Page 76 of Citius

Morgan

The coast was clear. No Redmonds or happily mated obstacles stood between me and the elevator.

Shutting off the security camera viewing panel, I turned—only to find Kelsey standing in the doorway of the Beaufeather’s stockroom, arms stacked with packages ready for shipping, a roll of packing tape sitting on her wrist like a bracelet.

“Aren’t you a little old to be terrorizing boys?” she asked, padding across the wood floor toward the dining table.

“How does avoiding them qualify as terrorism?” I countered, adjusting my glasses.

“Because you’re toying with them. And Alijah, at least, is too nice to deserve this.” Setting down the last mailing envelope, Kelsey spun to face me, hands on her hips, her expression downright challenging. “Why can’t you just be honest?”

“Because it’s complicated,” I said, collecting my work bag and travel mug of tea from the entry table. “And I don’t have time for complications.”

“But you had time to explain the neighbor situation to your pheromone stud?”

“That’s different. Cal figured it out on his own.”

“Oh,” she said, dragging out the word to an absurd length. “That’s why Cal’s different—not because you have feelings for him.”

I shook my head and turned the camera interface back on. “Mm, sorry. No feelings here. Jacobi doesn’t call me a heartless bitch fornothing.”

Kelsey ripped off a piece of tape with a loud, sticky screech, flashing me a pert grin. “Whatever you say, sister dear.”

***

“Say that again?”

Ethan’s amused laugh crackled through my car speakers. “The front desk got another complaint about a strange odor in the gym today.”

“Strange,” I asked, pressing my forehead against the steering wheel, “or shrubbery?”

“The exact phrasing was, ‘like trying to lift weights inside a compost bin,’ but shrubbery works, too. How’d you know?”

I peeked over the steering wheel at the entrance of the women’s gymnastics training center, where yet another swarm of adoring young girls surrounded Wyatt. Whatever brand of scent-canceling spray he was using owed him a refund.

“Because,” I muttered, “I think I know what’s going on.”

“Do tell,” Ethan said, not bothering to downplay his interest.

“Are you asking as my brother or as the property manager?”

“Ooh, now Ireallywant to know.”

I heaved a sigh. “Can this stay between us?”

“Of course, especially if it saves me from calling in a ventilation tech.”

Ethan and his packmates ran the property management arm of the real estate firm our parents owned. Mom was semi-retired now, only selling the occasional property here and there, so she could spend more time with Papa and our nieces, but Dad was still firmly at the helm.

Tolliver Yards wasn’t Ethan’s largest or most profitable client, but he liked to handle our affairs personally. Not because of my ownership stake, but because two of his sisters lived there.

Once, he’d been the worst kind of overprotective alpha big brother. Over the years, he’d mellowed into a solid, nonjudgmental rock, which was a relief because I didn’t have time to manage things.

That used to be Jacobi’s very part-time role—strolling into the management office with holiday treats, handing out anniversary bonuses to the staff, and personally awarding prizes for the most festive balconies or spookiest door decorations.

Another collection of his favorite things—abandoned in favor of Hugo.

Thankfully, Ethan’s handpicked building manager and concierge team had stepped in to fill the void, making the current conversation even more awkward.

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