Chapter 7
Gabriel
The contract in my hand might as well be hieroglyphics.
I’ve read the same paragraph six times and still can’t make sense of it.
My attention keeps drifting to the sleeping woman in my guest room.
Because of her, my plans for Stanton Industries are in limbo, and my pack is threatening revolt.
In little more than twenty-four hours, she’s made havoc out of order.
And most of those hours she’s spent unconscious, which makes it even more impressive. Or irritating. I’m not sure which.
Even in sleep, she commands attention—not with conventional beauty, but with a presence that makes it impossible to look away. The flush of fever has faded, and her lips look soft and plump.
A soft sigh draws my attention. Kimmie stretches and throws one arm above her head.
Then she flips to her side and kicks away the blanket before settling.
Her t-shirt rides up exposing a stretch of pale skin above simple cotton underwear.
My mouth goes dry as I take in the gentle curve of her hip, the soft swell of her stomach, the way the thin cotton shirt drapes over her breasts.
I should look away. I’m not some hormone driven teen who can’t control himself around an attractive woman.
But my eyes linger, taking in details I have no business noticing.
The bright strands of her hair are swept away from the side of her throat revealing her delicate pulse.
The skin there looks so soft. Kissable, biteable.
The acrid scent of illness is still there, but it’s faded.
And underneath there’s a perfume that makes my alpha instincts surge to life.
Betas don’t usually smell so sweet. Hell, omegas don’t even smell this good.
Something like warm honey and fresh bread.
Then there’s that underlying note of cinnamon that reminds me of Sunday mornings and comfort.
It’s the kind of scent that makes you want to bury your face in someone’s neck and breathe deep, that makes you want to wrap yourself around them and never let go.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, all too aware of my body’s response to her presence.
This is ridiculous. She’s a business obstacle, nothing more.
The fact that she smells like every good memory I’ve ever had, that she fills an old t-shirt in ways that make my hands itch to touch… none of that matters.
We need her restaurant’s block for the new headquarters. The whole design revolves around it. Just because she’s distracting doesn’t change that.
My phone vibrates against the antique side table. Thompson’s number. The zoning board chairman owes me several favors. I have to take this call—it could be about the variance we need for the building height.
I step into the hallway and close the door softly behind me before answering. The conversation takes longer than expected as we reach a mutual understanding of how certain building codes might be interpreted. And how key mayoral appointments can be rescinded with the right influence.
When I return, the bed is empty.
The sound of running water comes from the bathroom. “Kimmie?”
No response. Just the steady drum of the shower.
“Kimmie, are you alright?” The memory of her collapse flashes through my mind. If Leo hadn’t caught her, her head would have cracked against the marble floor like a coconut on a rock. “Answer me, or I’m coming in.”
Nothing but the hiss of water.
Cursing, I push open the door. Steam billows out, carrying with it the intoxicating scent of her, now mixed with the floral notes of expensive shower products. Through the mist, I see her on the shower bench, head bowed under the spray. Naked.
Completely. Fucking. Naked.
I try to look away, but I can’t help cataloging every curve and valley of her body. She’s built like a 1950s pin-up, all lush curves and creamy skin. Water slides down her breasts, across her soft stomach, between her thighs. My fingers curl into fists with the effort not to reach for her.
Her shoulders slump, and I notice the shampoo still in her hair, the slight tremor in her arms as she tries to hold herself upright.
She looks utterly exhausted, defeat in every line of her body.
This isn’t the fiery woman who told me where to shove my offer.
This is one pushed beyond her limits, too proud to ask for help.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, attempting to cover herself with her arms. The movement only serves to emphasize the curves she’s trying to hide.
“Everything was fine until I tried to wash my hair. I brushed my teeth and bathed, and I thought I could…but everything’s spinning again. Damn, this is mortifying.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “You’re still recovering.”
“Says the man who’s seen me fall on my face and now this.” A weak laugh escapes her as she looks down at her own nakedness. “At least buy me dinner first. Oh, wait, you did that too.”
Even exhausted, she’s got spunk. “That didn’t exactly go as planned,” I say.
She shivers slightly, and I realize I’m letting her sit there getting cold while I admire the view. So much for being a gentleman.
“Hold still.” I reach for the shower head, adjusting the spray. “Close your eyes.”
She obeys as water drips from her lashes down her cheeks.
I work my fingers through her hair and try to keep the shampoo from running down her face.
Her hair is thick. The weight of the water has turned the curls to dark coppery waves.
Her cinnamony smell mixes with the steam until I’m drowning in it.
“You can open them now. Tilt your head back.” I use the handheld shower hose to rinse the last of the soap away and try to be clinical about the way water cascades down her body.
I’m failing miserably.
“Did I get soap in your eyes?”
She blinks up at me, wet lashes clumping together. “No. You’re surprisingly good at this.”
“Call me a Renaissance man.” I reach for a towel and wrap it around her carefully. My hands brush against bare skin, and it takes every ounce of control to keep the touch impersonal. To not let my fingers linger at her waist.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” she murmurs, leaning slightly into my touch. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll get poor person cooties all over you?”
“I’ll risk it,” I say as I dry her hair with another towel.
What I’m thinking is it’s already too late.
That somehow, in less than two days, this stubborn beta has already infected my entire pack with something more insidious than flu.
I’m fighting it harder than my brothers, but even I can feel the symptoms—
“Your shirt is soaked,” she says softly, reaching out to touch my sleeve where it’s plastered against my forearm. “It’s silk, isn’t it? And I’ve ruined it.”
“It’ll dry.” Water drips from my rolled sleeves, and my chest is damp where the spray caught me, but I couldn’t care less about the ruined fabric.
The towel around her body drops when I help her stand up and slip her arms into one of the oversized guest robes.
The white terry cloth emphasizes the pink flush of her skin compared to the dark auburn of her lashes and brows.
She’s looking at me with an expression I can’t read—no trace of yesterday’s hostility, just soft and considering.
“Can you lift your arms around my neck?” I ask, not entirely trusting her stability.
She nods, reaching up. The movement causes the robe to gap slightly, revealing the swell of her breasts. “This is weird, right? You being nice to me when you’re trying to destroy my life?”
Before I can respond, she sways on her feet.
I lift her easily, one arm behind her back, the other under her knees. The scent of her fills my nose, my lungs, making my alpha instincts go haywire.
“Thank you,” she whispers as I lower her to the mattress. “For helping. Even if you are the enemy.”
Her eyes meet mine, and for once there’s no pretense between us, no roles to play—just a man and a woman. Her arms are still around my neck.
I should step back. I need to step back. But I’m caught in her gravity, close enough to count every freckle.
Neither of us moves for a heartbeat, maybe two. Then I’m not sure who closes the distance—whether I bend down or she tilts up—but suddenly her lips are on mine.