Page 73 of Citius

After kissing Joaquin on the temple and taking a moment to savor the peppery thrill of his scent, I raced down the stairs. The longer I stayed in the loft, the higher the risk of boxwood contamination.

Owen’s crisp voice called after me. “Don’t forget the finishing touches.”

***

I watched our collective pennies, all right—watched them fly straight out of our account, traded away for a trunkful of impulse splurges.

By the time I returned to Tolliver Yards, the back of my SUV was overflowing, and I was a frazzled knot of uncertainty. Did any of the throw pillows actually go together? Did the faux orchid arrangement scream cheap? The rope artwork that had seemed perfect in the store now looked small and depressingly beige.

I hooked bag after bag of soft furnishings and decorative objects onto my arm before realizing I still had a back seat full of groceries. Unloading was going to take several trips. Should I throw the home goods back in the trunk and prioritize getting the milk and ice cream upstairs first?

Doubt took hold.

What was I trying to prove? Why had I proposed a housewarming party in the first place? I was totally out of my element. My hosting experience was limited to boxed wine and popcorn on movie nights. I was your guy if you needed someone to pick the least tragic bedspread from the clearance section. But decorating an entire luxury penthouse loft? Forget it.

I didn’t know how to make fancy party food. What if I gave everyone food poisoning? What if I embarrassed Owen and Wyatt in front of their aunt?

My anxiety hamster was back on its wheel, running full force toward a panic attack.

Oh god, what if I embarrassed myself in front of Morgan? What if she hated all the throw pillows—did omegas even like throw pillows, or was that just a rumor? What if—

“Do you need help?”

A calm voice interrupted my freak-out, soothing balm for my sudden bout of nerves. Gentle, but in complete control. Like an actual adult.

I turned to see a young woman standing a few parking spaces away. Honey-blonde French braids framed her delicate, doll-like features, and she wore a purple vintage-style pea coat and a pair of black and white Oxfords with chunky soles.

“I’ve got a collapsible cart you could use.” She pressed a button on her key fob, popping the trunk of her electric blue hatchback.

“Thank you,” I managed to say, though it sounded more like a wheeze. “That would be amazing. Life-saving, even.”

An even younger man with shoulder-length auburn hair climbed out of the passenger seat, wearing an oversized flannel shirt and jeans.

“I can help, too!” he said as he came bounding over, enthusiastically grabbing a few bags. “I’m Rory. That’s Kelsey, my sister. She lives here. I’m just crashing for the weekend.”

“I’m Alijah. Thanks again for coming to my rescue.”

As Kelsey rolled the cart over—one of those fancy utility ones, long and sturdy with solid fabric sides—their strong sibling resemblance became clear. They were about five-eight, with the same round green eyes, full cheeks, freckles, and charmingly upturned noses.

Kelsey loaded the cart with practiced ease, placing heavier items on the bottom and soft furnishings on top. Her angelic beauty and fuller figure fit the omega stereotype, but her mint scent told a different story—sweet and simple, entirely natural. Like a freshly plucked leaf, not artificially vibrant in the toothpaste way. Completely beta.

But was it the same mint Wyatt had mentioned?

“Redecorating?” Rory asked, commandeering the cart as we headed toward the elevator.

His scent was like a premium fudge brownie, rich with chocolate and caramelized sugar. Too decadent to be anything other than an omega.

I followed with the faux orchid tucked awkwardly in the crook of my arm while Kelsey trailed a step behind, carrying a few reusable bags that appeared to be filled with artisan soap.

“Sort of,” I replied. “We only moved in a few weeks ago. Still trying to furnish the place.”

Kelsey’s gaze shifted to my pillow selection, looking slightly puzzled by the mishmash of styles and fabrics. I’d grabbed whatever looked nice without sparing a single thought for cohesion—and it showed. But that’s what Joaquin was for. A lighting designer was still a designer. I’d return anything he vetoed.

“Are these all for the same space?” she asked, tone gentle despite her pinched brows.

“No, not really.” I held the elevator door for Rory and the cart, keeping my hand in place until Kelsey stepped inside. “For the loft in general, I guess. We’re a little short on—on finishing touches.”

“What floor?” Rory asked as he swiped his sister’s access card with practiced ease, his hand poised above the control panel.

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