Page 3 of Gold Rush
I moved out for college and haven’t looked back.
The ID, instead, readsJANETin all caps, and I answer my agent as I suck in a long breath.
“Juniper?” Janet’s Queens accent is thick. “I saw the flight finally landed, did you get to the hotel safely? The bookstore confirmed the signing for tomorrow evening. I told them you would be there, rain or shine.”
“Awesome.” I move over to the bed and drop down onto it, holding the phone to my ear while I attempt to sound chipper, even though I feel like I’ve been run over by a kitschy red double-decker bus. “I’ll be there, I’m meeting a friend in the hotel bar tonight and then getting some sleep.”
“Okay,” Janet’s voice is a little softer. “Just remember, it’s only a London signing, and a couple in Manchester and Brighton, you’ll be back by the end of the week.”
I breathe out softly, feeling a smile tug at my lips. For as punctual and stern Janet is, she’s a total mother hen. She’s been my literary agent since I was fresh out of college, a cool six years ago at the ripe age of twenty-two. She’s fostered my career as much as I have, helping my little contemporary romance debut grow to the point that readers evenwantto come see me in London of all places. Even while feeling like garbage, gratitude fills me.
“Thanks for calling to check on me.”
“Of course.” She’s back to business in a flash. “Go haveonedrink, then go to bed. Agent’s orders.”
I laugh, pulling the phone away after saying goodbye and looking down at it. My cell is four years old, my old laptop is still sitting on my desk inside my apartment, and yet, somehow, in the past week, I’ve found myself signing a multi-million dollar deal to sell the film rights for my first book.
The Pack and Ihas gained so much traction in the last six years, it makes my head spin.
Flopping on the bed, I finally suck in a deep breath and then glance at my phone when it buzzesagain.
Michaela
I’m at the bar! I got away early, don’t rush.
The text makes me smile. An old friend from one of my first creative writing classes — Michaela — was in London and saw the signing announcement. She said she couldn’t make it tomorrow night, but offered to meet for a drink if I had the time. I think she’s working as a copywriter at a PR firm handling sports teams these days.
I sit up, pushing back errant strands of my auburn hair as it frizzes in front of me, sending a quick reply.
Me
Just got to the room, I’ll be up there in five.
I take five minutes to throw myself into the bathroom, scrubbing my teeth twice to get the taste of bile out of my mouth, swearing off actually consuming anything alcoholic tonight. I don’t drink often — I’ve never really subscribed to the Hemingway-adjacent lifestyle other authors do — and my stomach is still churning so horrifically, I can’t fathom anything but water touching my lips.
The harsh lighting in the bathroom highlights the slight sweaty sheen to my pale skin and the redness in my flushed cheeks. It’s not… great, but I can pass it off as harried and wind-swept. I deem myself presentableenough, tugging the sleeves of my sweater down and smoothing out the front. The rumpled outfit screams that I’ve been on a plane, but I snag my phone and purse instead of digging for something better from my limited options.
In the hall, I rush toward the elevators, narrowly missing one of the two as the doors shut and send it up. Groaning, I stab the button again, watching the other light up, coming from the ground floor. Smoothing out my hair again in the warped reflection of the closed doors, I mentally pep talk myself.
Michaela was always nice. We sat next to each other for the entire semester and kept tabs on each other until we graduated. Then shedidcongratulate me when I published my debut novel. Just because we’ve not seen each other in years doesn’t mean the conversation will be awkward. We could talk about the weather. We could talk about…
I look to the side at the windows overlooking the busy London streets, dappled with rain, my brain immediatelysupplying how fucking awkward the chat with the omega in the airport was.
We can talk about the weather.It might be less painful that way.
The elevator dings and I jolt away from my reflection as the doors slide open.
I barely glance at the two men inside, standing near each other and as I step in. As I reach for the button, one of them also moves forward.
He’s slightly taller than me, maybe a few inches, with the richest, dark skin I’ve ever seen. His brown eyes are soft, his lips pulling into a smile as he motions to the buttons, voice deep and accent distinctly American. “What floor?”
I flounder for a second, opening my mouth, then look at the buttons quickly, seeing the rooftop is lit up. “Actually, it’s already pressed. I’m good.” I shuffle back, keeping my distance from them and giving them their personal space, but I can’t resist a glance at the man’s companion.
The other man is a couple inches shorter than the first — almost in line with my own height — tanned skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder scarred in a round silver-toned bite, only exposed because his long brown hair is pulled away from his throat, tied into a loose bun.
An alpha and his bonded beta.
The first man returns to his side — strength in his narrow shoulders. He bends his head and says something, and the other man looks up with a grin, shrugging.
