Page 56

Too warm, restless, and aware.

My skin feels sharper somehow, my body humming in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the drinks or adrenaline anymore.

My heat is coming on… soon.

“Cool,” I mutter to absolutely no one. “That’s just fantastic.”

My phone is already in my hand before I fully think it through.

Still nothing. No text or missed call from Hunter or Gidge. I try to call my brother even though it’s late on his side of the country.

No answer.

I glare at the screen hard enough that maybe spite alone will make somebody pick up.

“Seriously?” I mutter, hitting call again as I step out of the bathroom and into the main part of the room.

Voicemail again. I try Gidge… straight to voicemail.

A frustrated sound catches in my throat before I throw the phone onto the bed hard enough for it to bounce.

They better not be dead. If I end up trapped in Montana, in heat, with three insufferable cowboy alphas because those idiots can’t answer a phone, I will personally bring them back just to kill them myself.

I drag both hands down my face, exhaling hard.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and my body will stop being dramatic for five damn minutes.

The warmth under my skin says otherwise.

I tug off my bra because there’s absolutely no reason to suffer through an underwire in a motel room with questionable carpet and exactly one sad pillow. The air feels cool against my skin when I sit on the edge of the mattress, but it doesn’t do much to settle the restless feeling still humming under it.

Sleep should be easy. Instead, I end up staring at the ceiling, then my phone, then nowhere at all while my thoughts circle back to the same thing anyway.

Them.

Coffee and vanilla lingering close enough to wrap around me when Clint carried me outside, his arm locked firm across the backs of my thighs, like putting me down hadn’t even crossed his mind. Key lime pie cutting through the cold air when Tripp stepped close enough to ask if I was okay, knuckles already swelling and somehow still paying more attention to me than his own hand. Banana cream following Briggs every time he moved near, quieter than the others somehow, heavier, sticking around longer than it should have.

My nose wrinkles before I drag both hands over my face.

“This is embarrassing.”

Because apparently somewhere between rodeos and near-bar fights, I started recognizing them by scent.

Which feels suspiciously omega of me.

I pushed them tonight on purpose, and the worst part is, they pushed back.

Heat creeps up my neck, remembering the way Clint’s hand tightened against my thigh after I said “Got it, didn’t I?” and something warm twists low in my stomach before I shove the thought away hard enough to make myself groan.

Nope. Not doing that tonight.

I flop backward against the mattress harder than necessary, staring up at water stains in the ceiling while the room settles around me. It smells faintly like detergent and old air conditioning, but underneath it, black cherry and almond clings to my skin where my blockers are wearing thinner than I’d like. I shift under the blanket, suddenly too aware of myself, too warm, too keyed up for someone who should be exhausted.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline or the drinks.

Definitely not the three ridiculously attractive rodeo idiots who looked very not okay watching me dance with somebody else.

My stomach flips again.