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He watched Yordan swallow, his breath short. But in an impressive display of control, he firmed his chin and glared down at Kit.
“Why aren’t you doing it? Missed too many golf games lately?”
Was that what Yordan thought of him? That he was hanging out waiting for a tee time? “You’ve spent too much time in Florida, Swamp Thing. It’s winter in Michigan. I’m going on a well-deserved vacation,” he lied. “I haven’t been back home in a decade, and I need to see my nanna.” That was true. She was the only one who might have a clue how to fix his current problem. “So you’ll be in charge the minute I take off. Everything you want to do to Wulf, Inc. is yours to command.”
“When are you leaving?”
“As soon as you’re up to speed.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t know.” He winced. “Got a problem that needs fixing before I can come back.”
“And you’re putting me in charge?”
“Sure am. Because an alpha doesn’t ask what his people want. He just puts ’em where he needs ’em. Right?” Instead of a brogue, he put on a bad Texas accent.
Yordan’s jaw worked furiously. He wanted to fight. He wanted to rail. He was a man who perennially avoided command, and Kit wanted to know why. But instead of talking, he just stood there and took it.
Which meant Kit had to push.
“Unless you want to sit down and eat your meal. Maybe drink that craft beer that is pretty damned good. Then you can stop bellyaching about all the things I’m doing wrong and talk to me about what the fuck is going on with you.”
Yordan’s gaze slid to the floor. “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with me, and I’ve got nothing to say to you or that alien plastic bag Gelpack.”
Kit sighed. For some people, taking on the hardest job in the entire organization was easier than facing their feelings. “Then congratulations. You’re now my understudy.”
CHAPTER 4
Why Do Aliens Care about Assholes?
WTF had just happened?
Yordan watched the Scotsman stride out of the locker room like a god finished with his mortal acolytes. He spun on his heel and walked his cute ass straight out before Yordan could even think to shut his mouth.
He shouldn’t have found that sexy. Damn it, everything about the bureaucrat ought to disgust him. But the man had brought him food and beer and had somehow turned Yordan’s arrogant posturing into a put-up-or-shut-up promotion.
And he was perverted enough to find that sexy as hell. The man had sat here with a hard-on—yes, he’d noticed that despite the clever placement of Kit’s hands—and listened to Yordan’s blathering criticism. He’d let Yordan go on and then showed him exactly how much of an idiot he was. And then he’d nailed Yordan with more work and more responsibility. Put up or shut up. The perfect, no-nonsense response to a blowhard.
Hard not to respect that in a man. And given the man’s broad Scottish good looks, intelligent green eyes, and pert rear end… Well, now Yordan was the one sporting a hard-on.
He leaned down and took a swig of the beer. Damn, it was good. And the meat casserole? Fantastic.
He dropped down onto the bench where McHottie had been sitting and picked up the plate. The food was welcome, the beer warming by the second, but he didn’t care. Compared to the swill they’d had in the Everglades, this was ambrosia. He leaned back as he chewed, his mind quieting as his food settled. He was clean, warm, and now fed.
This was contentment, so long as he didn’t think too deeply about anything but being clean, warm, and fed.
“It is time for your appointment now,” a sibilant voice said.
Yordan’s eyes jerked open as a translucent alien walked in. The man (creature?) was naked and see-through, except for the remains of his last meal floating somewhere around his right calf. There wasn’t a lot that grossed Yordan out, but that was downright unsettling.
Gelpack worked as Wulf, Inc.’s shrink, though he had no official credentials. The alien had shown up one day like the Silver Surfer, and the higher-ups had given him an office on the second floor. Yordan did his best to avoid the alien, but his opportunity to duck away was lost.
Served him right for loitering naked in the locker room with lunch and a beer. Still, he did his best to escape.
“Crap, Gelpack. Get out of here. Let me get dressed, and we can meet in your office like civilized people.”
“Your appointment time is now,” Gelpack answered. His voice held no inflection. None of the usual cues to help a man read his opponent. Gelpack was a fluid outline of a body with fried chicken in his leg. And he wasn’t going anywhere.
