those green eyes dance when he’s engaged. They dim so quickly when he makes himself small.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Why don’t you go let them in,” I say, knowing he’ll enjoy it much more than I will.
He jumps up and scurries over, light with glee as he beckons the hotel employee in. He nods eagerly at the explanation of which dish is which then thanks the person profusely as they leave.
He perches on the edge of the bed, staring at the silver covers.
“Go on,” I say, with a tilt of my chin.
Jamie removes one of the covers like the Crown Jewels are underneath it.
“Oh, that smells amazing.”
“Of course it does,” I say with a chuckle, but as I dig into my fish, I have to admit, it tastes better with Jamie’s wonder as a pairing.
I remember my instant-noodle days, but I was raised on fine cuisine. Hiring a private chef was a return to my birthright. To Jamie, it’s a whole new world.
I like that I can share these things with him. That I can leave some lasting impact on his life—even if it’s ruining him for Target and Olive Garden or wherever it is ‘normal’ people eat these days.
There’s something intimate about sitting on the bed to eat with him. Intimate and dangerous.
I like my flings short and intense. But I can tell Jamie’s not that kind of person. Giving in would only hurt him, and… for some reason, I care.
But god, is it hard. I know exactly what I’d do. Order a chocolate dessert. Ply him with another glass of rosé. Reach over, gently turn his chin up towards me. He’d melt in my arms.
He’d be utterly mine, for as long as I want. For the day, the week, the month.
If he were a beta, I’d have already done it.
But he’s an omega. And PR aside, it would be all too easy to do something that would be permanent for him.
It’s my job to keep him safe. And that includes from me.
So I settle back and ask questions I can already guess the answers to about the home wreck show. Jamie’s happy to oblige.
The next episode starts. I finish another glass of wine, finish dinner, and ask a question I can’t guess the answer to. I never do that.
“What city is this one in? That house costs less than my car.”
He quirks a brow, a light smile on his lips, but answers simply. “Indianapolis, I’m pretty sure. Or Detroit? I always confuse it with one of the other shows...”
I ask more questions, and Jamie continues to answer them in good faith. It wouldn’t even occur to him to make someone feel foolish.
I relax in a way I haven’t relaxed in a very long time. Maybe ever.
Confidence is familiar to me. There’s a calm in being at the eye of the storm, assured I’ve laid every domino to my liking.
But this is different. This is… contentment.
Jamie chuckles at a stupid pun from the show’s host. Fuck, his laugh is cute.
We take turns in the single bathroom. I take another extra dose of suppressants, this time from a fresh batch I had Eileen pick up for me.
I check my email—I was distracted enough I didn’t see the reply from Arthur come in.
The new test results. I compare them to the old, and the slight variance is within instrument precision. I don’t like that. It means we’re not testing the right things.
Something is wrong with this batch, I’m sure. The fresh pack should provide me extra coverage.
And I’m going to need it.
I slip into sweats and a baggy t-shirt and return to the room. I don’t care how awkward this is going to be, I’m not wearing a bra to bed. Period.
Jamie takes his turn in the bathroom, and I keep the show on. I actually keep watching it. It’s entertaining enough.