Chapter 14
Side Quests & Slip-Ups
~NASH~
The door swings open.
And my brain short-circuits so completely that I'm pretty sure I actually stop breathing for a solid five seconds.
Reverie.
The Omega I came here to tell about the temporary pack arrangement I signed—basically on her behalf without asking permission first which seemed like a brilliant idea yesterday in Charlotte's office but now feels increasingly presumptuous and possibly illegal and definitely crossing some professional boundaries.
The Omega whose Uber Eats delivery I intercepted when I was scrolling through the delivery app during a boring moment and realized the address matched the one Charlotte gave me for the paperwork.
The Omega who's been occupying approximately ninety percent of my thoughts since that elevator encounter where she smelled like heaven and looked at me with those eyes.
I do side gigs when I'm bored.
Grayson calls them 'side quests' like we're living in some kind of video game and I'm the NPC who can't sit still.
Delivery work, legal consultations, fixing bikes at the shop, whatever keeps my hands and brain busy.
It drives Grayson crazy—'You're a successful lawyer, Nash, you don't need to deliver sushi'—but he doesn't understand that the restlessness is part of who I am. Always has been.
But when I saw Reverie's address pop up on the delivery app, something shifted.
It wasn't just a side quest anymore. The idea of her ordering food at two in the afternoon—meaning she probably hadn't eaten breakfast, meaning she might be struggling financially, meaning she might be hungry—it bothered me.
Deeply. Irrationally. In a way that made me grab my bike keys instead of the truck keys because the bike is faster and I needed to get there now.
That's also the reason Theodore and Grayson decided to 'urgently' follow me. Which was totally unnecessary. I told them it wasn't necessary. They came anyway because apparently my pack can't let me do anything alone without supervision.
They're probably still waiting for the elevator since Theo isn't good with stairs unless it's to save his life or someone else's.
Too many combat injuries. Too many missions that left him with pins in his knees and a permanent limp he tries to hide.
He can run if he has to, but stairs? Stairs are his nemesis.
I took the stairs two at a time. In perfect condition for it. Legs that work. Lungs that don't quit. And the overwhelming motivation of her scent drifting down from the third floor like a beacon calling me home.
She's standing in her doorway.
Wearing nothing but a fuzzy pink towel.
Fuck.
Her hair is dripping wet—honey-gold with those orange tips plastered to her shoulders and leaving dark wet spots on her skin.
Water droplets are sliding down her neck, disappearing into the towel that's wrapped around her body and tucked between her breasts in a way that makes my hands itch to just.. . pull.
The towel hits mid-thigh. Barely. Showing off legs that are flushed pink from what I assume was a hot bath, smooth and soft-looking and absolutely perfect. The kind of legs that make my brain conjure extremely unprofessional thoughts about having them wrapped around my waist while I—
Nope. Not going there. Focus.
There's something on her face—green, crusty, cracking in places like dried clay. A face mask that's clearly been on way too long and is now flaking onto her chest in little green specks. One piece falls as I watch, landing on the swell of her breast visible above the towel line.
She looks absolutely ridiculous. Green face mask cracking, hair dripping, standing barefoot in a hallway in nothing but a towel.
And also like the hottest thing I've ever seen in my entire thirty years of existence.
How is that possible? How can someone look simultaneously like a disaster and like a centerfold?
My cock twitches immediately—an involuntary response I have zero control over that makes my jeans suddenly feel three sizes too small. My heart skips a beat. Then another. Then does this weird stuttering thing in my chest like it's forgotten its job and is learning how to beat all over again.
This is bad. This is really bad. I'm supposed to be here professionally. To explain the pack arrangement. To hand over paperwork. Not to stand in her hallway getting hard from the sight of her in a towel like some kind of creep.
Her scent hits me like a physical force—like walking into a wall I didn't see coming.
Vanilla buttercream so rich and sweet it makes my mouth water instantly.
Caramel that's warm and decadent, the kind that makes you think of lazy Sunday mornings and indulgent desserts.
And something citrus-bright cutting through the sweetness—lemon or orange or maybe grapefruit, creating this perfect balance that's sweet without being cloying.
It's stronger than it was in the elevator yesterday—exponentially stronger. Overwhelming. The kind of strong that makes every Alpha instinct I possess sit up and howl.
Probably because she just got out of the bath and her pores are still open, releasing pheromones at maximum capacity.
Probably because she's not wearing suppressants and there's nothing blocking the natural flow of her scent.
Probably because there's nothing between her skin and the air except a thin layer of terrycloth that's doing absolutely nothing to contain the olfactory assault.
Does she realize how strong her aroma is right now?
Does she have any concept of what she's doing to every Alpha within a fifty-foot radius?
Because I could smell her from the fucking ground floor through a closed building and it made me take those stairs like my life depended on it.
And now I'm standing here trying not to just push inside her apartment and claim her against the nearest flat surface like some kind of caveman who's never learned self-control.
Her wide eyes—blue-grey, no contacts today—lock on mine. We both look equally surprised. Frozen in this moment of mutual what-the-fuck.
Say something. Anything. You're a lawyer. You're good with words. Use them.
"Delivery," I manage to croak out.
Smooth, Nash. Real smooth. Top tier communication skills on display.
She blinks, confusion flooding her features. "Nash? What are you doing here?"
Her gaze drops to the items I'm holding—the sushi bag and the express mail envelope. Her eyes widen further.
"Wait. Is that—" She pouts, actually pouts, and it's so fucking adorable I want to kiss it off her face. "How did you get my food?"
I need a moment. Just one moment to get my brain functioning again because right now all the blood in my body has migrated south and cognitive function is at approximately zero percent.
I'm checking her out. Blatantly. Shamelessly. No attempt to hide it or pretend I'm being respectful. Taking in every single detail like I'm memorizing her for later—for when I'm alone in my bed tonight and my hand is wrapped around my cock and I'm thinking about exactly this moment.
The wet locks of hair clinging to her skin, darkening the fabric where they touch.
How creamy and soft her flesh looks, flushed pink from the heat and begging to be touched.
The way water droplets are still sliding down her collarbone in rivulets, disappearing into the towel and making me wonder what it would taste like to chase them with my tongue.
The towel is tucked between her breasts, creating this little valley of cleavage that's making my mouth go dry.
Having it tightly snugged around her body emphasizes every curve—the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
She's all soft edges and feminine curves and I want to map every inch with my hands.
It's like being presented a present I'm desperate to unwrap. All that soft skin right there, barely covered by fuzzy pink terry cloth, practically begging to be touched and tasted and claimed.
A low rumble thrums against my chest. Deep. Resonant. Vibrating through my ribcage in a way that feels both foreign and completely natural.
What the actual fuck was that? Did I just make that sound?
Alphas don't purr. We growl when we're angry.
We grunt when we're satisfied. We don't make contented rumbling noises like satisfied house cats finding the perfect patch of sunlight.
That wasn't me. That couldn't have been me. I don't do that.
But the sound reaches my ears—definitely coming from my chest, definitely my fault—and I realize with growing horror mixed with something that might be pride that yes, that was definitely me.
Making some kind of involuntary pleased-Alpha noise at the sight of an Omega in a towel.
Like some kind of caveman seeing a pretty girl for the first time.
Reverie's blush deepens, spreading from her cheeks down her neck. She clutches the towel tighter—which only emphasizes everything the towel is covering and makes my imagination run wild with what's underneath.
"I—I normally don't answer the door like this," she stutters, her voice slightly breathless. "But I have a phone call and I thought you were just the delivery driver and I didn't think—uh—"
She stops, takes a breath, tries again.
"I still don't understand why you're here. Like, at my apartment. With my food."
I'm an idiot who does side gigs when I'm bored.
Because Grayson calls them 'side quests' like we're living in a video game.
Because I pick up delivery work sometimes just for something to do and I happened to see your address on the app and realized it matched and decided to intercept it personally instead of letting some random stranger deliver to you.
Because the idea of you not eating breakfast at two in the afternoon suddenly bothered me in a way that's completely irrational but I couldn't shake it.
Because I needed to see you again.
Because I wanted an excuse to show up at your door.