Page 72 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Forty-Five

Morgan

W yatt and I were both too drained to work out in the morning. Instead, we lazed around in the nest and then took a lengthy shower together.

After washing each other’s hair, he lathered up a shower pouf with body wash while I took my sweet time spreading conditioner through his silky black tresses.

“What made you decide to grow it out?” I asked, angling his head under the streaming water so the runoff wouldn’t get into his eyes.

“Wasn’t much of a decision.” He ran the sudsy pouf up my left arm. “Didn’t feel like going to the barber all the time, and it just happened. Less upkeep this way. What about you?”

As the pouf skimmed along my collarbone and breasts, Wyatt stroked the curve of my hip, his touch needy rather than seductive, reassuring himself that I was within easy reach.

“Got sick of the maintenance, and constant ponytails aggravated my headaches. My hairdresser suggested a bob because it’s easier to manage. Turns out I’m a fan.”

“Me too.” Wyatt wrapped me in his arms, pressing a long kiss to the center of my forehead as the pouf settled between my shoulder blades. “The cut. The color. It suits you.”

Slipping my arms around his wet back, I rested my chin on his shoulder.

I just existed for a moment, safe in his embrace, marveling that we were together, focusing on the positive rather than yesterday’s devastation.

At least we were both still in the early stages of waning syndrome. It was treatable. Unpleasant and distressing, sure, but the odds were in our favor.

The water sluiced over our bodies, racing down the muscled planes of his torso and meandering around my curves—forms that were both leaner than when we first reconnected four months ago.

“I think the moral of the story is that we both hate fuss,” I murmured, trailing my lips across his skin.

“You’re probably the only woman in the world who looks at my wardrobe and thinks it’s practical instead of embarrassing.”

“I live in scrub pants and Narwhals t-shirts. We’re just dressing for the jobs we have. It’s just that those jobs require zero effort for fashion.”

Kissing the junction of my neck, Wyatt whispered, “Will you keep loving me even if I’m still wearing shorts every day when we’re eighty?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Because it means we made it through this.”

He swallowed hard. “Morgan…”

“Besides, if this all pans out the way I’m starting to think it will, I’ll have the best-looking and most intelligent pack of men to show off at Joaquin’s poker nights and Cal’s fundraising soirees.”

Wyatt tightened his embrace, pressing our bodies flush together. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Good, because you’re a key component of the handsome faction.” I stroked the centerline of his back. “Can’t grow old without you.”

“Ditto. So, we do whatever Cal and Owen tell us to. I also think we ought to consult with Aunt Tabby.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Hesitation made my voice shake. “Still haven’t figured out how to tell Kelsey.”

“Just enjoy lunch. We can tell her later, together. Maybe even make a trip to see your parents with Cal and Owen to break the news to them in person.”

Pulling back, I met his pale gaze, ringed with shadows. “You sure are mentioning your brother a lot this morning.”

“Well…” He stared at the foggy glass enclosure of the shower.

“We might not talk much, but I trust him. He’s never let me down.

Always made sure I had lunch money and new shoes for school.

That I didn’t suffer. It’s… I guess he’s always been more of an authority figure to me than a friend.

But I do admire him. A lot. He was out winning math and science competitions while I was in remedial reading classes. ”

Digesting his words, I reached over and turned off the shower.

“Surely there’s something you can use as common ground.”

He gave a rueful smile. “Does despising our mother count?”

Wyatt cracked open the shower door to grab a fluffy towel off the hook, giving me a vigorous rub-down, as though I were a dog who’d just wandered in from a muddy romp.

He could learn a thing or two from Alijah and Joaquin when it came to the finer points of pampering.

“Well,” I said, taking the towel from him before he could attack my hair, “what do you think about him continuing to join our morning workouts? Maybe you could try running a marathon together.”

His head drifted to the side as he pondered the idea, giving me the perfect angle to gently dry his hair.

“I’ll ask him,” he said. “And make sure he knows it was your idea.”

Draping the towel around his shoulders, I pulled him in for a quick kiss. “Thank you.”

Stepping out of the shower, I slipped on my fluffy robe—or the identical impostor that had appeared after my heat. I was pretty sure Alijah had made off with my original one.

Heading into my closet, I surveyed my limited selection of everyday clothes.

I settled on jeans, a black t-shirt, black leather boots, and a green retro cardigan with Captain Tusker embroidered on the chest.

If I was going down, I was taking the snarling piratical nuisance with me.

***

Kelsey picked a trendy bistro a short drive from Tolliver Yards for lunch. It was a brisk but sunny day, and our window seat was the perfect excuse for me to keep my sunglasses on.

If I turned my head, I could spot the old garment factory, a dilapidated pile of whitewashed bricks with an overwhelming aura of lead paint, even two blocks away.

“How did your appointment go?” Kelsey asked after we placed our orders—salmon and mushroom risotto for me and a chicken ciabatta club sandwich for her.

“As expected.”

Taking a deep breath, I willed my tongue to form the next words, the most important words. But this was Kelsey. She probably already knew what I was about to say.

Glancing at her, attempting to gauge how much detail I needed to go into, I got the shock of my life.

My sister sat there, in her pastel Nordic-pattern sweater and vintage pink beaded clip-on earrings, beaming at me.

“That’s fantastic, Morgan. You have to be so relieved that your heat reset everything.”

Holy shit.

A spike of disbelief drove itself deep into my brain, rendering me speechless.

I’d downplayed my miserable state, but not to the extent that I thought Kelsey wouldn’t notice.

“You did really well these past two weeks,” she said, straightening her silverware, “so I knew you’d be fine. Which is great, because I have news—unexpected news—but I think you’ll be happy for me. I mean, you saw the boxes yesterday…”

The boxes?

Weren’t they normal shipping supplies, or had I willfully ignored that they looked more like moving boxes?

“I’ve had a few more talks with Jacobi, and he’s going to let me use the storage area in the back of the art gallery as my base of operations for Beaufeather’s until construction is finished.”

Okay. It was just Beaufeather’s relocating. That was a wise decision, especially if my waning syndrome treatment made my pheromones unstable.

“That’s great,” I said, reaching across the table. “Are you finally going to hire some help?”

Her soft hands enveloped mine, doing her best to infect me with pure happiness. “Yes—and that’s not all.”

Ignoring the sickening whirlpool growing strength in my gut, I focused on her smile and gripped her hand, steeling myself for impact as I voiced my terrible suspicion. “You found an apartment?”

“Did Ethan say something?” she asked, eyes going wide. I managed a creaky shake of my head. “Okay, well… The last time he and I talked, I mentioned that I was considering getting my own place. Turns out there’s someone on the third floor who’s relocating for work and wants to sublet their condo.”

Digging my free hand into my thigh beneath the table, I plastered on my well-polished listening expression, the one honed by withstanding hours of patient complaints and Redwing executive nonsense, ignoring the feeling that I was trapped inside a slow-motion car crash.

No, I sharply corrected myself. This was a good thing. Exactly what I’d encouraged Kelsey to do. What she needed.

“I looked at it on Tuesday. It’s got two bedrooms and a loft space. The kitchen’s not as nice as ours— yours —but given Jacobi’s minimum standard, it’s still a dream.”

“Have you signed the lease yet?”

“No, I wanted to make sure that we were okay first,” she said, excitement growing in direct proportion to my dismay.

“And when…?”

“Three weeks.”

The brilliance of her smile pushed all my bullshit into the background.

Nothing mattered more than Kelsey’s happiness. I owed her. Endlessly. And I refused to ruin this moment for her.

“Guess we’re having packing parties over the next few weekends, eh?” My hand retreated, joining its brethren under the table, twisting the napkin into abstract knots.

“Um, about that,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Rory and some of his friends are coming over later to help me start packing up inventory, if that’s okay.”

Well, wasn’t that just fucking fantastic.

“Of course,” I lied.

With a delighted clap, Kelsey pulled out her phone to let Rory know their packing plans had the official green light.

I took advantage of her momentary distraction to reach into my bag, grab an emergency anxiety pill, and down it with an entire glass of water.

The only way to get through the rest of this meal was to remain as emotionally numb as possible and to never stop smiling—no matter how pinched it felt.

I lasted thirty minutes.

Just long enough to choke down my last bite of salmon.

Pulling out my phone, I sent Joaquin the restaurant’s address, followed by three emojis: a flame, a hammer, and a ticking clock.

His reply provided instant relief.

Wreck room dates are my favorite. Be there in ten.