Page 9 of Eight Count Heat
I shoulder my bag and head for the women's locker room, mentally calculating exactly how many suppressants I'll need to get through breakfast without incident. Because Gray Lockwood is right about one thing. I am afraid.
Not of him, or any Alpha. But of what happens when they discover what I really am.
chapter FOUR
Beckett
The Griddle is Friday-morning packed when I arrive, deliberately two minutes late. I never show up first – it reeks of desperation. And Beckett Monroe doesn't do desperate.
I scan the restaurant, locating my teammates at our usual corner booth near the window. My gaze catches on a dark-haired figure in their midst. Reese Callahan, freshly showered, her wet hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She wears a faded Sable Ridge Rowing hoodie that looks suspiciously like one of the men's team extras. She's tiny next to Bo's bulk, who sits protectively beside her.
Interesting.
I thread between packed tables, flashing a smile at a blonde who stares a little too long. She blushes, exactly as expected. Predictable. Boring.
"Look who finally graced us with his presence," Zane announces as I slide into the booth beside him. "Finally showered the lake off you?"
"Clean as a whistle," I respond, running a hand through my still-damp hair. "Hence why the ladies can't stay away."
I wink at Reese, who rolls her eyes so hard I worry she might strain something.
"Don't waste your energy, Monroe," she says. "I'm immune to dimples."
"Everyone says that." I prop my elbows on the table, leaning forward. "Until they don't."
Gray, sitting across from me, glares with the exact expression that earned him the nickname "Glacier" freshman year. "Stop hitting on our coxswain."
"I'm not hitting on her," I protest. "I'm being friendly."
"That's what you call it?" Tyler mutters, not looking up from his phone.
I ignore them, focusing on Reese. There's something different about her now that she's off the water. Her command presence remains, but there's a wariness in her eyes. She keeps a careful distance from everyone, especially Jackson, who looks particularly twitchy this morning.
"So, Callahan," I begin, signaling for coffee, "Georgia, right? What part?"
She meets my gaze directly. "Atlanta suburbs."
"Fancy side or regular?"
Something flashes in her eyes. "Fancy side."
"Trust fund baby?"
"Beck," Bo warns, his Southern drawl thickening.
Reese holds up a hand. "It's fine. Yes, my family has money. No, I don't want to talk about them."
"Fair enough." I accept a mug of coffee from the waitress, giving her my standard smile. She, too, blushes. Two for two this morning. But when I look back at Reese, she's watching me with clinical detachment, like I'm a specimen under glass.
"Does that usually work for you?" she asks quietly.
"What?"
"The smile. The hair flip. The whole..." she waves her hand vaguely, "golden retriever act."
I nearly choke on my coffee. Beside me, Zane snorts into his orange juice.
"She's got your number, Romeo," he laughs.
