Page 116 of Altius
I should want him to be a ruthless executive, driven by ambition, devoid of personal feelings—because that’s how things were supposed to be between us.
And yet…
Joaquin leaned closer and tapped the stem of my daiquiri. “You’re thinking too much.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I’m serious, doc. Don’t focus on whether you want to move forward.” Resting his weight on his elbow, nose ring glinting in the dim light, Joaquin leveled me with a piercing gaze. “The real question is if you can accept stepping aside.”
“The man has a point,” Wyatt added between bites of his ribeye.
Closing my eyes, I exhaled, letting go of everything except one question: did I want to see PheroPass and vibration therapy through to the end?
I wasn’t sure where the resounding yes came from first—my pride as a medical professional or my omega.
When I opened my eyes again, they were instantly arrested by Owen’s magnetic silver gaze.
He sat back in his chair, hands clasped low on his stomach. A forefinger tapped twice against the back of his opposite hand. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards.
“Is that a yes?” Joaquin asked.
Cal chuckled. “Sure looks like one to me.”
“Morgan can speak for herself,” Alijah said.
“Yeah,” Wyatt agreed, with his mouth half full. “Let her talk.”
Owen raised a brow.
I nodded. “Count me in.”
“Welcome aboard,” he said. “You won’t regret it…much.”
His sculpted lips pulled back to reveal two rows of even white teeth. The smile sharpened his features, making them even more eye-catching. A treacherous brand of handsome.
The kind people warned you about.
And I’d just contractually bound myself to his pirate ship, for better or worse, in the name of science.
I could only hope it wasn’t a colossal mistake.
Twenty-Seven
Morgan
The year started with a bang—thanks to a tipsy Cal deciding it was high time we christened the velvet ottoman in my suite’s lobby—but I still got up at five-thirty as usual.
I was almost done stretching when my phone buzzed, heralding the arrival of my first text of the year.
Reaching across the gym mat, I picked up my phone, eager to see who the message was from—Grace, Rory, Alijah, or…
Jenna. It was from Jenna.
Indecision gripped me. I had to open it. Even if she cursed me out. Or wanted nothing to do with me moving forward.
If she lobbed an emotional bomb at me a mere six hours into January first, so be it. I’d deal.
After taking a few centering breaths, I clicked on the message… Which wasn’t a message at all.
