Page 7 of Keep My Alpha

Soren walks in.

He’s mid-sentence, gesturing with one hand, the other holding the strap of his ever-present canvas bag. He’s wearing one of his cute cardigans that I would bet money he knitted himself. This one is a deep blue-purple that looks almost royal against his skin. His friend says something, and Soren’s head tips back when he laughs. A flush crawls up his neck.

Lavender and ink cut through the espresso in the air, his scent threading into the room. I go still.

The line of his throat when he laughs. His soft-looking skin. The tiny flutter of pulse right below his jaw. My mouth actually waters. I want to put my teeth there. I want to feel that pulse under my tongue. My whole body goes hot and stupid in a way that has zero business happening in a coffee shop at noon.

Mine, some animal part of me says, low and sure and completely unbothered by my opinion.

I’m a grown man with a job and a 401(k) match I don’t understand and I am, right now, in public, thinking about what the skin behind his ear would feel like under my thumb. Great. Normal. Aaron is going to see it on my face in about four seconds.

”—and I’m telling you, if the wood elf doesn’t show his face soon, we’re hiring a PI,“ his friend is saying.

“You’re not hiring a private investigator for my secret admirer.” Soren’s voice is warm and a little embarrassed, trying to sound firm and failing. “That’s insane.”

“What’s insane is you’ve been getting handmade gifts from a mystery alpha and you haven’t even tried to find him.“ His other friend chimes in. He tosses back his overlong fringe, nose ring glinting, and starts looking around the shop.

I grab Aaron’s engineering textbook and hold it up in front of my face.

Aaron blinks at me. I must look insane.

“Are you,” he whispers, “hiding behind my textbook?”

“I’m reading.”

“It’s upside down.”

I flip it. My hands are not entirely steady.

“It’s not concerning. It’s...” Soren stops, and my heart is going to come out of my throat. It’s what? What? “It’s nice. Someone is being nice. Can we not make it weird?”

“It was weird on bird three,” the first friend says. “We’ve left weird behind. This is devotion territory.”

“He’s an artist,” Soren says, voice rising a little. “Whoever he is. The detail... you don’t do that unless you care about what you’re making.”

He’s right. I do care.

“Wren.” Aaron’s voice is barely a breath.

I lower the textbook about an inch. Aaron’s staring at me, mouth open, his gaze cutting from my face to Soren’s back and back again. Realization passes over his face, followed by absolute glee.

“Holy shit,” Aaron whispers. “That’s him. That’s the guy. That’s your guy.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh my God. He’s right there. He’s fifteen feet away—“

“Aaron. Shut. Up.”

“Go talk to him.”

“No.”

“Wren, he just called you an artist. Go say hi. Say literally anything. Say ‘nice weather.’ Say ‘I want to marry you.’ I don’t care.”

“I can’t just walk up to him—“

“And what? Participate in society? You’re holding my textbook like a riot shield, man, it can’t get worse than this.”