17. Jeremy
Chapter seventeen
Jeremy
My first day on the new job dawns with a boatload of nerves.
After a long drive across the city, I pull up outside an imposing wrought iron gate set in the middle of a massive brick wall and recheck the address.
Am I really in the right place, in this suburb of mansions perched on manicured acres?
The governor probably lives down the street.
Head wise, we all know this kind of wealth exists, but to walk amongst it? Phew, that’s next level. And now, if I’m in the right place, I’m about to help an omega from one of these high-class families.
I climb out of my truck and tuck my hair under my hat, thankful I got a haircut while waiting for my last certification sign off. This is it, the moment I’ve been simultaneously dreading and longing for.
I press the buzzer on the marble pillar.
A female voice comes through the intercom, soft and raspy. “Yes?”
“Hello.” I take off my hat and clasp it to my chest, smiling at the panel. “My name is Jeremy, and I’m from Heat Wave.”
The voice channel sits silent.
I flex my toes inside my boots. “Am I in the right place?”
“Yes, you are. Drive in.”
The heavy gate rolls sideways, opening my path to the house at the top of a slight incline.
My heart pounds against my breastbone. What if the omega takes one look at me and tells me to leave?
Or what if there are other family members in the house who’ll be supervising?
Surely just one person couldn’t be living alone in this gigantic house.
I climb back into my truck and idle up the driveway, taking in the beautiful garden with its green lawns, neat hedging, and elegant lanterns lining the path. White gravel crunches under my tires as the vehicle rolls, forming a kind of percussion fanfare.
I pull up past the front steps and take a quick look around before popping my rut-prevention pill.
Can’t have me losing focus in there and going rogue.
And now it’s go time. I grab my duffel bag and Heat Wave kit from the tray and check my clothes are neat.
My truck, with its peeling paint, looks totally out of place against a backdrop of affluence.
Its driver probably looks even more out of place.
“Buck up, Jeremy,” I mutter under my breath.
The front door opens and a blonde goddess hovers just inside the threshold.
My mouth dries up. Her picture? Gorgeous.
But it didn’t do the woman standing before me any justice.
The blouse and skirt combo she’s wearing reveals long legs, a torso just a little shorter, and generous breasts.
Her long blonde hair hangs over one shoulder.
The nerves in my stomach explode into a flock of butterflies.
“Hi, I’m Jeremy,” I offer as I climb the stairs.
She stands still, blocking the doorway. “Willow.”
“Lovely to meet you. May I come inside?” First rule of contact: the client is always more nervous than you are.
“Yes.” Her voice pitches and my heart squeezes. She’s not sure about this at all.
“Thank you.” I go to walk past her but catch a whiff off her fragrance.
I jolt, dropping both my duffel bags on her tiled floor.
Pure, undiluted Jasmine. A shiver runs through me.
The scent’s warm as if reflecting her body temperature, and full of need.
But not quite the full-blown demand of an omega in heat.
Give it another hour or two, my instinct says.
Even if she’s not quite ready, my alpha soul quivers in response to her scent.
“You okay?” she asks, brows knitting together as she glances at the dropped bags.
Well, thank fuck I didn’t drop them on her feet.
“I’m wonderful,” I assure her. I want to pull her to my chest and breathe that scent for days, but thankfully all the drilling on self-control raises its militant head. “Where should I put my things?”
“The nest is down the hall to the right—”
A golden ball of energy shoots through the house, yapping and trailing yellow strands like a comet.
The tall dog skids to a halt, overshooting us on the smooth tiles, before rearing back and bounding in circles around me.
He’s the ultimate golden retriever, all long, silky hair and puppy enthusiasm.
“And you must be the reason a dog-lover’s required,” I murmur, offering my hand for him to sniff.
“This is Mr Shares,” Willow announces, beaming proudly. “He’s very friendly.”
“I can see that,” I say with a laugh. I hunker down on my heels and tousle his shaggy ears. “You look like a lot of fun, Mr Shares.”
The dog yips and rolls onto his back for belly pats. I give him a good scratch before remembering the omega needs to be my primary focus.
“You said something about a nest?” I ask, rising.
She points. “That way.”
I nod and stride along the hallway she indicated. Well, gallery, more than hallway, with works of art and room enough for a car to drive through. Trying not to stare too obviously, I sneak glances at the elegant house as I walk.
Chandeliers, soft cream carpets, white pillars, tan window furnishings. A few sparing touches of classy gold. In some ways it reminds me of the Heat Wave clinic. Do omegas instinctively like these elegant shades? I thought they loved color and fluffy things.
“Um . . .”
I stop and turn in front of a closed door.
Willow bites her lip, not meeting my eye. “This is my nest.”
Something about her words sounds less like an introduction and more like she’s clarifying. My heart squeezes.
“Is it okay with you if I go inside?” I ask gently. “If you don’t want me inside, I can park up on a lounge or—”
Her head jerks up, liquid emotion in her gaze. “No, I didn’t mean you couldn’t go in. I just . . . well, I hope you like it.”
The vulnerability in her voice tugs at me. “Willow, do you like your nest?”
She nods once, a hint of a smile playing on her velvet lips.
“Then I’m sure I’ll love it,” I offer. “Everything about this experience is for you to feel comfortable, okay?”
“Okay.” She slides past me to open the door, walking through first.
When I step into the nest, the vague unease about the sterile house vanishes.
She’s set up a canopy indoors and draped it with sheers curtains and fairy lights.
The round floor bed under the tent bursts with cushions in a rainbow array of vivid colors.
Makes me wonder if she rented the house for her heat.
“Bathroom’s just around that wall,” she says, pointing to a wood paneled curved wall. “And . . .” her eyes widen. “Oh, damn. I didn’t order a separate bed for you.”
Willow runs a hand over her ear, flicking that luscious hair back over her shoulder. “Um.” She turns, scanning the room. “I didn’t think that far ahead. The guest rooms will be dusty, so you can just sleep in my bed if you need to take a break during . . . well, after it starts.”
Her distress kills me. I drop my bags and take her hand. “Ma’am, please don’t worry. I won’t sleep away from your side once we get started. Plus, this spot looks super cozy.”
I turn and point to her round bed, shaped like an inflatable pool.
She snorts. “Your feet will probably hang over the edge.”
I toss her a wink. “Like I said, cozy.”
She throws up one hand and a chuckles. “All right, but if you need to, my room’s back the way we came, beyond the living area. And none of this ma’am business. Just Willow. I’m just Willow, and you’re just Jeremy.”
I nod. She’s normalizing this situation for herself, to pretend that she hasn’t paid for me to be here.
Mr Shares trots into the room, sniffing at my bags.
“Stop that,” Willow orders, toeing him aside. She glances up. “Um, are you hungry?” She fidgets with her dress’s breezy overlay.
Bless her for trying so hard to put us both at ease.
“I’m starving, ma’—Willow.” Shit, the way that came out sounded like ‘my Willow’, and I fucking love how that rolls off my tongue.
She chuckles and turns away. When she followed behind me earlier, I didn’t see her walk. Now her limp’s obvious as she shuffles through the house, often bracing one hand on the walls or furniture as she goes. Her dog’s nails click as he follows us.
Willow catches me staring in the glassy surface of a framed photo.
“This is a lovely house,” I blurt out.
Her expression softens. “Thanks.” She looks around, as if seeing it all for the first time. “Sometimes a bit drafty, perhaps.”
We round the corner and enter a large open-plan space with a kitchen overlooking a living area and patio.
The big glass expanse looks like it might fold back to connect the indoor and outdoor spaces.
I can picture summer night parties, with a grill running in the patio, string lights outside, and people laughing as they gather.
Willow throws open the fridge. “What do you feel like? I bought a lot.”
I peer over her shoulder. Foodstuff crams every available surface, a bag of carrots teetering dangerously on the edge of the lowest shelf.
“Would you like me to cook for you?” I ask.
She whirls, surprised to find me standing so close behind her. Her nostrils flare as she takes in my scent, and her eyelids slide closed. We stand there frozen for a long moment. My fingers itch to tuck loose strands of her hair behind her ears.
“Um, yes?” She jolts alert and angles her body away. “I mean, is that part of your training, or the package?”
“No. But maybe it should be?” I chuckle. “Truth is, I just want to help.”
She steps aside and I gently guide her toward the far end of the bench before turning back to the fridge and pulling out the at-risk carrots, plus cucumber, sauces, mayonnaise, and sausages. “Anything you don’t eat?” I ask.
Willow shakes her head. “If it’s in the house I eat it. You?”
I pause, arms full of food. “No, can’t think of anything I don’t eat. Except maybe caviar and snails and that kind of shit.”
Her lips press together. “Caviar’s in the top tray.”
Well, fuck. Not even twenty minutes and I’ve put my foot in it.
“Sorry,” I mumble.