This isn’t that.
Around us, the guests continue to celebrate, and the string quartet transitions into a livelier piece. Yet my focus narrows to Leif’s back as he navigates through clusters of laughing guests, heading for the exit.
I roll my empty glass between my fingers. “Who is Carson Whitaker?”
“All I know is that he’s the new dean at Pinecrest Academy, where Quinn starts Monday.” Grady tracks Leif’s progress acrossthe room, too. “And that he was the former department chair at Westbrook Preparatory.”
My throat tightens. “I see.”
Beside me, Jared shifts his weight, angling his body toward the entrance Leif disappeared through. His sea-glass eyes remain fixed on the spot where the Omega vanished, muscles coiled beneath his suit jacket.
I don’t need to speak for Jared to understand my intention. Three months together have taught us to read each other’s smallest signals. When my hand brushes his, a fleeting contact hidden by the table between us, his chin dips in acknowledgment.
Grady reaches for his cane, which he’d hooked over the edge of the table. “Think I’ll step out for some fresh air.”
He limps off, following the same path Leif had taken. Chloe spots him and tries to wave him over, but he ignores his friend.
The muscles along my spine tighten as I resist the knee-jerk reaction to follow, too. Every Alpha instinct screams at me to pursue, to protect, to place my body between Leif and whatever threat caused his light to dim. But doing so would likely spook him. Grady, as a Beta, is the better choice.
A server approaches to clear empty plates, and I slide mine toward her with a murmured thanks. The motion gives me another opportunity to scan the room. Grady has disappeared in pursuit of Leif. Beside me, Jared’s pheromones hold a slight sharpness of agitation.
My nostrils flare as I catch a new scent beneath the others, a subtle tang of cedar smoke and iron. It’s faint but distinct. An Alpha who doesn’t belong here.
I straighten, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my dress as I spot Blake and Nathaniel cutting through the crowd. Between them walks a man in a tailored charcoal suit, his posture impeccable, his smile empty of any real warmth.
Carson Whitaker.
My instincts bristle, and beneath the table, out of sight, I curl my fingers into a fist. This man is the source of Leif’s fear. Whatever he did to Leif, whatever caused his instant retreat, was significant enough to send him into hiding.
As they approach our table, I catalog the calculated casualness of Carson’s stance, the way his cool gray-green eyes sweep over our group, assessing each of us in turn before settling on me with quiet interest.
“Emily,” Blake says, gesturing toward me with obvious pride, “this is Carson Whitaker, the new dean at Pinecrest Academy. Carson, Emily is the construction superintendent who brought our Homestead back from the ashes.”
Carson extends his hand, palm down, in a subtle power move I notice without comment. His grip is firm but not challenging when I meet it with equal pressure.
“A pleasure,” he says, smooth as polished stone. “I’ve heard wonderful things about your work.”
“Thank you.” I maintain eye contact for three beats before releasing his hand. “We’re proud of the results.”
Nathaniel slides a fresh drink toward me, the ice cubes clinking against the glass. “Carson was having dinner at the hotel when he noticed our celebration.”
“I hope I’m not intruding.” Despite the words, nothing in Carson’s posture suggests he considers himself unwelcome. “But I couldn’t resist stopping by to express my gratitude.”
Blake tilts his head. “Gratitude?”
Carson turns toward him, his movement fluid and controlled. “For the Wright Pack’s generous donation to our performing arts program. The new sound system will benefit every student at Pinecrest Academy, including young Quinn.”
Nathaniel waves a hand in dismissal. “Oh, it was nothing. We want to support the school community.”
“Nothing?” Carson raises an eyebrow. “It was the largest private donation the academy has received in five years. Such generosity deserves acknowledgment.” He lifts his glass in a toast. “To community partnerships.”
We raise our glasses, the ritual so ingrained that I take part without thought.
“Besides,” Carson continues after taking a sip, “I couldn’t pass up the chance to make your acquaintance before Quinn starts next week. Getting to know our families is a priority for me.”
Nathaniel leans his elbows on the table. “Actually, it’s a wonderful coincidence you’re here. Leif Hollis, Quinn’s tutor, trained at your previous school, didn’t he?”
Carson’s voice rises with surprise. “Leif Hollis? Yes, indeed. One of Westbrook’s most promising young educators. We were so sad when he decided to leave.” He chuckles. “Small world, as they say.”