Page 3 of Pack Coffey

"So, you think it might be a serial killer?" I ask, lowering my voice on the last part.

His lips press together before he answers, "I can't answer that yet. Not until you sign an NDA. For investigation purposes."

"I'm not the press," I remind him. "Just a college student trying to earn some money while finishing school and—"

"And giving victims a voice again," he finishes for me.

The words strike closer to home than he can ever imagine, and they make me choke down a swallow.

He reaches into his back pocket and fishes out a small white rectangle, placing it on the table. He pushes it across to me with a single finger. "Think about it and let me know."

As he goes to stand, I break the omega/alpha rules, and with a cop nonetheless. I grab ahold of his wrist just as he's turning. Everywhere our skin touches, mine tingles like my entire hand fell asleep. His eyes flash down to where I haven't let him go and slowly travels back up to meet mine.

I pull my hand back and hide it under the table in my lap. "I don't need to think about it. I'll help you."

He swallows hard this time and nods. "Great."

Tearing off a tiny strip on his card, I write my number down and hand it over to him.

Taking it with another short nod, he leaves the cafewithout saying anything else.

Way to go, brainiac. Out here spooking the good ones off being the weirdo that you are.

Picking up his card, I read, "Detective Saint Coffey."

Of course, his name is Coffey. As if his looks, scent, and profession weren't enough. His name justhasto be one of my favorite things in the world, even if it is spelled differently. I may have just doomed us both for failure.

The next morning, I check my email to find that by some miracle, I got picked for the internship at the station. Jumping out of my chair, I give a quick whoop with my fist raised to the air before sliding back into it and reading the details. One of the things our applications had asked for was our class schedule, so it was no surprise to see that I was expected to be at the station only an hour after my last class.

All day long, my nerves are jittery, and I can't seem to focus on anything. Not because I'm nervous, but because I'm excited. It helps keep my mind off of the fact that Saint hasn't reached out, as well.

For the next two hours, I try my best to keep my mind on tasks at hand and not think of the way our scents mingled so well together while he sat with me last night. By the time I'm walking into the radio station, I'm practically bouncing on my toes.

The building is old, and the outside proves as much with its dark-brown-brick walls. The inside isn't much better either. The walls have wood paneling on the bottom half and navy, textured wallpaper on the top. There are a couple rooms that look like offices as I walk down the short hallway into an open space. Glancing up, I admire the way the tall ceiling makes a dome shape, opening up the room even more. Off to the right there's a room that has glass windows all the way around it, and I can hear music coming from inside. The only door that leads into it has a flashing red sign that saysOn Air.

A man's shaggy, brown-haired head pops up in one of the windows, and he gives me a quick wave before holding up a finger. The sign goes off a few minutes later, and he comes strolling out.

He offers out a hand, but quickly withdraws it, apologizing, "Sorry, you're my first omega that's been here in a while. I almost forgot my manners. I'm Dante, and you must be Darci."

"That's me," I tell him, returning the alpha's wide smile.

"Welcome to WPOQ, where college life rocks," he says, holding out his arms to the room.

"It's crazy to hear you say that on the radio every day, and to be hearing it in person right now," I admit in a little awe.

He gives a quick dip of his chin in understanding. "The fact that you listen to our station means that we're already off to a great start. Let me show you around."

For the next thirty minutes, he gives me a tour of the building, explaining some of the history about it previously being a library. Which makes total sense, considering the construction and layout. I follow along, enjoying the excitement that is growing in my belly. His tart, fresh-cut grass scent isn't horrible on the senses either. Kind of reminds me of rolling around on a mowed lawn the very first warm spring day after a long winter. It tickles my nose a bit, but isn't uncomfortable.

We're in the studio where he's showing me the list of tracks on the computer that we're allowed to play when sunlight cuts through the glass from the front door opening.

"Ah, that must be Lawrence," he states, getting up to walk us back out into the big, open room.

They exchange greetings before Dante introduces us formally for the first time, in which Lawrence informs him that we kind of somewhat know each other through our shared class. I've prepared myself for a number of things today. Getting asensory overload from Lawrence isn't one of them. I've noticed before how tall he is, but it's nothing compared to standing in front of him right now and having to keep looking up to find his face. Or the long, blond hair that flows down to his shoulders. Nor the lopsided grin he's wearing. That's to not even mention that the guy is out here smelling like the best part of my day. A French vanilla latte. There's a hint of something else, too, but I'm not sure if it's part of his cologne or not.

Thankfully, I've lived my life without suppressants and blockers, so I count backwards from ten to keep myself from reacting to him the way my body rightfully wants to.

"That's good," Dante is saying. "I've got you on the weekend shift, obviously, Darci, but we aren't going to just throw you in there and abandon you. Lawrence will be with you so that he can show you the ropes of everything."

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