35. Teddy Bear Tossers #3
But she’s shaking her head, looking up and down the hall as if divine intervention might strike us both.
“Look. I’ll go and get my bag. We can—we’ll go out for dinner.
Somewhere really nice. You like cocktails, right?
I heard there’s a great eighties bar down by the Pit, we could go there.
I could ring ahead, get some champagne. We could ask Katie too? ”
As I stand there watching her scrabble around for anything that might possibly make up for today, my anger soars. “I don’t want a single fucking thing from you.”
I bet they wouldn’t forget her birthday. She flinches. “Look, I know I’m not your favorite person—”
“You’re not anything to me.” The anger tightens, threatening dangerously close to tears. “You’re not my friend, or my alpha. You’re not my fucking sister-wife. You’re nobody to me.”
The blood drains from her face. She doesn’t say anything.
And there are tears squeezing out of my eyes, and I fucking despise that I’m crying in front of her.
It only makes the words sharper. More cutting.
“So no, I don’t want to go to dinner with you.
I’d rather spend my night on my own in my nest than making weird conversation over a fucking cocktail with the bitch who stole my life. ”
I’m so angry that I can’t see properly. And I’m not even angry at her. But they’re not here, and she is.
I twist before I can spill any other vitriol into the air and almost run for the exit, away from the shattered look on her face and any guilt I might feel that I yelled at her and not the people I should be yelling at.
A tall figure blocks my way, and I swipe my hand over my face, keeping it turned toward the floor. “Excuse me. I need to get past.”
“Been looking for you everywhere.” Another bag appears under my nose. This one is pink and square and tiny, branded with a local bakery you can never get into because they sell out with a giant queue every morning. “Happy birthday, Ragdoll.”
When I don’t say anything, Boone ducks down to see my face. He’s thrown on a baseball cap to hide his face from the people flowing around us and an Aces sweatshirt they sell at the stands, his dark hair still damp with sweat. “Ro?”
“Don’t call me that.” My hands fly up and into his chest. “I told you not to call me that!”
“Whoa.” He catches my flailing hit easily. “Steady with those hands. I know what your right hook feels like. Are you hurt?”
Am I hurt?
My voice cracks. “I—”
I am hurt.
I am broken.
They are breaking me, and this feels like a very small straw that might have broken a back I always thought was broad enough to carry anything.
I look up at Boone with a thousand words on my tongue, and I can’t say any of them.
“Hey, now,” he says gently. So gently that it makes the tears worse. He reaches for me in one, swift movement. And I step with him, into him, burying my face in his chest as his hands come up to rest against my back. “I’ve got you.”
He holds me as I sag against him and let the tears go in the middle of a crowd.
I’m so tired. I need a minute.
And that’s what he gives me. He doesn’t ask me any questions, doesn’t push. Boone stands there, holding me upright until I finally pull back. He wipes the tears off my face, and I let him.
“I hate to say it,” he says finally. “But this is not how a birthday is supposed to feel, Ro.”
When he hands me the bag, I grip it tightly and wait for him to demand an explanation. “Thank you.”
“I thought you might throw it at me.” He looks thoughtful. “I made it a light one to be safe.”
I swallow and step away. “I have to go now.”
Our arms brush as I pass him, and Boone’s low whisper reaches my ears. “I meant what I said at Sponsor Day, Rosie.”
I pause, not turning around. “I have an alpha, Boone.”
I wait for him to comment something cutting about my pack. To ask why I’m crying. To ask why I’m not with them.
But he doesn’t say any of that. “You owe me dinner, you know.”
My shoulders curve in. “Let me guess. You’re calling it in?”
“Not tonight. I’m saving it.”
“What for?”
His fingers brush mine. “You’ll know when I do.”
He doesn’t say anything else. But a faint breeze tickles the side of my face. When I turn to look, he’s vanished into the crowd.
I drive home with shaking hands and two gift bags on the front seat. My phone has a message from Carter when I pull into the garage.
Where are you?
The apartment, I type back. Took Liam’s truck.
I haven’t had a response by the time I reach the penthouse. Flicking on a few lamps, I make my way into the kitchen and slide onto a stool, placing Boone’s gift bag in front of me.
“Don’t look,” I mutter to myself eventually.
Who the fuck am I kidding?
Omega see present, omega open present. I don’t make the rules. I slide my finger along the seal and pull out a small box. Inside—
My heart leaps as I lift out the cupcake. One, single cupcake—red velvet, I realize when I take an experimental sniff. On top is a swirl of vanilla icing and a small, delicate, perfectly formed fondant ragdoll with strands of scarlet hair.
Attached to the bag is a small cream envelope. A single match and a lighting strip is inside, along with a pale pink candle.
And a phone number, written in neat, familiar black script with a single word.
Anytime.
Sliding the candle carefully into the cake, I light it up and watch the little flame until it blurs.
Happy birthday to me.