Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

H arper

After the dalliance with Daxton and then the run-in with his pack on the beach, I try my best to avoid all three alphas for the next couple of weeks. They are one big distraction – one mighty big temptation – and the best way to resist is to stay away.

Instead, I occupy myself with useful tasks, and definitely not with thoughts of those three alphas. I organize my wardrobe, take a pile of old clothes and belongings to the thrift store, update my resume, reorganize my wardrobe a second time, and attempt a job search.

Rockview isn’t Paris. There are only a handful of art galleries and they are small and cater for the many wealthy citizens of the city – people who don’t always know a lot about art but want something flashy on their walls. It won’t be like working in the Louvre but Rockview has sunshine, the beach, my mom and lots of alphas, so I send off my resume with a letter of recommendation.

I also decide I’d better get back on the old exercise bandwagon. In Paris, Laurent had us attending yoga classes nearly every day. He insisted it was good for the soul and for the body. However, I could never really get into it. There was more than one occasion when I fell asleep on my mat when we were meant to be meditating.

I decide I need something more active and when my mom mentions a boxing class at her gym, I sign up.

I know what everyone will think – omegas can’t box. Omegas shouldn’t even try. But I guess I’ve been pushing against those assumptions and stereotypes ever since I presented unexpectedly, aged seventeen. Being an omega wasn’t part of my life plan and it wasn’t going to deter me from the one I’d already set out.

I’m not sure what I think of that life plan now. I still want to work in art – a beautiful painting, an outrageous sculpture, an unusual concept still blows my mind, still makes my blood tingle with excitement. But there are other things I’m thinking I’d like now too – especially seeing Molly with those things – a pack, a baby, a family of her own.

However, as none of those things are forthcoming, I’ll take my frustrations out on a punchbag. Maybe if I’m lucky, an actual person.

The instructor (an old dude with more tattoos than teeth) is skeptical when I arrive – late – for my first class.

“The dance class is in the next studio,” he tells me.

“I’m not here for dance,” I say. “I’m here to beat the crap out of someone.” I grin at him.

He snorts, his eyes straying down my form. Okay, I’m short and, though the yoga made me bendy, I don’t really have many muscles. “Unlikely. I think you’re better off trying some other class.”

I place my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Everyone’s been telling me I need to take my safety and security seriously. I’m here to learn.”

“It’ll be hard,” he warns.

“Good,” I say.

He nods and steps aside, letting me into the class.

Immediately, I realize the dude might be right. Most of the other people in the class are men, twice my size and bulging with muscles. The few women in the room are also huge. If any one of these people hit me, I will probably snap in half. I consider backing out, but I made a stand, now I have to stick with it.

Luckily, the class doesn’t actually involve people – only bags, with a fair bit of skipping and practicing stance and technique thrown in.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t a killer. By the end, I can no longer breathe, my face is a tomato red and my body so drenched in sweat I look like someone threw a bucket of water over my head.

“Told you it wasn’t for you,” the instructor says as the other people filter out of the studio and I’m hunched over my knees trying to breathe, dripping sweat onto the floor.

With a hell of a lot of effort, I pull myself up straight, almost vomiting in the process. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say, managing a smile. “I’ll see you next week.”

I wobble out of the studio, and collapse in a quiet corner of the gym, trying again to catch my breath.

I’m still panting like mad, when a familiar scent hits me from across the gym. Immediately my gaze shoots that way.

Shit!

Shit shit shit!

Owen.

Dressed in shorts and a tank top that demonstrates the fact the man must spend a lot of time at this gym.

A lot of time.

He’s walking right my way.

I bury my face in my towel, hoping he won’t spot me.

“Harper?”

I groan, cursing all the powers of fate and chance. Like now? Really?

Sheepishly, I lower the towel and peer up at him, plastering on another smile.

“Oh … Owen … hi,” I pant. “I … didn’t … see … you … there.”

He’s obviously just been for a workout of his own, a towel slung around his shoulders, his tank slightly damp with sweat. How the hell does he look so good, while I look like I’m probably melting into the floor. In fact, I’m probably sitting in a puddle of my own sweat.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Fine.” I keep smiling.

“Only you look a bit …”

Like I’m about to die?

“I’ve just finished the boxing class,” I say.

His eyebrows shoot up his forehead and he crouches down in front of me. The position would give me a perfect view right down the leg of his shorts if I were a pervert. Which, just to clarify, I’m not. I’m a lady and I keep my eyes fixed to his face – and his bulging chest.

“The boxing class? Shit, Harper, that class is hardcore. A killer.”

I nod in complete agreement with that and he reaches into his bag, pulling out his water bottle and offering it to me. I take it gratefully, having already emptied my own, and chug. There’s no use attempting to be demure, I already look like I was hit by a truck. Quite a bit of the water ends up dribbling down my chin and when I pass the bottle back to Owen, he’s gaping at me. Probably relieved he never ended up claiming me all those years ago. After all, now he and his pack have the pick of all those sophisticated Rockview omegas. I doubt those omegas even perspire, let alone sweat.

“Do you need some help standing up?” he asks, offering me his hand next. Large, skillful, healing hands.

Oh, it’s so tempting to take it.

I resist, dragging my aching body – god, it hurts in places I didn’t even know could hurt – to my feet. My legs wobble but I’m upright.

“Come on,” he says, taking my elbow, “I think you need some sugar. Did you eat breakfast?”

“Yes,” I tell him, trying not to notice how good his touch feels against my skin. “A yoghurt and fruit.” He tuts. “What? It’s healthy.”

“Yes, but not enough if you’re attempting that boxing class. Come on.”

He drags me, because my legs don’t actually function anymore, to the juice bar next door to the gym, deposits me in a seat and heads for the counter.

I consider making a run for it. I would if my legs were dependable. Instead, I have to face facts. I am unable to move and am therefore trapped in Owen’s company.

I peek his way, he’s talking animatedly to the server, some young dude who is laughing and fluttering his eyelashes. Not surprising. I think Owen could sway even the straightest of straight dudes, especially in the tank top.

I shake my head and surreptitiously attempt to dab my armpits, neck and chest with my towel. I hate to think what I look like. I really hate to think what I smell like.

“Here,” Owen says, placing a tall glass filled to the brim with a thick pink liquid down in front of me. “Drink this.”

“What is it?” I ask suspiciously, dragging it towards me and giving it a sniff.

“Berry and banana smoothie – lots of vitamins and nutrients in it. Plus natural sugars. It’s very restorative post-workout.”

I take a sip and nod. Not bad.

He jumps down onto the seat next to mine, his own smoothie in his hand – this one green and gloopy.

“Jeez,” I say, “and what is in that one?”

“Spinach, raw egg and chicken.”

I retch – covering my mouth. “Disgusting.”

“But good for me.” Owen winks at me and then downs the lot.

I shake my head at him. “Another little tip for you. Do not drink that right before a date. Or on a date. Or any time you are hoping to kiss an omega.”

Owen’s gaze immediately leaps to my mouth and I have to stop myself from banging my head against the table.

Kissing. I shouldn’t be talking about kissing with Owen. Or thinking about kissing when in his company. Or thinking about kissing Owen.

He doesn’t need any more advice from me. They are doing just fine with Little Miss Freckles.

I take another sip of my drink and ask, casually – real casually, “How’s Cindy?”

Owen frowns and examines the contents of his empty glass.

“Errr … no idea.”

Now I frown. It’s been two weeks since I bumped into them on that date. “You haven’t been out with her again. You really ought to strike while the iron’s hot and–”

“We’re not going to be seeing her again.”

“Oh … OOOHHH! I’m so sorry, Owen. These omegas can be–”

“Harper,” he says, grinning. “It wasn’t her. It was us.”

“What do you mean?”

“She wasn’t the one for us.”

I roll my eyes. “She was gorgeous,” I hear myself say, wondering why on earth I am defending Little Miss Freckles when my guts have been churning with jealousy over her for the last fourteen days.

Owen leans in and whispers, “And freaking dull.”

“Ahhh.” My insides spin and my heart does a little flutter. Most alphas – most men – only care about looks and sex, right? Very few – only the good ones – care about things like, you know, personality. Pack Stanton would have to be one of those, wouldn’t they?

Owen rests back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and taking me in.

“How do you feel now?” he asks.

“A little light-headed,” I mutter.

“Drink some more,” he orders, and I finish up my smoothie. “Promise me you won’t go to that class again, Harp.”

“Nope,” I say, slamming my empty glass down on that table.

He chuckles, gaze darkening. “You always were a brat.”

Was I? For them, maybe. They’d brought my inner brat sashaying to the surface. I remember having a lot of fun indulging those bratty tendencies.

“I mean,” he chuckles again, “what even tempted you to attempt that class?”

“Everyone says I need to take my safety more seriously. I thought, I don’t know, I could learn some moves.”

Owen loses the smile. “Boxing isn’t going to help. You try punching some dude, you’ll probably end up breaking your hand.”

“Really?” I say sarcastically.

“It’s the laws of physics, Harp. You can’t argue with them. What you need is self-defense lessons.”

“Maybe,” I say, wondering if I’m better off sticking to the dance classes after all.

“I can teach you if you want.”

“You know self-defense?” I ask. I’m not sure why he’d need to. He’s the size of a fridge. No one is going to start a fight with him.

“Yeah, they taught us some at the hospital.” He shrugs. “People can get aggressive sometimes. I can show you some of the moves if you want.”

My gaze falls to those hands of his resting on the table. I imagine any self-defense tutorial would involve Owen placing those hands of his somewhere on my body. Bad idea. Especially when those hands make me tingle.

“Thanks, but I’m sure you’re way too busy for that.”

“It’s only fair. We owe you for the omega lessons.” He leans forward, a smirk curling one side of his mouth. “Although I have a bone to pick with you, Harper Hall.”

“You do?”

“I hear you gave Dax some one-on-one tuition on the side.”

“I think I’d better go,” I say, clearing my throat and pushing back my chair. My legs probably aren’t stable again yet, but it doesn’t matter, sitting here with Owen looking at me like that – as if he’d like to use that famous tongue of his – is dangerous. “Can I pay you back for the drink?”

“No, my treat,” he says his voice and his features a swirl of emotions now – desire? Sadness? Longing? Am I imagining that? “I always liked spoiling you, Harp.”

I hurry away as fast as my wobbly legs will carry me, memories of just how Owen had spoiled me floating through my head …