Page 14 of Pack Choice
“I do.”
Mack pats me on the shoulder. “He needs one. The last one quit a week ago, and he’s been drowning in emails ever since.”
“Why did she quit?” I ask with suspicion.
Mack suddenly finds his fingernails fascinating, and Mr. Red Flag mumbles something I don’t hear.
I consider spinning on my toes and strolling straight out of this office.
Mr. Red Flag is so called for a reason. Do I really want to work for him?
This is meant to be my escape. My opportunity to feel normal for once. After the last few months, I’m craving normal like Bea’s craving pickles. I do not need drama. I certainly don’t need a red flag and lone wolf.
But then Ford leans in to whisper by my ear. “I don’t like the sound of this. Want me to take you home?”
And that decides me. After all, I’m a Stormgate. Tell me I can’t do something, that I can’thavesomething, and it’s all I want.
“Great, so where do you want me to start?”
Mack claps his hands together. “Excellent. Molly here’s a little star, Colten. She’s just what you need.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Molly don’t take any of his nonsense. Any problems, you call me. And enjoy!”
He waves at us over his shoulder, striding out of the office, the door slamming shut behind him.
Which leaves me, Mr. Military and Mr. Red Flag.
The tension in the air is palpable and completely bizarre. But it’s there all the same. Crackling. Making me fidget on the spot and doing those strange things to my insides as both their scents compete for my attention.
“You didn’t tell me your name before,” Mr. Red Flag – Colten – says, his eyes still narrowed.
“I don’t remember you asking.”
Ford stares at me, then at my new boss.
“So you do know each other?” He doesn’t sound happy about that.
“No,” I confirm.
“Yes,” Colten contradicts.
I roll my eyes. “We met briefly at an event about a week ago. We don’tknoweach other.”
“I think I got a good understanding of your character,” Colten says.
And yet he still wants me to be his assistant?
Oh well, I’m not complaining. I know how hard it was for Bea to find a job and I have even less on my resumé than she did. Plus, this is a real job, not a voluntary one most rich omegas do for a time. The kind where they rock up at lunchtime, chat to one another for an hour, then promptly leave, singing their own praises about how generous they are to give so much of their time. No, this is working for Rock Promotions, the city’s biggest publicity company. It’s creative and forward thinking – and yes, super sleek and trendy.
Mr. Red Flag – Colten – examines my face, then lowers himself onto his chair, rocking it from side to side as he strokes his fingers through his beard in a way I bet has many women creaming their panties.
“Most omegas don’t want to work. Most rich omegas don’t need to work.”
“I’m different,” I say, and his eyes flash.
“Can you type?”
“Yes,” I lie. How hard can it be?
“Can you file?”
