Page 176 of Altius
My control had never teetered on so fine an edge.
“Can you drive?” he asked.
My response barely had enough air to qualify as a sound. “No.”
“I’m going to call Cal to come get you. Okay?”
A shudder sufficed for a nod.
Wyatt disconnected, leaving me bereft, staring at him through my windshield, cursing the dim light and my poor night vision, which obscured his solid form a little more with every passing second, even though he was a mere six feet in front of me.
I couldn’t risk turning on the engine and having the ventilation inadvertently pick up his pheromones. Chantal had been adamant that we avoid each other at all costs in order to get accurate readings.
He was nothing but a vague shadow by the time Cal’s pickup pulled into the lot, headlights momentarily revealing Wyatt’s stricken features and bloodshot eyes.
“Love you,” he mouthed. Then he turned and hurried toward his car across the lot, head hanging low between his broad shoulders.
Cal parked beside me and waited until Wyatt had driven away before opening my door and pulling me into his arms.
“You okay?”
“No,” I admitted, burying my face in his chest. “Just tell me this gets better.”
Cal kissed the top of my head, his purr soft but steady. “You two will make it through this. I promise.”
Forty-Two
Morgan
Islept like shit. Even Cal’s arms weren’t strong enough to ward off the ache of Wyatt’s absence. How could I miss someone so much after sleeping beside them for just a few weeks? A mere handful of days in the grand scheme of our entire relationship.
A relationship of strained love and forbearance.
Love.
Wyatt Redmond loved me.
And I believed it wholeheartedly, despite our short time together. There was no such thing as too soon between Wyatt and me.
Only too late.
I went through my morning routine on autopilot.
Midway through my customary stretches, the gym door opened. I whipped around, afraid Wyatt had either forgotten about our socialization ban or had chosen to ignore it.
A different man with wavy black hair stood in the doorway, wearing sleek gunmetal gray workout gear and carrying a water bottle instead of his customary coffee.
Leaning back on my elbows, I let my eyes trail along his toned calves and thighs, across the solid rectangle of his torso, to those knife-like features—which were beginning to inspire trust instead of trepidation.
“Who put you up to this?” I asked.
“I take it you haven’t looked outside,” Owen said, closing the door behind him and crossing to the treadmill. He placed his water bottle in the cupholder and started stretching.
“I’ve seen you running along the river path in sleet, Owen. I don’t need to be chaperoned while I’m working out. Come up with a better excuse next time.”
Owen studied me as he bent his right knee, raised his ankle backward to grab it with his hand, and stretched out his quad.
“I don’t make excuses.” After holding the stretch for a few seconds, he dropped his right foot and repeated the process with his left. “My presence itself should be self-explanatory.”
