Chapter Seven – Kayla
Jeremy isn’t home when I enter the apartment, which is good. It gives me some time to hop in the shower and wash off whatever scent I might’ve gotten by riding in Hayden’s truck. As I clean myself off, I can’t help but replay everything he said to me.
The most annoying thing about it all? I want to believe him. I want to close my eyes and trust that he means everything he says. My inner omega, as weak and nonexistent as she is, wants to lay down and relax for the first time in her life, knowing Hayden would keep the rest of the world at bay.
How pathetic is that? Ugh, I cannot have a crush on the man.
A crush. Me. I’ve never crushed on anyone in my entire life.
Never had the time or the energy, and to be honest…
I don’t think Jeremy would take it too well if I did like someone like that.
It wouldn’t end well, so it’s something better off avoided.
Logic tells me this, and yet as the night wears on and even as I go to sleep that night on the pullout couch, I can’t quite get Hayden out of my head.
Uh oh. I’m in trouble.
The next morning, my excuse to my brother is something along the lines of: I’ve been working through my lunch, so they shifted my hours a bit.
The hour-shifting allows me to sleep in a little.
He accepts it for what it is, although I suspect he only accepts it because he has a small job lined up for the day installing new tables at the local bar for cash under the table.
Meaning he’s too busy to really pay attention to me and what’s going on.
I won’t complain. If Jeremy knew I was getting a ride with someone, I don’t think he’d be happy.
Jeremy is gone before me that morning, which I’m thankful for. By the time I come downstairs to wait for Hayden, it almost feels as if I did something wrong by sleeping in. I didn’t eat anything extra like Hayden mentioned—as if I could—but the extra sleep was nice.
His truck pulls into the turnaround at seven-thirty on the dot, and I look both ways down the sidewalk to make sure no one is nearby, no one that would tattle on me to Jeremy. Only when the coast is clear do I hop in the truck and we get going.
Hayden is in a strangely good mood, although every time I’ve seen him so far, he’s been in a good mood, so maybe that’s just his usual self.
“Good morning,” he says with a grin. “Sleep well?” I suspect the only reason he doesn’t full-out stare at me is because he now has to pay attention as he drives.
“I did,” I say. “Thank you again for doing this. You really don’t have to.”
“It’s no problem. It’s not that far out of my way.” Whether or not he’s only saying that to make me feel better, I don’t know. Either way, I let it be.
The ride to the Bentley house is so much faster than taking the bus and walking.
It really doesn’t feel far at all. I am honestly amazed at how much time driving saves; maybe once I get a couple paychecks under my belt, I can save up for a beater or something, so Hayden wouldn’t have to keep driving me.
I don’t like relying on other people, if that much wasn’t already clear.
When he pulls us up to the house, he’s still smiling when he tells me, “I’ll see you later?” He asks it like a question, as if he’s unsure whether or not he’ll be driving me home.
“You get off before I do,” I say. “You don’t have to wait for me or anything. I can walk home—” But as I’m saying this, I can see him already mentally pushing away the suggestion.
“Nonsense. I don’t mind.”
I guess that’s that, then.
I get out of his truck and head toward the house.
If I have time today, I should check out the rest of the house.
I haven’t stepped foot upstairs yet; I’ve been too busy being nervous and overall way too anxious to sneak around and look for things Jeremy might be able to pawn off.
I really don’t want to mess this up. I might not like Bradford too much, but this is an opportunity that doesn’t fall into everyone’s lap. I can’t waste it.
Bradford isn’t around to greet me this morning, or, you know, to jump on me and ask me why I got out of Hayden’s truck. I go to find him to see what the day’s plan is. He set me up an old laptop in another office down the hall from his; sometimes he gives me hand-written notes to type out.
For reasons that should be obvious, I am the world’s slowest typist.
I go to Bradford’s office, and I’m about to step inside when I see his figure hunched over his desk. I stop. He has a hand on his face, shielding his eyes from the world. His wide shoulders are slumped. He looks… out of it.
Is he wearing the same clothes as yesterday? I think that’s the same suit. The fabric is a bit more wrinkly than it was yesterday, but all in all, it has to be the same.
Did he… sleep here? For some reason, the thought of Bradford sleeping at his desk is one that makes me strangely sad. The majority of people probably wouldn’t give a crap, but I do, and I don’t know why.
“Hi,” I say, breaking the silence as I step into the office. He stirs, slow in lifting his head and bringing those black eyes to me. I hold my hands behind my back as I watch him check the time on his watch.
A real, old-fashioned watch. Not one with the digital face on it. So weird.
He leans back in his leather chair. Now that I’m closer to him, I note the grease in his blond hair. It’s not as perfectly coiffed as it typically is. He’s not exactly a mess, but for someone like him, this might be as messy as he gets.
I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I’m so struck by the disheveled alpha before me that I can’t think of anything else to say. “Did you sleep here, at your desk, last night?”
Bradford runs a hand down the side of his face. Yet another thing I haven’t seen on him that I notice this morning are the traces of stubble on his normally clean-shaven jaw. “I suppose I did, though I didn’t get much.”
Maybe it’s the extra sleep I got, making me more observant, or maybe it’s the fact that I didn’t spend all that time walking and tiring myself out, but a very bizarre thought pops in my head right then.
It comes out of nowhere, and it’s completely unwelcome in every way—but once it appears, I can’t seem to push it away.
Bradford Bentley is kind of sexy when he’s disheveled and a little messy.
Whoa. Seriously, I don’t know where that thought came from or why it exists in the first place. He must be twenty years older than me, the very definition of an alpha who is out of my league. Even if we weren’t from different worlds, someone like him would never look twice at someone like me.
My cheeks burn when that thought echoes in my mind, and I let my gaze drop to the floor. Stare anywhere but his face while I’m blushing. Talk about awkward. I need to get a grip.
“Maybe,” I start, “you should try to get some real sleep before we start the day. You still look pretty tired.” Only when I feel the heat emptying from my cheeks do I dare lift my stare back to his face, and I find him gazing at me with an expression I can’t quite figure out.
Is he tired, or bored with this conversation? Does he care about anything? With his strange attitude, it’s no wonder why he’s alone in this house, with no pack and no mate. He’s the very definition of peculiar.
“If I wanted your opinion,” he mutters, “I would ask for it.” The way he says it, he’s done.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly say. “I didn’t mean to… to overstep. It’s just—” I swallow hard. “—you don’t look too good.” That’s kind of a lie, since I’m digging his unkempt appearance, but I do see some bags beneath his eyes.
Man, those eyes really are black as the night, huh? You could get lost in them if you aren’t careful. I shouldn’t stare into them for too long, otherwise I might forget to breathe.
Bradford doesn’t say anything, but he does get up. He walks stiffly, without a doubt due to being in that chair all night, and he moves like each step is a labored process, shuffling his feet on the floor.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
He stops, and he happens to stop two feet away from me. Now that the desk isn’t between us, I’m reminded of just how big he is. An über alpha to the core externally, even if he doesn’t radiate that typical alpha-asshole vibe.
He’s got the asshole vibe down, but not so much the alpha part.
“I’m going to shower and clean myself up since apparently I look so awful,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “Or do you have a problem with that, too?” Now that he’s closer to me, now that we’re standing almost side by side, his intensity is definitely more pressing than it was mere moments ago.
“I don’t—I mean, I didn’t—” Boy, I’m having a rough time forming a logical sentence right now, and I can’t explain why.
It’s not like it’s the first time we met and I’m suddenly overcome with all these feelings deep inside; it’s what I hear happens when an omega meets the alpha, or alphas, that should become her pack.
No. This is different. This is… I don’t know what this is.
Huh. Maybe getting some extra sleep was a bad thing. Maybe now that I’m a little bit more rested, I’m noticing things I otherwise wouldn’t, and noticing these things will get me in trouble with my oh so lovely boss.
Finally, I say, “I didn’t mean you looked bad.”
Bradford grinds his jaw as he mutters, “You literally just said I don’t look too good. How is that you not saying I look bad?” He’s got me there, unfortunately, but what he doesn’t understand is the distinction and why I said it.
There is a difference between looking downright terrible, looking good, and not looking quite like your usual self. But how can I say this to him without sounding crazy? Standing there before him, I feel like I’ve lost my mind.