Page 15 of Altius
Morgan gestured to the single framed photo on her dresser. “She’s our other best friend.”
I hurried over to pick up the photo. The three of them were at a fancy evening event, maybe a mating party, in front of a tiered fountain surrounded by opulent floral arrangements and twinkling lights, arms wrapped around each other’s waists.
Morgan was in the center, the tallest of the three, wearing the same one-shouldered black dress she’d worn to the Belcrest Ballet’s fall fundraising gala. Grace looked lovely, but I was moreinterested in Jacobi because I could finally put a face with the name that I’d heard so much about.
There was an element of mischievous pretty boy, with his floral print blazer and mop of dark curls, but I’d expected someone closer to Wyatt or Rory’s height, not an impish sprite with bulging biceps. He was short and solid, built more for power than precision.
My face must have betrayed my surprise because Morgan stifled a laugh.
“Told you Wyatt was tall for a gymnast.”
“Didn’t you say Jacobi likes taller people?” I turned the photo toward Morgan. “You’re taller. What’s not to like?”
“I’m wearing heels in that photo. We’re about the same height. And I’m not an alpha.”
I looked back at Jacobi. While I didn’t want more competition for Morgan’s affections, I could only doubt his taste in partners.
“I’ve never seen Jacobi do gymnastics,” I said, “but he’d probably fare all right on the show, given all the training you guys go through.”
“One episode.” She put on her glasses and eased out of bed. “If I’m going to encourage Jacobi to embarrass himself on national television, I’d better make an informed decision first.”
“More like international,” I said, picking up the tray, trying to ignore the sway of Morgan’s breasts beneath her t-shirt as she walked past.
There was no reason for her to wear a bra during a nap in her bedroom—but that didn’t give me permission to ogle her. No matter how much I wanted to.
“It gets huge streaming numbers,” I added, staring at the tea-soaked granola at the bottom of the mug.
Pulling on a fluffy bathrobe—a Beaufeather’s bestseller that I recognized from the website—Morgan flashed a wicked little grin and shuffled out the door.
“Even better.”
***
One episode turned into three. Not because Morgan was interested, but because she had fallen asleep as soon as she got comfortable on her mound of throw pillows in the TV room upstairs.
And I was content to sit there until tomorrow if it meant her sock-clad feet would stay nestled in my lap.
I’d allowed myself to place my hand on her ankle, but that was all. No stroking or wandering. Just a simple, reassuring touch.
I was also perfectly happy to watch Grace dominate the competition, keeping the volume down low as she gave a rumba masterclass.
“Hey,” Morgan mumbled, eyes barely open. “Did I apologize? Can’t remember.”
“What for?”
“Being mean.”
“Oh—the thing at work? No apology necessary.”
“Yes, it is.” Her eyes drifted closed, losing the battle to stay awake. “I’m sorry, Alijah… Wish things were different.”
My heart raced for the next two dance numbers, as if trying to engrave her sleepy but genuine apology into my ribcage.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
My feelings mattered to Morgan enough for her to apologize to me, a mere beta… But Morgan didn’t fixate on designations. Just individuals.
Me. She cared about me.
