Page 1 of Holly Jolly Heat
ONE
Michelle
I was going to be late.
I hurtled through the Pike Place Market crowd, dodging tourists with their cameras and early-morning shoppers with their tote bags, mentally cataloging everything that had gone wrong with my morning. Alarm didn't go off. Coffee maker broke. Spilled said coffee on my favorite blouse. Had to change. Couldn't find my car keys. Traffic was a nightmare.
And, the cherry on top of my disaster sundae, I'd grabbed the wrong pill case on my way out the door.
My backup suppressants were in my gym bag. In my apartment. Forty-five minutes away in morning traffic.
"It's fine," I muttered, weaving around a family blocking the entire walkway to photograph the famous pig statue. "It's totally fine. One day without suppressants won't kill you."
Except I had a video call with a new client at ten. And a lunch meeting with a potential sponsor at noon. And I needed to pick up Mom's Christmas gift from the glassblower before they sold out of the hand-blown ornaments she'd been eyeing since October.
Professional. I needed to stay professional. I'd been on suppressants for years, since I'd started my business and decided that being perceived as beta was significantly easier than dealing with the omega stigma in the influencer management industry. One morning wouldn't undo years of carefully maintained control.
Admittedly, the suppressants I was on were the mildest I could get away with, but still. At least I wasn’t killing myself like Kara Quinn had almost done. The memory of her going into a full blown, unplanned heat on a live stream made me shudder.
The market was extra crowded this close to Christmas. Every stall overflowed with holiday offerings from fresh wreaths, handmade ornaments, local honey in festive jars, all the way to artisan chocolates wrapped in gold foil. Street musicians played carols on the corner. The air smelled of pine and cinnamon and the salt-sea wind from Elliott Bay.
I loved Pike Place Market. It was touristy and crowded and occasionally smelled like fish, but it was also quintessentially Seattle, a little bit historic, a little bit hipster, entirely itself.
I slowed as I passed the flower vendors, their buckets overflowing with winter blooms. The glassblower's shop was just ahead, nestled between a spice merchant and a vintage bookseller. I could see the ornaments in the window, each one unique, perfect for Mom's collection.
But first, I needed to get past the holiday display taking up half the walkway.
Someone had set up an elaborate mistletoe installation, real mistletoe hanging from a wooden arch, intertwined with fairy lights and silk ribbons. A sign proclaimed, "Kiss Under the Mistletoe - $1 for Holiday Fund!"
A vendor was calling out to passersby, "Come on, folks! It's tradition! Find your Christmas kiss! All proceeds go to the Seattle Children's Hospital!"
I smiled despite my rushed morning. That was Pike Place for you, commercializing romance for charity.
I stepped around the display, reaching for my wallet to grab Mom's gift, when someone behind me laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made something in my chest tighten unexpectedly.
"Ro, come on, we should do it. It's for charity!"
The voice was male, young, enthusiastic. I glanced back out of pure reflex.
And my world tilted.
He stood under the mistletoe arch, sandy blond hair falling across his forehead, bright blue eyes crinkled with laughter. He wore a chunky cream sweater and jeans, a camera bag slung over his shoulder, and when he smiled at his companion, dimples appeared in both cheeks.
He was beautiful in that approachable, boy-next-door way that probably made people trust him instantly.
But that wasn't what made me freeze.
It was his scent.
Cedar and vanilla, warm and comforting and utterly, devastatingly perfect, and it hit me like a tidal wave. My suppressants should have blocked it. Should have kept my omega firmly locked away behind chemical walls.
Instead, my omega woke up.
And screamed.
Mate.
No. No, no, no. I didn't have time for mates. I had a business to run, a reputation to maintain, a carefully constructed life that didn't include?—
