But I have no idea what that might be. A part of me aches to find out—a part I can’t humor. Not if I want to remain employed.
When the waiter brings the check over, I lean a curious eye at the receipt and instantly regret doing so. Over five hundred euros for one dinner for two people. I try to burn every remaining detail of the restaurant in my mind, flip back through the experiences of the food, make sure I soaked every bit of value out of it I could.
It’s now fully sinking in that being invited on this trip waslike winning the lottery—except I don’t get to choose to put the money in a savings account instead.
The private driver pulls up to bring us back to the hotel, and I’m grateful for the individual climate control for my seat that allows me to blast cold air to overcome the edge of nausea from how drunk I am.
I follow Morgan back up to the penthouse, mustering every bit of focus to walk as straight as I can.
We step back into the dizzyingly extravagant space, and I’m still drunk enough to say out loud, “You didn’t have to spend so much on a suite on my account. I’d be fine in a closet here, save some money.”
“Oh, I always take the penthouse here. Letting you stay with meissaving money.”
“Whoareyou?” I murmur.
Morgan lets out a wry laugh and gives no further answer.
Because it should be painfully obvious that she’s MorganfuckingHunter.
I’m lucky she thought I was joking.
“Thanks for giving me the room with the bathroom,” I say, hoping to recover.
“My bathroom ismuchbigger than yours.” Her eyes glimmer.
I must really be drunk because it sounds like she’s making implications about dick size. I wouldn’t doubt it, though. Of all the alphas and omegas, female alphas have the most dramatic shift. And thinking about it is making my own dick tighten again.
“G-goodnight,” I stammer, then I lock myself in my bedroom.
I only mean to lie down on the bed for a second. I haven’t even taken my shoes off, but the room starts spinning, and I bury my head in the pillow and fall quickly asleep.
Chapter 11
JAMIE
A hard knock at the door jolts me awake.
“You alive in there?”
“Y-yes!” I yelp, scrambling for my phone. It’s dead—I forgot to plug it in last night. I managed to kick off my shoes at some point, but otherwise I’m still wearing my clothes from yesterday and they’re clammy with sweat.
I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand and see I should have been up an hour ago.
I jump to my feet—leaving an alpha waiting ranks highest on my threat assessment.
When I whip open the door, there’s a wall of sweat and muscle in front of me. Morgan wears a sports bra and tight leggings, her arms and abs totally bare and glistening with sweat. Her dark hair is up in a ponytail, and she sips casually from a massive green smoothie.
That would be enough to set my heart racing. But then the scent of her sweat hits my nose, deep and earthy with an edge of spice. I have a horrifying impulse to bury my nose under her arm, breathe deep that scent. Instead, I hold my breath.
Her violet eyes flick down, up again. “You’re hungover,” she states, amusement glinting in her eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say weakly.
“We’ll fix it at the spa. Change. We leave in five.”
I jump to obey, rummaging through my suitcase for clean jeans and a long-sleeve henley. It’s early enough that I assume we’ll come back to the hotel before we go on stage this evening. That distance helps keep my nerves from going totally haywire.
I reemerge to find that Morgan has thrown on a crop t-shirt over her sports bra, but otherwise remains unchanged.
