Becca glances toward the hallway, then back at me. “Your car. People saw it parked outside Fox and Fern for quite some time. And Mick says that the night before you parked it there, you and your friends basically hightailed out of The Smokehouse.”
I freeze.
She keeps going. “And since you’ve never been seen there with any Omega before, and no one’s seen you in three days… you know how this town is. They’re curious.”
“Curious,” I repeat flatly. “Meaning they’re gossiping.”
Her expression is careful. “Pretty much.”
I curse under my breath. “Tell them to mind their own business. Shut it down.”
“Simon…”
“I’m serious. I don’t care what they think they saw. It’s none of their damn concern.” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, but I’m in no mood to soften it.
She nods slowly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
When she’s gone, I head back into my office, shutting the door harder than necessary. I press the heel of my hand to my eyes, willing the spike of irritation to fade.
I knew this was a possibility. I’ve lived in this town long enough to know how fast stories spread—faster if there’s no concrete detail to pin them to.
And still, it’s only been three fucking days.
Three days of not thinking about the outside world. Three days of letting biology and instinct drive every decision. Three days of her.
And now I’m supposed to walk back into my life like nothing happened.
I drop into my chair, rubbing a hand over my face. My body’s exhausted enough that I could fall asleep right here, but my brain’s wired.
It keeps trying to replay the last seventy-two hours in high-definition detail—the sound of her voice breaking, the way her skin flushed when she came, the exact pitch of her scent when she begged.
I need to focus. I have patients. I have a hospital to run.
But the truth is, I could use another three days off. Not just to rest, but to get my head on straight before I run into her again.
Because right now, the idea of seeing her in daylight, fully clothed, and pretending we’re just acquaintances?
I’m not sure I could pull it off.
It’s barely light out when the knock comes.
For a second, I think I’ve imagined it. I’m half-buried in my bed, head still heavy from only two hours of sleep.
I dragged myself in at six-thirty this morning, dropped my bag by the door, and collapsed without bothering to undress.
The knock comes again—sharper this time. Persistent.
I curse under my breath, pushing myself upright. My muscles protest. Every part of me feels sluggish, like I’m still wading through the aftermath of Wren’s heat and three days of no real rest.
When I open the door, Beau’s standing there with a cardboard drink carrier in one hand. He looks irritatingly awake.
Levi’s behind him in a jacket, dark jeans, hair in place.
“It’s barely eight,” I mutter. My voice comes out rough.
Beau holds up the coffees like a peace offering. “Brought you this.”
I eye him. “Why the hell are you here? And how are you not more tired? You pulled an all-nighter like I did.”
