Page 117 of Pack Choice
“What day is it?” she asks, her voice raw from the screaming she’s been doing.
“Wednesday.”
“And the time?”
“10.30.”
“Oh Lord,” she says, flopping back against the mattress, her hands flying to rest on the crown of her head. “I missed two days of work and I’m going to be late for the third.”
I chuckle. “You were screwing the boss, little one. I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
Her eyes roam the room and I curse myself for being so damn stupid. I wait for the inevitable question. How will I answer it? I still haven’t decided.
“Where’s Colt?”
Ford yawns beside her, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Colt?” he says.
I stand up. “Are you hungry, Omega? You want some breakfast?”
Her hands drop to her stomach and for a moment I think I’ve succeeded in distracting her. But the woman’s too damn smart for her own good. “Did he go to pick us up some breakfast?”
In my mind, I have some choice names for my oldest friend and the desire to strangle him with my own hands.
“No, he … he had some urgent business come up.”
“What?!” she yelps, bolting upright in the bed, the sheet falling away to reveal those pretty tits of hers and reigniting my desire to climb back into the bed with her. “He left?!”
“He didn’t want to,” I say grimacing at the feeble words Colt left me to parrot.
She frowns, flinging back the sheet and swinging her feet to the ground.
“Easy there, Molly,” Ford says, sitting up too. “You haven’t eaten. You’re going to be–”
“He left?!” she repeats, standing up and flinging her arms about in the air. Her legs shake and her eyes go in and out of focus. She grips the headboard. Both Ford and I are there in a flash, guiding her to sit back down on the edge of the mattress.
“Easy, little one,” I tell her. “Let me go fetch you something to drink and eat. What do you want?”
“Did he leave a message? A note? A text message?” She flings her gaze about searching for her phone.
“He’ll call you later. He didn’t want to wake you.”
“Jerk,” Ford mutters and I hate it, but I agree. Still, freaking fool that I am, I end up defending him.
“It was urgent.”
Frustrated tears begin to tumble down her cheeks, and she grabs a corner of the sheet and wipes at her face.
“Shit,” she mumbles when she pulls it away, and sees the black stains she’s made.
“Doesn’t matter,” I tell her.
“How could he go?” she says.
And I don’t have an answer for her. Not one I have permission to give anyway.
“Because he’s an asshole,” Ford repeats with real anger.
