Chapter 7 #2
There’s something in his voice. A vulnerability that seems at odds with his cocky demeanor. I find myself reaching for the package before I can think better of it.
The wrapper slides away to reveal a bar of dark chocolate. Not just any dark chocolate. My favorite brand. The one I splurge on only for special occasions or particularly bad days. The one I had written on my shopping list, which was tucked into my planner.
“Have you read everything in my planner?” I push down the lump rising in my throat.
It’s just a bar of dark chocolate. My favorite brand, sure, but it’s not like that means anything.
It’s not like they actually care about me.
It’s just a gesture. A bribe. But then why does it make something in my belly flutter just a little?
“Technically, Diego’s the one who read it,” Tristan admits. “But we returned your phone.”
“With coffee and a pastry. I noticed.”
“That was all Diego’s idea. He’s the thoughtful one.” Tristan smiles. “I’m just the charming one.”
“Is that what you call this?” I gesture vaguely at him. “Charm?”
“Usually works better,” he admits. “But I’m a little off my game today.”
I study him more closely. Now that I’m looking, I can see it—the slight shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He looks tired.
“The chocolate was my idea, though.”
I stare at the chocolate, then back at him. “You came all the way to my workplace to give me chocolate?”
“I’m not above bribery,” he says with that damn dimpled smile.
“But I also came to remind you about your lunch with the new donors tomorrow at 1 PM,” he says, pulling a small note from his pocket.
“Per your planner. ‘Lunch with Mortons - brING CATALOG.’“ He mimics my handwriting’s emphatic capitalization.
I snatch the note from his hand. “So you’re ransoming my schedule to me one day at a time?”
He grins. “Clever, right? Also my idea.”
“It’s invasive, is what it is,” I say, though there’s less heat in my voice than I’d like. “And again, a text would have sufficed.”
“Would a text have come with chocolate?” he challenges.
“No, but it also wouldn’t have involved you stalking me at work.”
“I wouldn’t call it stalking,” he shrugs. “More like... an appearance.”
Despite myself, a laugh threatens to escape. I press my lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
He runs a hand through his curls. “I also came to apologize, I guess. For what happened. Not that I regret it, exactly, but... the way it happened. The way you felt you had to run.”
It’s more sincere than I expected, and it throws me off balance.
I run a hand across my hot forehead again, clearing the sweat. That’s when I notice something odd. A young omega who looks like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine is hovering nearby, pretending to study a sculpture that she has walked past three times already.
And she’s not alone. Two more omegas, who had been quietly browsing a moment ago, have now migrated to our corner of the gallery. They’re whispering to each other behind their hands, casting furtive, admiring glances at Tristan.
A hot, ugly spike of something possessive lances through my gut. My fingers tighten on the chocolate bar in my hand, the foil crinkling under the sudden pressure.
I clamp down on the feeling, instantly horrified with myself. Get a grip, Zoe.
It’s ridiculous to feel... what? Irritated?
Possessive? I don’t even know these men.
Not really. And yet, seeing those omegas eyeing Tristan like he’s a piece of art they want to take home makes my stomach twist. It’s the marks.
It has to be. They’re messing with my head, making me feel things I have no right to feel.
“Your alpha pheromones are filling the gallery,” I point out. “You’re disrupting my workplace.”
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. In fact, he looks vaguely pleased with himself. “Can’t really control it.”
“Mr. Sterling!” Helen’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She’s approaching us with the smile she reserves for potential big donors. “What a delightful surprise!”
Tristan turns, his charm instantly back at full wattage. “Ms. Porter, always a pleasure.”
“Helen, please,” she simpers, extending her hand in a way that forces Tristan to either kiss it or be rude. He chooses the former, though I catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“I see you’ve met our assistant curator,” Helen continues. “Zoe is one of our brightest talents.”
“We’ve met,” Tristan confirms, with a glance at me that carries so much subtext it could fill a novel.
“Mr. Sterling was just leaving,” I say pointedly. “He has a meeting.”
“Actually,” Tristan counters, “I came to discuss a potential acquisition.”
Helen’s eyes light up with dollar signs. “An acquisition? How thrilling! Perhaps we should continue this conversation in my office?”
“The acquisition isn’t art-related,” Tristan clarifies, his eyes never leaving mine. “It’s more... personal.”
There’s a beat of silence as Helen processes this. I watch understanding dawn on her face, followed quickly by surprise, then a calculating assessment.
“I see,” she says slowly. “Zoe, you never mentioned you knew Mr. Sterling... personally.”
The way she says “personally” makes it clear exactly what she’s thinking—that I’m sleeping with a potential donor. Which, technically, I am, but not in the way she thinks. Or rather, not for the reasons she thinks.
“It’s a recent acquaintance,” I say stiffly.
“Very recent,” Tristan agrees with a smile. “But significant.”
Another omega patron chooses that moment to approach, drawn by Tristan’s increasingly potent pheromones. She’s pretending to be interested in a nearby sculpture, but her eyes keep drifting to Tristan with undisguised interest.
“Mr. Sterling,” Helen presses on, oblivious to the growing omega attention, “whatever your... personal interest might be, I hope you’ll also consider the gallery for your corporate collection. Sterling Solutions is known for its impressive art acquisitions.”
“Oh, I’m definitely interested in acquiring something special from this gallery,” Tristan says, his eyes fixed on me in a way that makes my skin prickle with heat.
Helen follows his gaze, her eyebrows rising. “I’m sure Zoe would be happy to show you our catalog of available pieces.”
“I’m not interested in what’s for sale,” Tristan says, his voice dropping to a register that sends a shiver down my spine. “I’m more interested in what’s... priceless.”
Oh God. This is mortifying. Helen is going to think I’ve been trying to sleep my way into a major donor’s good graces, and Tristan is being so obvious that even the sculptures probably know he’s talking about me.
“Mr. Sterling,” Helen purrs, and I realize she’s misinterpreting completely, “you flatter us. But I assure you, everything in our gallery is potentially available to the right collector.”
Tristan’s smile widens. “Everything?”
“Helen,” I cut in, “I think Mr. Harrison is waving you over.” I point to an elderly patron who is, in fact, looking somewhat lost near the contemporary glass exhibition.
“Oh! Excuse me, I should—” Helen looks torn between the potential sale and the potential donor.
“Go,” I urge. “I can handle Mr. Sterling.”
Helen nods, giving Tristan a bright, professional smile that doesn’t quite hide the calculating glint in her eyes. “Take all the time you need, Zoe,” she adds, patting my arm in a way that feels less like encouragement and more like a warning.
As she walks away, I turn to Tristan with murder in my eyes. “What the hell was that?”
“What?” he asks, all innocence. “I was being charming.”
“You were being obvious,” I hiss. “Now my boss thinks I’m trying to seduce you into a donation.”
“Technically, I’m trying to seduce you,” he points out. “Into a conversation, at least.”
“This isn’t funny, Tristan. This is my job, my career. If people think I’m sleeping with patrons for donations—”
“But you are sleeping with me,” he says, then quickly amends, “Or you did. Once.”
“That’s not the point!” My voice rises enough that a nearby patron turns to look. I lower it again. “The point is, this is unprofessional, and you’re making a scene.”
The omega who had been hovering nearby has now drifted even closer, her eyes slightly glazed. She’s not alone. All of the other omegas are now within a ten-foot radius, all pretending to look at art while actually looking at Tristan.
“I think your pheromones are getting stronger,” I mutter.
Tristan glances around, finally noticing the attention. “Huh. That’s weird.”
“What’s weird? That you’re attracting every omega in a fifty-foot radius? That seems like pretty standard alpha behavior.”
“No, what’s weird is...” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “This only happens when I’m... worked up.”
The implication hangs between us. I take an involuntary step back, bumping into a display pedestal.
“Well, get un-worked up,” I whisper fiercely. “This is a place of business, not a nightclub.”
“I’m trying,” he says, and a wave of heat rolls off him, his spicy ginger scent thickening in the air between us. “But being near you is making it... difficult.”
Oh.
The claiming marks on my neck suddenly feel warm, pulsing in time with my quickening heartbeat. A flash of memory takes this moment to assault me. Tristan’s mouth on my inner thigh, his eyes looking up at me with hunger as his tongue...
No. Stop it. Not here.
“You’re warm,” he says suddenly, his expression shifting to concern. “Like, really warm.”
I tug at my collar again. “It’s this stupid turtleneck. It’s suffocating.”
Tristan’s eyes drop to my neck, where the high collar hides the claiming marks. “Let me take a look,” he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble that makes that thing in my stomach flutter.
“What? No. Not here,” I hiss, glancing around. Apart from the hovering omegas, the gallery is relatively empty, but still. “This is my workplace.”
“Just a quick look,” he persists. “I want to make sure they’re healing properly.”