Page 113 of Chosen Beta

“No,” Pete cuts in with a groan. “We’re not going shopping.”

Oh, thank God. Shadow’s not thinking about sex. He’s thinking about clothes.

“But who knows how long we’ll be here without a plan?” Shadow argues. “I want to look good for Lana. This doesn’t look good.”

“You don’t need new clothes to look good for our girl,” Pete counters. “And I’m not wasting hours of my time trapsing around a million stores with you to find the perfect outfit while Lana needs as much protection as we can give her. It’s not happening.”

Shadow glances at me, and I shake my head.

“We’ll take you shopping some other time. Promise,” I add, intending to keep it.

He pulls a face before he heads back into the bedroom.

I pour him a glass of water and put it next to his plate.

Then, I finish preparing Lana’s plate, putting a bowl on top to cover the food afterward, and making sure the silverware handles aren’t sticking out too much.

I set it on the counter and Pete raises an eyebrow at me.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“I made extra in case Lana hasn’t eaten yet. You can bring it to her. And you’d better tell Owen to get something for himself before he starts assessing the building.”

“Okay,” Pete agrees. “I’ll tell him to do that after he’s spoken to you.”

Shadow comes back into the room, no longer holding the jeans closed. The shirt covers the top of them so no one’s going to think they don’t fit. He kind of looks like a skater boy.

He doesn’t look very happy about that, but he doesn’t make any more complaints.

“I have to get going,” I tell them, as I head back to the bedroom, where my scrubs and lab coat are waiting for me.

By the time I’m leaving, Shadow’s eating at the table and Pete’s cleaning up the kitchen area.

I’m going to be a few minutes late, but it shouldn’t be a big deal considering how easy-going and competent my co-workers are. We’re all here because we want to be, and that makes a huge difference to the atmosphere.

I only wish I could say the same thing about my mates.

Chapter Forty

Lana

Despite my earlier reservations, I get used to Owen’s presence by pretending he’s not in the room, kind of like I did last night. I keep my gaze on my screen, and eventually I’m able to focus and start working on my speech.

It helps that he’s quiet.

He’s taking his time with those forms I gave him, using his phone to fill out details.

I save my updated, not-quite-final version of the speech and move on to the angry email I’ve just gotten from a designer we used to use four times a year for a bulk order of custom dresses.

She’s claiming a breach of contract.

I’m not surprised she’s upset. The orders we used to place with her were very high value, and there’s a good chance she went exclusive with us because she wouldn’t need to retain other customers with the huge total she was raking in from the academy every quarter.

Still, the snotty tone of her complaint makes me roll my eyes.

Her rant is as entitled as the donor complaints have been.

It’s hard to sympathise with any of these people.

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