Page 11 of Heat Hesitation

"You can all fuck on out of here, Sullivan. Since you never seem interested in finding an omega, I'd like to formally ask your pack to go stand with your creepy-ass brother at the wall and give the rest of us first taste of this year's graduates."

He says it with a straight face, so I'm saved once more by Sully's ability to deal with idiots. Sullivan Constantine, ever the diplomat.

"Don't be crass, Jackson. The four of you," he gestures to Jackson's three other packmates, who look nearly as gray-pallored and deranged as their brother, "have the same rights as the rest of us. You pay fees, you sponsor events. No one's keeping you from finding your match; we've got nothing to do with it."

Sully and I share a look, wondering, not for the first time, why they never seem to leave with a woman. Even our pack has courted omegas, however unsuccessfully, in the past.

Jackson lifts one shoulder, smirking. "Whatever. No point in even talking to the girls these days, it's the parents you have to make a deal with. Good thing they've got those heat clinics so I can still stuff my knot in some begging pussy whenever I want while I wait for these prissy bitches to come around."

And here I was wondering why he never had a date.

Sully's jaw tightens, standing a little taller. He's a big guy, Sully, but he's friendly so his height never seems imposing. Unless he uses it, transforming him from friendly giant to heavy-weight boxer in seconds. He growls, "How the fuck are you on an approved list at any heat clinic?"

Jackson winks, sipping down his champagne glass, nearly tossing it without looking at the server walking by. "When you have money and know the right people, anything's possible. Jealous?"

I don't know how heat clinics work, I've never been to one. It's supposed to be a vigorous vetting process to let an alpha sign up for heat relief, or so I thought. Jackson's brothers laugh as they wander off, leaving us with that disturbing revelation.

The whole point of coming over here was to prove to Sully I'd try to engage. Well, I have. When they disperse, Sully comments on tracking down Madam Fletcher regarding the Olcenes behavior, and I rejoin Enzo, my 'creepy-ass brother,' who I'd rather stand beside than anyone else at this bullshit fucking gala.

Chapter 6

Ophelia

"Ophelia! Get your ass over here!"

I'm sweating, my legs shake with exhaustion, and I cannot believe my luck—I've made it through the first hour of the gala without running into anyone, both literally and figuratively, and I'm too busy working the event to worry about being at the OFA.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," I hurry towards Sharon, the team leader and my boss for the evening. She hovers over the OFA staff facility and us, the extra hired help from the catering company, directing us all like a drill sergeant.

Lining up behind other employees, we each take a full tray of champagne or canapes, before turning toward the massive swinging doors leading into the great ballroom. I keep trying to snag the canape trays since they're easier to carry, but miss them every time. I do not have a good track record carrying trays of drinks, but no spills so far; this gig might be worth the money after all.

Thank God for air sanitizers, because no party attendee is wearing scent-blockers tonight. Omega's sweet, tantalizing perfume and alpha's masculine pheromones assault the senses. I don't know how anyone works these gigs regularly.

Maybe it's because I'm an omega in hiding, but my naturally delicate senses are going haywire. As far as I can tell, most of the catering and OFA staff are betas, whose sense of smell isn't quite as sensitive as ours. Lucky bastards.

I work the room, pausing each time someone's roaming hands reach out toward my tray, letting them grab a glass as I go. They don't look at me as I pass; I'm just another faceless worker beneath their station. That's the point of catering; we're supposed to be in the background. Still, I couldn't be so dismissive of another person, no matter their role.

I make the rounds, dropping off empty glasses, returning with full ones, clutching the tray with both hands so I don't accidentally drop anything. I'm almost near the second hour free-and-clear when an omega with a squeaky voice sways into me. I screech, my tray colliding with her ample chest; we crash into each other, sticky-sweet alcohol drenching us both.

"You fucking twat!" She screams at me, ineffectually brushing the alcohol off her bare arms. Remembering she's on display, she transforms, correcting herself. "Oh my goodness, I cannot believe that just happened. I can't—" she starts sniffing, fake tears already filling her eyes, still wiping at her arms and chest.

"It's just some spilled champagne, darling, nothing we can't lap up," a flirtatious lilt pulls me out of the drama, but then—oh, then things get so much worse.

"Theo," I gasp, shaking my head and stepping back.

Brows furrowing, he tilts his head. "Do we know each other, sweetheart?" Perfectly tousled bed hair shouldn't be appropriate at an event like this, but somehow, he pulls it off. Darker blond strands falling into his face highlight his striking crystal blue eyes, glittering with interest as he takes me in.

Ugh, his gratuitous use of endearments is tacky. Or maybe I'm just annoyed that he used them on both of us, me and the screeching omega in the garish blue dress, who's crying dramatically.

He leans a little closer, eyes caressing every inch of me, narrowing slightly as he tries to figure something out. Fear that he'll scent me ices my skin. I'm tempted to sniff my pits but I know I'm wearing scent-blocker, I took a pill just before I left the house. Unfortunately, the closer he leans, the more I can smell him.

Goddamn, my knees go weak. He smells like lemon and honey. It's not too citrusy, more like a perfectly baked dessert. It's sweet and warm and welcoming, gentle somehow. I inhale deeply, breathing him in, my eyes closing as I let the impossibility wash over me: Theodore Constantine, my scent-match.

Fortunately, we're both abruptly yanked out of the spell.

"Umm, excuse me!" The girl shrieks, waving her hands about, catching the attention of someone behind me. "Miss Fletcher! Excuse me!"

Oh shit.

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