Page 23 of Run Wild Omega

“Tess.”

“Wyatt.” She lifts her chin. “What do you want?”

I open my mouth, and for the life of me, the words about the south face won’t come. The lie dies on my tongue.

“I wanted to see you,” I say, the truth falling out heavy and clumsy between us.

Her eyes widen slightly. She takes a small step back, as if the words had struck her.

“You wanted to see me?” She repeats it, like it’s a foreign language. “Why?”

“Because,” I say, gripping the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white. “Because Dylan is an asshole, but he might be right.”

Tess

That is the last thing I expect to come out of his mouth.

I stare at him, my brain struggling to process the words. I expected him to talk about work, or the tourists, or something. I didn’t expect… whatever this is.

“Can you sit?” he asks.

I should say no. I should tell him I have a tour to prep for, that I’m busy, that I don’t have time for whatever cryptic midlife crisis he’s currently having. But my feet move on their own, sliding into the booth opposite him.

Space is tight in these booths. As I settle in, my knee brushes against his beneath the table.

It’s like touching a live wire.

Heat flares instantly, a zap of electricity that travels up my leg and settles deep in my gut. I pull my leg back quickly, pressing it against the wall, putting as much distance between us as the small table allows.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

There are shadows under his eyes that are darker than the bruised clouds outside. His jawline is harder, sharper than it used to be, shaded with stubble that looks more like neglect than style.

“Are you happy, Tess?”

The question catches me so off guard I actually blink.

“What?”

“Are you happy?” He repeats it, like it’s a simple inquiry about the weather.

“I… yes.” I answer automatically, because it’s the truth. Mostly. “I have my job. I have my apartment. I have Mara.”

“Good.” He nods. He swallows hard, the movement of his throat visible against the collar of his uniform. He picks up his coffee mug and takes a sip, but his hand is trembling.

The ceramic rattles against his teeth before he sets it down.

I frown, watching him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking, Wyatt.”

He curls his hand into a fist on the table, hiding the tremor. “I’m cutting down on nicotine.”

I can’t help it. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. It feels weird, smiling at him, but the familiarity of it is terrifying. “Caffeine is just as addictive, you know.”

He looks up, and for a second, the mask slips. His lips twitch, a faint, tired smile touching his eyes. “Yeah. Well. Anything to get through the days, right?”