Page 26 of Run Wild Omega

I’m not that girl anymore. I’m not the girl who waited by the window. I’m not the girl who needs an Alpha to make her whole.

I climb mountains. I guide tourists. I pay my own rent. I’m strong.

I’m fucking fine.

I slam my hand against the steering wheel, the horn blaring briefly into the quiet alley.

“Fuck you, Wyatt,” I whisper into the empty cab. “I don’t need you.”

But even as I say it, I can still feel the ghost of his fingers wrapped around my wrist. And I hate that part of me wants to go back inside and let him hold me just a little longer.

It has been four days since the slopes were declared unsafe. Four days since Wyatt sat across from me in my mom’s café and told me to keep my groups off the upper slopes. So I’ve been relegated to the flats, the bunny hill, and the beginner trails.

But honestly? I don’t mind.

“Okay, pizza! French fries!” I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth.

A dozen small heads turn toward me. They are bundled in puffy coats and colorful helmets, looking like a confetti explosion against the white snow. They’re young, seven or eight years old, vibrating with a sugar high and the thrill of being on snow.

“Remember the wedge!” I demonstrate, knocking my boots together. “Pizza! French fries!”

“Pizza! French fries!” they scream back.

They take off, a wobbly line of skis making a slow, torturous descent down the gentle slope. Most of them make it five feet before wiping out in a spectacular spray of powder. They don’t cry. They just roll over and cackle, waving their poles in the air until I help them up.

I love the kids. They don’t have egos. They don’t care about stock prices or corporate deadlines or who used to date whom. They just want to slide and eat hot cocoa. They’re easy.

By the time I shepherd the last one back to their parents near the Lodge entrance, the afternoon sun is dipping low, painting the snow in shades of lavender and gold.

Mrs. Lacey is waiting at the top of the stairs, her broom in hand.

“How did it go?” she asks, her eyes scanning the dispersing crowd.

“Good. They’re exhausted, which is exactly what their parents paid for.” I unclip my skis, leaning them against the rack. “I’m done for the day.”

“Smart girl.”

I dust the snow off my pants, but I don’t head for my car yet. The restlessness is back—that itch under my skin that makes me want to pace. I need to move. I need to do something with my hands that isn’t just holding poles.

“You need help with anything?” I ask her.

Mrs. Lacey pauses, looking me up and down. “Laundry mountain is high. And the third floor needs restocking.”

“I’m on it.”

I spend the next two hours in the basement, wrestling with industrial washers and dryers. The smell of detergent and bleach is comforting. It’s clean. It’s simple. I fold sheets until the stacks are neat and precise, load carts with tiny bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and lotion.

Then I head upstairs. I work my way down the hall, methodically restocking the mini-fridges in each room. Water bottles, sodas, beer. I wipe down the counters, fluff the pillows. It’s mindless work, but it settles the static in my brain. It’s better than sitting in my apartment staring at the walls.

By the time I clock out, the Lodge is winding down. The dinner crowd has thinned, and the lobby is quiet.

Instead of going to the parking lot, I take the path down the hill to the Hartwell Café.

The dinner rush is over, leaving behind the cozy, cluttered warmth of the evening. I slide into a booth, the vinyl squeaking under me.

Mom comes over, wiping her hands on her apron. “You look like you worked hard today.”

“Just helping Mrs. Lacey.”