Page 149 of Run Wild Omega

“Still broken,” I say.

“That would have been an awkward conversation with Dr. Patel.”

“What wouldn’t be an awkward conversation with Dr. Patel?”

Dylan groans from the foot of the bed. “Can you all shut up? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“You’ve been asleep for hours,” Miles says.

“And I need ten more. I earned it.”

I reach down and poke his ribs. He grabs my hand, presses a kiss to my knuckles without opening his eyes, and rolls over, pulling the pillow over his head.

My phone rings.

The sound is jarring, foreign, coming from somewhere in the wreckage of clothes on the bedroom floor. I sit up, wincing at the protest from muscles I forgot I had, and scan the room.

Miles gets up, retrieves my phone from the pocket of my jeans, and hands it to me. The screen reads MOM.

I stare at it. Three rings. Four.

“You should answer that,” Wyatt says.

I swipe. “Hey, Mom.”

“Tess, honey. I’ve been calling. Are you okay? Mara said you stayed at her place last night. She said you were helping her with a project at the lodge and it ran late, and you crashed on her couch.”

I look at Miles. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, bare-chested, his expression carefully neutral.

“We asked Mara to cover for you,” he says, his voice low enough that the phone won’t pick it up. “When the heat started. Wyatt called her and explained the situation. She agreed to tell your parents you were with her.”

I mouth the words thank you. He nods.

“Tess? You there?”

“Yeah, Mom. Sorry, I just woke up. I’m fine. Mara and I were up late with the lodge stuff. Mrs. Lacey had us redoing cushion covers.”

“Well, your father and I were worried. You haven’t been answering your phone.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have called.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. As long as you’re safe. When are you coming home?”

“Today. I promise.”

“Okay. Dad made waffle batter. It’s in the fridge. Come eat when you’re ready.”

“I will. Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

I hang up and look at the three of them. Dylan has emerged from under the pillow, his hair standing in twelve directions. Wyatt is sitting up against the headboard, resting his hand on my knee. Miles is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

“You called Mara,” I say.

“Yes. We figured you didn’t need your parents worrying about your whereabouts,” Miles confirms.

“She also called Mrs. Lacey,” Wyatt adds. “Told her to back up the story if your mom checked.”