Page 3 of Packing for Vacation

Maybe it’s someone from housekeeping. I saw one of the cleaning carts in the hall. I hastily wrap my towel around my body and have my hand on the doorknob when I notice the wardrobe door just slightly open. Shamelessly, I shove my head inside, gasping at just how strong the scent is. “Oh my god! Clothing!” It’s a men’s suit jacket, hidden down the end of the rack. I reach for it, yanking it off the clothes hook, adrenaline coursing through my veins and an empty ache in my core. I don’t remember moving but find myself sitting on the bed, the collar held to my nose, salt and pine scent filling my head while my omega whispers Yes, alpha.

I’ve read descriptions of what it’s like to find your scent match but nothing has ever accurately depicted this.

Peace.

Comfort.

Belonging.

This scent is a drug, and now I’m fucking horny.

“Shit.” I hold the jacket at arm’s length, as if it might trigger my next heat at any moment. I let out an involuntary whine, the basest parts of my omega not understanding that the alpha this jacket belongs to isn’t in the room with us. He must have stayed here before I did and accidentally left this behind. He could be anywhere. What if he’s on a plane? What if he’s already in a different country?

I lay it on the bed and begin checking for tags. “It’s not going to have his name on it, he’s not five,” I mutter to myself, but then my hand closes around something thin and rectangular in the internal pocket, and I squeal. A business card. I pull it out, gasping as I flip it over.

“Oh, he’s handsome,” I whisper, staring at the small photo that accompanies the text. The man on the card is smiling at the camera, his brown eyes deep-set, his hair dark and cut short. He has brown skin, and wears a suit very similar to this one, with a white shirt underneath and no tie. Instead, there’s a large jade pendant around his neck, in the style that many Māori seem to wear. Matiu Thompson. He’s a lawyer, according to his business card.

Is Matiu a Māori name? I look it up on my phone. Yes seems to be the overwhelming answer. A transliteration of Matthew.

I lift the suit jacket to my nose again, breathing in deep, the air around me filling with the scent of fresh berries as I perfume, slick coating my inner thighs. I should put the fabric down. Instead I lie back, clutching it to my chest, feeling a little frozen.

I look at the card again. There’s a number on it, but when I look it up it’s the generic number for the entire firm with over fifty staff, split across three offices in Auckland, Wellington, and Christchurch. His email is there, but I’m pretty sure the filters will sort the I’m your scent match straight into the spam folder.

I click on Matiu’s profile on the website, noting the fact that he’s a partner in the firm. He’s in the Auckland branch, in a suburb called Devonport. I go down a rabbit hole, researching Devonport and how to get there (by ferry) and what it’s like (a cutesy, beachside town with colonial buildings and affluent residents), and take a screenshot of where the law firm is on the map. It’s Friday, and I doubt they’re open on the weekend.

I let out a very omega whine. I’m meant to be on vacation, not doing hard things. I take another deep sniff of the suit jacket, hoping it’ll fortify me and provide me with enough dopamine to cut through this hard part, because to make any of this work I have a ton of small tasks to sort.

I need to figure out my transport to Devonport.

I need to jump back in the shower and wash the slick off me.

I need to check out soon.

I really need to come.

I glance at the clock, not even surprised that I’ve already lost half an hour to scent-induced stupor and indecision.

Get it together.

I rub my hand over my face, letting out a frustrated groan when of course, my palm smells like the jacket. This mystery man is going to throw my vacation plans out the window even further than a surprise heat and a stay at a heat clinic would, because really, I have no choice.

I have to find him, or I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

Chapter Two

Lizzie

Itake a five-minute ferry ride across the water to Devonport, watching the grassy cones of the two dormant volcanoes that dominate its peninsula grow closer through the salt-crusted window, then roll my large suitcase along the path that runs parallel to the water, already feeling foolish. I should’ve asked last night’s hotel to store my case for me at reception. I’d wanted to avoid going back and forth across the city later tonight since I’m supposed to be heading north from here, but it’s weird to walk into a law firm and ask to see someone because you think they’re your scent match, and even weirder when you’re dragging bright pink luggage behind you.

It’s hot and humid, and to my dismay, I begin to sweat as I make my way down the road that runs parallel to the beach. The ocean is dead calm and bright blue, and part of me wants to walk right into the water in my t-shirt and shorts just to cool down. I press on, spotting the building I’m looking for in the distance, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach the door.

I try to open it and the handle rattles in place. Shit. It’s locked and I can’t see anyone inside the business.

“Damn it.” I check my phone. It’s only twelve and they’re meant to be open until five, but I guess a law firm can get away with not expecting walk-ins. Still, how do you lose two dozen lawyers on a weekday? “Well, shit.”

I head down the side street adjacent to the building, stopping once I’m in the shade to sort my head out. I’m definitely beginning to feel the loss of my heat suppressants, because my natural omega hormones seem to be back in full force. I close my eyes, doing a bunch of box breathing in the hope that it’ll help me stay calm. There’s no point in bursting into tears when I’m alone here in a foreign country. I don’t want to play into the stupid cliche of an omega in distress.

I’m so focused on my breath that I don’t hear the many footsteps until they’re almost upon me. My eyes fly open to an absolute gaggle of smartly-dressed lawyers—because who else would they be?—crossing the side street towards me. Some carry paper bags or takeout containers, while others hold reusable coffee cups. Their conversation is light and easy, all in a babble of Kiwi accents, as expected for a friendly group of colleagues returning from brunch.