Page 68 of The Mating Game
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I deny quickly. “We’re…friends. Who help each other.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
I bite my lip briefly before I groan, “Maybe both.”
“Fine, fine. You only want tohelp. So call Nate.”
“I think I should.”
“And when you land Hunter an interview, you two can celebrate with another romp in that hot tub. Preferably with more penetration next time.”
“Don’t say ‘penetration’ either.”
“Seriously. It’s got to be some kind of sexy serendipity that thesame day someone tells you that you’re suddenly an omega and your hormones go haywire, a bearded hottie alpha walks right off the cover of one of those romance novels you read to save your God-tier vagina.”
“It’s hard enough to look him in the eye after everything we’ve done withoutthatin my head,” I groan.
“Let him save you, Tess,” Ada says dramatically. “Let him save you with his pen—”
“Liking you less and less by the second.”
“Whatever. You know you lo—Shit.” There’s a bit of activity on the other line before: “Grace is looking for me. Call you later?”
“Fine, fine. Go kick ass. I’ll still be here.”
“Hiding, daydreaming, thinking about Hunter’s huge—”
“Go.”
“Okay, okay.”
I lean back against my bed’s heavy wooden headboard and let out a sigh, eyeing the outfit I still need to put on to meet Cat and her boyfriend tonight. Despite my protests, I guess there’s really nothing better to call what I’ve been doing today excepthiding—feigning a headache to stay holed up in my room so I can avoid seeing the object of all my confused feelings.
Sleeping was almost impossible last night, given that every time I almost drifted off I would remember Hunter’s hands and Hunter’s body and just…Hunter, and I’d get flustered in a way that I’ve never been before in regard to a man.
I think back to my past relationships, and I cannot for the life of me remember feeling so…giddyover them. I feel like a damn teenager with the way I can’t seem to get my hormones under control.
I think youlikeHunter.
I mean, that really is ridiculous, isn’t it? I mean, sure, I like him, but I don’tlike himlike him, do I?
I snort at myself mentally. What am I, fifteen?
I think back to Nate and the way Hunter was so sure the lodge would hold no interest for him or the magazine, and it makes me question what exactly my reasonsarefor wanting to help. Is it simply for the sake of being nice, or do I want to help because it’sHunter?
Sometimes I don’t even know how we’re keeping the lights on.
I decide the why isn’t important—or rather, I don’t want to know the why right now—and before I can second-guess myself, I’m scrolling through my contacts in search of Nate’s office number.
“Good morning,” a receptionist greets me when the line connects. “Thank you for calling the business office ofTravel Quarter. How can I help you?”
“I was wondering if Nate might be available to talk right now.”
“I can check on that for you,” she says sweetly. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“Tess Covington.”
“Hold one moment, please,” she answers.
