Chapter 13 #3
I rush through my tiny studio apartment, nearly tripping over the rug that's perpetually sliding around on the hardwood floors no matter how many times I try to secure it with that double-sided tape that never works.
Past my bed that's really just a mattress on a cheap frame from IKEA with sheets that desperately need washing.
Past the kitchenette that's barely big enough to make ramen without bumping into the mini fridge and singular burner stove.
Past the two pieces of furniture I own that aren't the bed—a thrifted armchair with questionable stains I've covered with a throw blanket, and a bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks organized by absolutely no system whatsoever, spines cracked and pages dog-eared from multiple reads.
There's a tiny Christmas tree in the corner—three feet tall, fake, decorated with ornaments I've collected from dollar stores over the years. Twinkle lights are strung haphazardly along one wall because I can't afford a proper setup but refuse to let December pass without some holiday cheer.
I reach the door, one hand holding my phone pressed to my ear, one hand clutching my towel that's threatening to slip with every movement.
Take a breath. Say a quick prayer to whatever deity might be listening that this is just the delivery driver dropping off my expensive sushi and not something more complicated like my landlord with a noise complaint or a neighbor wanting to borrow something I don't have.
The door swings open.
And my eyes lock on Nash.
Nash. The lawyer Alpha from the elevator yesterday who smelled like motor oil and leather and something darker I couldn't quite place.
The one with the cocky grin who made me feel seen in ways I didn't expect.
The one who was at the bar last night, who publicly claimed me alongside Theo and Grayson in front of everyone.
The one who's now standing on my doorstep looking like every fantasy I've ever had about delivery services that turn into something more in those romance novels I definitely don't read obsessively.
He's wearing dark jeans that fit him so perfectly they must be tailored or he just has a body made for denim.
A leather jacket—actual leather, not the fake pleather stuff—over a grey henley that stretches across his chest in ways that should be illegal.
His dark hair is slightly messy like he ran his fingers through it recently or just rolled out of bed looking effortlessly hot.
There's stubble along his jaw that I want to feel against my skin.
And he's holding not only an envelope—official-looking with Express Mail markings, probably the paperwork Charlotte just mentioned—but also my Uber Eats order in its distinctive bag with the restaurant logo visible.
My twenty-three-dollar sushi that I absolutely cannot afford but ordered anyway. In his hands. Along with what might be my entire professional future in envelope form. This is either the best timing in the world or the worst. I haven't decided yet.
His eyes widen as he takes me in. Slowly.
Deliberately. Like he's savoring every detail and committing them to memory.
Starting at my dripping hair that's making wet spots on my shoulders and the cracked face mask that's probably flaking onto my chest. Traveling down to the towel that's barely covering me and riding dangerously high on my hips.
Lingering on my bare legs that are still slightly flushed from the hot bathwater and my wet skin that's starting to cool in the December air seeping through my poorly insulated doorway.
I watch his pupils dilate until there's barely any color left around the edges, just black want.
Watch his nostrils flare slightly as he catches my scent—probably stronger than usual since I just got out of the bath and my suppressants have worn off completely and I'm standing here basically naked and vulnerable in every possible way.
Watch his jaw clench like he's physically restraining himself from doing something we'd both probably enjoy but definitely shouldn't do in my doorway where neighbors could see.
He tries not to lick his lips. I can see the effort it takes. But it happens anyway—just a quick dart of his tongue across his bottom lip that makes my stomach flip violently and my thighs clench together in an automatic response I can't control.
His scent hits me like a physical force—motor oil and leather and something darker, richer, that might be whiskey or aged wood or just pure Alpha pheromones.
It's mixed with arousal now, thick and unmistakable, making the air between us feel charged and heavy.
My hindbrain sits up and pays very, very close attention to this Alpha on my doorstep who's looking at me like I'm something precious and wanted and worth claiming.
"Reverie? You still there?" Charlotte's voice comes through the phone, tinny and distant.
Right. Phone. I'm still on the phone. While standing in a towel in my doorway with an Alpha who's looking at me like I'm the main course and he hasn't eaten in days.
Nash slowly lifts the items he's holding—the envelope and the sushi bag—like they're offerings. Like he's a supplicant at my altar instead of an Alpha who could probably just push his way inside if he wanted to.
His voice is rough, deeper than I remember from the elevator, thick with something that sounds like barely restrained want.
"Delivery."