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“Black coffee,” he grumbles.
“Good man. Arch?”
Archer smirks. “Something sweet like Sawyer.”
“I’m not sweet,” I grumble in my turn, and when Roman grins, a new wave of heat washes over my face.
God, really, what is it about these guys? They are so annoying. Infuriatingly confident, easily sexy. And the big question is, why are they flirting so hard with me if they don’t want an omega in the first place? Are they trying to break my heart, like Brinlee did?
I freeze at the thought. Of course my heart isn’t involved. Come on. If it was that easy to become heartbroken…
But I feel as though we’re heading that way, as if my heart is much more engaged than it should be, as if I’m hoping for more.
It doesn’t matter what I tell myself, what I know, what measures I take to protect my damn battered soul. These guys seem determined to smash my defenses and plunder the loot.
No idea what they hope to find in there. OCD, anxiety and stress because of my parents and the café, plus some filthy fantasies about them and Brinlee.
Speaking of whom…
“I’m worried about Brinlee.” I serve their coffees, placing them on the bar, and go hunting for some cookies to add.
“Because she ditched you?” Roman asks.
I splutter, coming up for air from the cupboard with the cookies. “She didn’t ditch me!”
“He’s right,” Archer says. “You can’t ditch what you don’t have, right, Sawyer? You guys were pussyfooting around each other like schoolers.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, plonking the plate heaped with cookies before them. “I was serious. She left and hasn’t come back, and it’s been days and… And something’s wrong.”
“I’ve felt it, too,” Kyrian says softly, and I shoot him a shocked look. “What?”
“I don’t even know where she lives or works.” I turn my back on him, trying to control my face, school it into a neutral expression. “Never got a chance to give her my number. I don’t know her last name. Every time I try to talk to her, she sort of… clams up.”
“Like you?” Archer says, and I flinch.
“Stop pushing him,” Roman says and Archer growls something I don’t catch. “He doesn’t owe us any truth.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” I say stiffly—in more senses than one, because dammit, I’m still hard and my… hardened state doesn’t look like it’s going away on its own. I need some quality time with my right hand in the shower.
And thinking about that is making me even harder, because their scents are all around me, too intense and yet so delicious, their tall bodies crowding me and yet I like it too fucking much.
“Sawyer?” Roman is coming around the bar, his hand covering mine where it’s tapping a rapid rhythm. He stills it. “Talk to me. Are you so stressed about Brinlee? You’re shaking.”
“I’m not shaking,” I snap, but I am. “I shouldn’t worry so much, she never said that there’s anything wrong?—”
“But you can feel it.”
I nod. His hand is warm. Hot. Heat emanates from him—or is it from me? I feel it. Feel him. I feel… untethered and overwhelmed and too fucking horny.
He leans closer to me. He’s taller, shoulders wider, and from this close, I see a silver stud winking in his left ear. He wasn’t wearing that last time, was he? I’m mesmerized—by the winking stud, the bright brown eyes, the soft, wide mouth that smiles so much.
Fuck, he smells good. Talk about a scent-match made in heaven. Helplessly, I draw another deep breath in, and when his full lips tug into a smile, I glance up and fall into his dark eyes.
They are like caramel, melted sweet syrup with bits of gold, and I can’t look away.
Not even when he lifts his other hand to my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. “Look at you,” he whispers. “You’re flushed. You smell like honey.”
I make a valiant effort to step away, but he grips the back of my neck and all the fight goes out of me, a sweet arousal spreading through me. Languor, I think. That’s the right word.
