Page 1 of Take Me (Alphas Forever 1)

Blair

In some ways, I’m a typical college student. I pull all-nighters. I’m broke. I’ve eaten more than my fair share of ramen noodles. But in other ways, I’m the furthest thing from a cliché. I don’t party. I don’t have random sex. (In fact, I’ve never had sex at all.) And, believe it or not, I actually love going to class. This most recent semester—spring semester of my junior year—I got to take some some amazing classes, like “Forbidden Romance in Literature” and “Heroes and Villains.” Maybe it’s super nerdy of me to admit, but I’m actually sad that the semester is over.

If it were up to me, I would take classes this summer. But it’s not up to me. For better or worse, my older brother, Jake, is in charge of the money that funds my education, and he has insisted that I spend the next couple months doing two things: having fun and working a summer job to “get some real-world experience” and “build my character.”

Ugh. Older brothers, right? They’re so annoying.

Even more annoyingly, Jake has set up a summer job for me, which I’m on my way to right now. I guess I should just be glad that he’s not making me be an intern or something at the police station where he works. Still, I’m not exactly excited about the job he did set me up with.

I’m going to be working in an ice cream shop that Jake’s friend owns. Apparently, it’s in this boutiquey part of town and is super popular. When I looked up the website, there was one never-ending page dedicated to photos of the ice cream that people have posted on social media. Honestly, I got pretty overwhelmed looking at it. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I was going to have to learn to produce those perfectly photogenic ice cream scoops. And I also couldn’t stop thinking about all the rich, skinny girls who I was going to have to serve. They’re all going to be on one side of the counter, taking selfies with their ice cream—so tall that their heads will practically hit the ceiling—and I’ll be stuck on the other side of the counter, barely able to see over it, my thick thighs rubbing as I frantically run back and forth between flavors.

Around that point in my spiral of anxiety, I decided I needed to stop looking at the website. But first, because my curiosity temporarily outweighed my nerves, I clicked on the “About” page.

And, well, that was a big mistake. Because the page that loaded showed a photograph of the guy who owns the ice cream shop—my brother’s friend—and that photograph made me feel weak in the knees. Shane Armstrong’s official title was Founder and Owner of Sweet Cream. But it also should have said Superhunk.Damn, the guy was hot.

Which wouldn’t have been such a bad thing if he wasn’t going to be my new boss.

In the days since looking at the website, I’ve tried to convince myself that Shane is probably not actually that attractive. It’s a professional photograph, and everyone looks better in professional photographs than they do in real life. I’ve also reminded myself over and over again why I can’t allow myself to be attracted to him. There’s the whole employee-boss thing, of course. But there’s also the fact that he’s my brother’s friend.

And, maybe most significantly, he’s probably at least a decade older than me. My brother is eleven years my senior, and I’m assuming that Shane is close in age. I mean, he definitely looks like it. In the photograph, he has that confident, mature, yet still vibrant smile that only men in their 30s can pull off.

The bus I’m riding across town nears the stop I need to get off at, so I pull the cord and walk up to the front of the bus. The driver wishes me a good day as I get off, and I smile and cheerfully wish him the same, but really, I’m a bundle of nerves inside, so nervous that I miss the last step and stumble out onto the sidewalk. There are two very chic-looking women walking by just then, and they both give me a “walk much?” look. Instantly, my cheeks go hot, but I force myself to regain my composure.

The bus stop that I’ve gotten off at is only two blocks away from Sweet Cream. So I walk in the other direction and wander for a while, because I’m twenty minutes early, and also because I need more time to mentally prepare. I mean, I’ve been mentally preparing the whole morning—I did some yoga in the middle of my apartment’s tiny living room, made myself peppermint tea, and even said some affirmations—but a few more minutes of trying to convince myself that it will all be okay won’t do any harm, will it?

I’m in the middle of thinking this when I hear someone call out “On your left!” behind me. And of course my brain malfunctions. Instead of moving out of the way to the right, I take a step to my left. A split second later, something crashes into me, and then I’m on the sidewalk, staring up at the blazing sun above.

There’s some grunting beside me, and then a face hovers above mine. “Are you okay?”

I nod. “I think so.” I sit up. One of my knees is all scraped up, and bleeding a little, but weirdly, it doesn’t hurt—and then my shock wears off and it does.

“Can you get up?” the face says.

I can and I do.

“Didn’t you hear me say ‘on your left’?” the person asks, more annoyed now that he’s seen that I’m okay. I now notice that he’s wearing rollerblades.

“Uh…” I say. “Yeah. Sorry.”

The guy shakes his head and sighs. I want to say something about how I don’t think people are supposed to rollerblade on the sidewalk, but I’m not totally sure that’s true, and I just want to get out of there. So I mumble something about having to go, and start to limp away.

This is definitely not a good omen for today.

* * *

By the timeI get to Sweet Cream, my limp isn’t so bad. It’s good enough to fake not having one, anyway. Outside of the shop, I take a deep breath, then place my hand on the door handle and pull. It doesn’t budge. So I try pushing the door, but that doesn’t open it, either.

And that’s when I see Shane.

He’s inside the shop, and he’s just noticed me at the door. He’s coming over now to let me in. As he approaches, I feel my chest growing tight. Because he is just as hot, if not more so, than he is in the photograph online. He’s got a head of dark, thick hair and sharp, penetrating eyes. And he’s big. He’s at least a foot taller than me. And he’s way more muscular than I was expecting. Just looking at him makes me feel tiny.

Shane unlocks the door—yeah, I’m an idiot, of course it was locked—and looks out at me. Up close, I can glimpse an abstract tattoo twisting up his forearm. “Can I help you?”

I’m caught off guard. Doesn’t he know that I’m coming today? My brother set all of this up, so I haven’t been in direct communication with Shane.

“I’m Blair,” I say. “Um, Jake’s sister?”

Shane raises his eyebrows. “You’re Blair?”

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