#notalass
WHEN I GET to my office the next morning, Dane grunts his approval for the new coffeemaker as we pass in the hallway. I’m half smiling when Kell walks by and winks at me.
“Mornin’, lass.”
“It’s Sienna,” I remind him—again.
My partial smile disappears when I get to my office and open my email. The attorney for Alpha Mail sent me paperwork to review, and one contract is thirty-three pages long. I know what I’ll be doing all morning.
There’s also another message waiting in my inbox, and it makes me scowl. Though I know it’s only going to aggravate me, I can’t help opening it anyway, out of sheer curiosity.
From: [email protected]
Re: so touchy
Sienna,
You must’ve read my message pre-first cup of coffee yesterday. You seem too savvy to dismiss quality help when it’s offered for nothing.
Do you doubt my prowess? I suppose I understand that. There are lots of men out there who claim to know what turns women on, but most of them are all talk.
I’m not. Here’s a piece of advice you can take or leave—your choice. In the Sun article, you said alphas are possessive. I disagree. When I’m with a woman, I don’t have to keep my eyes on every other man in the room. I don’t have to remind her she’s mine. You know why? I’m not insecure. Why would any woman crave a cheap hamburger when she’s got prime rib at her disposal?
I’ve never told a woman she’s mine, but I’ve sure as hell shown a few. A real man shows that with his reverence.
Actions. They set a true alpha apart from a wannabe. You’d know if you’d been with a man like me. I open doors. I pay for dinner. I walk on the side of the road closest to traffic. I get soaked in the rain while holding the umbrella over my partner. I make sure she knows that, to me, she’s the only woman in the world.
If you want more advice, you need only ask. I’m at your service.
I gasp at my laptop screen, wondering if this is actually one of my friends toying with me. I don’t know who would do that. Then again, would an anonymous stranger really be this arrogant and assuming?
Ah. Right. He’s a man, so . . . yeah.
I fire back a response.
From: [email protected]
Dear nameless benefactor,
I suppose you’re the prime rib in this scenario? Please don’t bother telling me what cuts of meat you assign to your dates. Of which there are dozens—no, hundreds. I get it.
I’m starry-eyed, is that what you want to hear?
I hit “Send,” exhale deeply, and open the contract. When I read legalese, I go slowly, making sure I’m taking in every sentence and considering the implications. I’ve marked up the first thirty pages of the document when I look at the clock and realize I’ve been working on it for more than three hours.
After taking off my reading glasses, I rub my eyes, put the glasses back on, and open my email. And of course, among the messages in my inbox is one from the mystery man.
From: [email protected]
Re: still touchy
Sienna,
You aren’t the first woman I’ve made starry-eyed. Usually, though, I actually get to see the stars in their eyes. I’ll just have to imagine yours.
And no, I haven’t dated hundreds of women. In fact, it’s been a while since I’ve had a serious relationship. It’s not about quantity. If I’m not with a woman I’m crazy about, I don’t want to waste her time or mine.
What about you? You said in the article that your inspiration for Alpha Mail was your own failed love life. Are you really the best person to be helping the lovelorn?
Your cheeks are rosy right now, aren’t they? Bet that happens every time you get angry. You’re a classic redhead, aren’t you? Fiery temper, fierce loyalty, and independent to a fault.
Have a good afternoon. And thanks for acknowledging that I am, in fact, your benefactor.
I scoff at my screen with disgust. This guy. I know I shouldn’t waste another second of my time on him. He’s obviously baiting me and I’m falling for it, but it’s like my hands are going to the keyboard without my mind even having a say.
I’m about to send him a scathing response when Jane opens the door to my office and sticks her head into the room, her expression frantic.
“Our server is down.”
“We have redundancy. We’ll be okay,” I tell her.
“We’re not okay. There’s no internet. None of the alphas can get their messages through on the computers.”
I stand up and head out of my office, going straight to the small, freezing cold server room where my two IT guys work.
“We’re on it,” one of them says as soon as I walk in.
“What’s going on?” I ask them.
“We don’t know. It’s not just us. There has to be a cut cable somewhere or something.”
I nod and lean against the doorframe. “What can we do?”
“We’re working on it.”
By his tone, and the looks of intense concentration on the faces of both IT guys, I can tell they want to be left alone to do their work. And I can understand that. When I’m in the midst of an office crisis, the last thing I want to do is stop and explain it all to someone who doesn’t understand.
“Keep me updated,” I say, leaving the room.
The internet service interruption ends up dominating my afternoon. Between upset customers and cranky alphas complaining about having to text old-school by phone—the horror—I’m putting out fires until evening.
I finally make it back to my office a little after six p.m., when—finally—the internet service is restored. I’m too wiped out to finish the contract or check my email. I haven’t even eaten today.
When I pick up my phone and glance at the screen, there’s a message from Coop.
COOP: Hey sis, come hang out with me at Lucky Seven tonight. Haven’t seen you in forever.
He’s right; it has been too long. And I’m so hungry that even bar food from the pub the off-duty firefighters frequent will taste good.
I grab my bag and head out of the office, driving my sedan the five miles to Lucky Seven in less than half an hour, which isn’t bad considering rush-hour traffic.
The place is a dive, with wood floors, walls covered with vintage beer signs and blaring honky-tonk music. But it has a great vibe—full of warmth and laughter. My older brother calls out my name and slides the brunette off his lap when he sees me approaching.
“Hi, kid.” He hugs me, and the brunette gives me a dirty look. “Glad you came.”
Coop pulls out a high barstool for me at his table, and I sit down. He heads to the bar to get me a drink, knowing I want a white wine without having to ask, and a blond waitress stops him on his way, batting her eyelashes as she balances a tray full of food in the air.
My brother is a shameless flirt. Though his relationships never last longer than a carton of milk, every new woman seems to think she’s the one who will change him. And with his dark, wavy hair, broad shoulders, and blue eyes, he has no trouble attracting new ones.
“Hey, Pup.”
I look over my shoulder and smile at my brother’s childhood best friend, Ryan. He’s known me since I was a little girl with skinned knees and pigtails, trailing around the neighborhood after him and Coop. They said I looked like a lost puppy back then, and the nickname stuck with Ryan. He’s like a second older brother to me.
“Hey, you.” I give him a quick hug from my barstool.
“Coop said your business is doing well. Good for you.”
“Yeah, it’s been good. Thanks.”
A guy in a navy-blue T-shirt worn by firefighters in Coop’s department covers my hand with his on the table.
“Hey, you’re Coop’s sister? I’m Lorenzo, his—”
“Fuck off,” Ryan interjects, making a shooing motion.
“But I’m just—”
Ryan shakes his head. “You don’t want him to see you touching his little sister, man, trust me. Fuck off.”
Lorenzo looks him over, seeming to decide with Ryan’s size that it’s not worth challenging him. He leaves, and I give Ryan a look of annoyance.
“Really?”
“You know I’m right.”
“I know you’re both over the top with the protectiveness. I can take care of myself. And I’m a grown woman, you know? Maybe I’m looking for a date.”
Ryan furrows his brow. “Not in a shithole bar, Pup.”
Coop returns, handing Ryan a bottled beer and me a glass of wine.
“To my baby sister,” he says, holding up his own bottle for a toast. “Kicking ass and taking names. I’m proud of you.”
We clink and drink. As Coop slides back onto his stool, I notice his “Oakhurst Football” T-shirt.
“Is that Ryan’s team?” I ask him.
He grins. “Yep. I’m an assistant coach.”
I look at Ryan, who’s also grinning.
“The two of you, together, as role models for high school boys? Wow.”
“Hey, now.” Ryan cocks a brow at me. “I’m a great coach. Hell, I only got the teaching job at Oakhurst so I could coach this team.”
“You two stay away from the cheerleaders.” I laugh and take a sip of my wine.
They both give me admonishing looks.
“I wouldn’t even consider it,” Ryan says. “Those are my students, Sienna.”
I know I offended him, because he used my actual name.
“Of course you wouldn’t. I was only teasing.”
Coop gives me a serious look. “How’s Carmen’s boy?”
“He’s stable, for now. But that could change at any time.”
Ryan shakes his head. “That’s a hell of a bad deal. And the kid’s dad isn’t even around, is he?”
“No. But Danny’s a deadbeat, so it’s better this way. Carmen has me.”
Coop crosses his arms over his chest. “Tell her to bring him over to the station anytime. We’ll get him a helmet and let him help us cook dinner. Kids always seem to like that.”
“Thanks, I will. Or maybe I’ll bring him by. Carmen never takes a break. This weekend, I’m going to force her to. Jack and I are going to hang out Saturday.”
“So his illness . . . it’s bad, isn’t it?” Coop’s voice is pained.
“Yes,” I say softly. “He won’t make it out of childhood. But Carmen is determined to love him for every second she has him.”
A few moments of sad silence pass before Ryan says, “If there’s anything I can do, let me know. I could put together a fundraiser.”
“Thank you. I’m feeling pretty good with the business doing so well.”
Coop leans his elbows on the table and clears his throat. “You know, Sienna . . . I’m proud of your business and all, but there’s nothing that makes me prouder than the way you’re sticking by Carmen.”
His eyes are a little glassy, and it gets me. I squeeze his hand and clear away the lump in my throat.
“So, you guys, I need some advice.”
“If it’s about a man, say no,” Coop says gruffly.
“Well, it is, but . . . it’s not like that.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “There’s this guy who has sent me a couple emails about my business. He’s telling me I don’t really know alphas, and he does.”
Coop laughs. “Has he built a successful business with the word ‘alpha’ in its name?”
“No.” I raise my chin a little higher. “I mean, surely not.”
“Tell him to fuck off. He’s probably just hitting on you anyway.”
I roll my eyes. “Coop, you think every man is hitting on me.”
“I’m usually right,” he mutters.
I turn to Ryan. “What do you think?”
He shrugs. “Tell him to put his money where his mouth is. Put up or shut up, you know?”
“Right.”
“Who is this guy, anyway?” Coop scowls. “Someone you know?”
“He doesn’t seem to want me to know who he is. He doesn’t sign his emails, and his email doesn’t have his name in it.”
“Is he harassing you? Maybe you should call the cops.”
“No, nothing like that.”
Coop lowers his brows, looking concerned. “Just be careful. Don’t give away anything personal.”
“I only sent him my social security number.” I wave a hand dismissively.
“Seriously, tell him to fuck off,” Coop repeats. “Any guy who’s worth a shit will tell you his name.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”
A waitress approaches the table, and I remember how hungry I am. I grab a menu and order a sandwich, and as soon as she leaves the table, Coop insists I come out to the dance floor with him.
It turns out that dancing with my brother to cheesy country music is just what I needed. The stress of my day is forgotten as we talk and laugh. Very few people can make me so carefree.
By the time Coop and Ryan walk me out to my car a couple hours later, my anonymous adviser is the furthest thing from my mind. All I’m thinking about is getting a good night of sleep so I can hit the ground running tomorrow.