Page 17 of Sweet Heat

And without a prospective Alpha in sight, I’m more than okay with that.

They’ve always said that my body could catch up at any time and that I should stay alert for mini-spikes. The doctors seem to think that once my heats begin, they will regulate—but it’s all just a theory. Omegas are the least-populated designation, andthose without the ability to smell—let’s just say I’m a needle in a haystack.

And this needle’s time is running out.

Frustration fills me, and I yank at my bedsheets, needing to be rid of the slick-soaked mess. They pull off easier than expected, and I stumble as they come flying off the bed. The momentum causes me to slam my ass into the wall with an unladylike grunt. Fortunately, there’s plenty of padding back there, so it doesn’t hurt too much.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

Shit, my secondary alarm sounds, and I realize just how late I’m running.Stupid body. Stupid slick.There’s no time for delay, so I shove down my concern, toss the sheets in the hamper, and rush into the shower.

I don’t even wait for the water to warm before jumping in. The icy stream helps knock out whatever was left of the spike.

“Hurry. Hurry. Hurry,” I repeat like a mantra, rushing through the world’s quickest shower and throwing on jeans and an old Feral Feckers T-shirt. As soon as I’m dressed and slathered in de-scenting lotion, I pull up the app to call a rideshare. I don’t have an extra second to put on some makeup; instead, I toss my favorite jewelry into my bag.

I can put it on in the car.

Fortunately, my mad dash leaves little room for a pre-driving-lesson freakout, and I bound down the stairs, grabbing an apple from the bowl on the kitchen counter.

“Posie,” my mother gasps. “Where are you rushing off to?”

“Can’t talk—gotta run—driving lesson.”

I give the apple a quick rinse in the sink, then wipe it with a paper towel.

“You’re really doing it?” she asks, following me with a frown. “Why don’t you let Papa or Dad teach you? Or Owen? I don’t like that you’re meeting up with a stranger.”

“I’ll be less scared with an instructor,” I explain, trying to snake around her, but she blocks my path.

“Just stay here. Don’t leave. The house has plenty of space. If you want more, we can open a few walls to give you the nest of your dreams. There’s no reason for all this foolishness about driving. You know we love having you live with us.” Her eyes tear up, and a wave of guilt hits me square in the face. She opens her arms, and I walk right in, savoring the hug. My mom holds me tightly, like she’ll never let go—and I love her for it. I love all of them so much.

But I also need to grow up. And if this morning’s spike is any indication, I may have waited too long.

Who wants to have a heat where their parents can hear it?

The thought is enough to force me to pull away.

“Love you so much, Mom. But I need this.” Her eyes search my face, and although there’s sadness for just a second, there’s some understanding, too.

“Okay. Please call if you need us. Also, sweetheart, we’re going away next weekend. Owen is going to come stay with you.” She drops that bombshell.

I open my mouth to tell her I don’t need a babysitter, but she beats me to the punch, holding up her hands placatingly.

“I know you can take care of yourself. It will just give us peace of mind to know you have someone waiting for you at home,”she explains. And even though I want to argue, my phone dings, letting me know the rideshare is here.

One point to Mom.

“All right. Gotta run.” I press a kiss on her cheek, then take off out the door.

“Bye!! Thanks for the ride!” I smile and wave at my driver as she pulls away from the curb. I’m one necklace lighter than when I got into the car. I still can’t believe she recognized my jewelry line. Excitement bubbles in my belly, fluttering like fairy wings.

There’s been an uptick in sales lately—but to have it recognized by a random person? It’s beyond my wildest dreams. The website is overwhelmed, and I have orders booked for the next three months. It’s all happening even faster than I could have hoped.

Holy crap on a cracker.

The high quickly crashes down, though, when I turn and look at the sign. Volpe Driving School, it reads, and although I’m in the right place, I wish I was anywhere else. The small, white building sits next to a large parking lot that has a fleet of unassuming black and white cars, all fitted with gigantic signs decrying STUDENT DRIVERS.

The apple I ate in the car threatens to make a reappearance, and I call on all my therapist-taught calming techniques to staveoff a panic attack. Reaching for the hair tie on my wrist, I snap it hard three times, counting backward as I go.

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