Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 43: Hobbies

"You should have called me."

Penelope’s greeting when I get home is about what I’d expect.

Dumping my files and heavily loaded purse onto the table, I shake my head. "You aren’t my personal taxi, Pippa. I can afford a taxi. Your sleep and work schedule have already been disrupted enough."

"I’ve been awake for hours. I could have easily picked you up if you called. And then we could have grabbed something to eat on the way home."

"Just order something. I’m not hungry, anyway."

I flop onto her pristine white couch, my body sinking into the cushions as if they might swallow me whole. A deep sigh escapes my lips, carrying the weight of the day’s events.

Penelope sits beside me, smacking my arm lightly. "Alright, spill. What exactly happened? Your texts didn’t explain much.."

I close my eyes, the scene in the lobby replaying behind my eyelids. "Scott’s little side piece played vigilante in the lobby at work. Came after me like a rabid chihuahua."

"That bleached bimbo? I hope you knocked some sense into her empty skull."

"Pretty sure her hair’s natural."

"Trust me. It’s probably bleached. Her tits and ass are probably fake, too."

I grunt. "If they are, it would restore a little of my faith in the world." No one should have a body that fit and perfect.

I mean, I’m sure they work for it and all, and if I gave up taco nights I could probably look as snatched as they do, but—no. I’m too lazy for that level of effort in body shape.

"So, what else happened? That can’t be all."

I hesitate, still unsettled, but finally flop onto my side to look at her. She’s gorgeous, her red hair perfectly curled and aquamarine eyes all cat-eyed. Between her crop top and booty shorts, I’m pretty sure she’ll make more in tips tonight than she does as the owner of the bar.

"I ran into that Ethan guy."

Her expression clouds with confusion. "Ethan?"

"The creepy vampire SED officer," I clarify, watching recognition dawn on her face.

"Oh." Penelope grimaces. "Him."

"Yeah, him." I can’t shake the unease that settles in my stomach when I think about him. "His interest in you is disturbing. Is there anything we can do about it?"

Penelope snorts, the sound sharp and humorless. "Do? Nicole, he hasn’t done anything except talk to us. There’s literally nothing we can do, especially against an SED officer."

I hum in acknowledgment, but the frustration lingers. Thinking about creepy Ethan has my mind drifting to Logan. "I don’t understand how Logan can be on my case, even as a rejected mate. Wouldn’t that show he’s biased against me?"

Penelope raises an eyebrow, taking the change of subject in stride. "You do realize SED operates outside the law in pretty much all aspects, right? It’s not exactly surprising."

I frown, my sense of justice prickling. "It doesn’t seem right."

"Have you been living under a rock all your life?" Penelope’s voice carries a hint of exasperation.

I roll my eyes at her, feeling defensive. "I’ve been busy, okay?"

"I swear, Nicole." Penelope shakes her head, a mix of fondness and frustration in her eyes. "I’ll never understand how you can be so smart about security and so sheltered in common life sense."

I wrinkle my nose at her. "It’s not like they teach ’Supernatural Law Enforcement 101’ in school," I mutter. "Besides, I know a lot of things."

"They do, actually, if you go to a supernatural school."

"We didn’t go to a supernatural school, Penelope."

"I know—I’m just saying, if we did, we would have learned a little more about the supernatural enforcement division and all its weird legal loopholes."

"Yeah, well." Propping my head on my hand, I watch Penelope as she checks her phone. "Ordering dinner?"

"Mhm. Thinking sushi."

"It’ll be at least an hour if it’s sushi."

"Damn." Her manicured fingers tap against the screen. "Burgers and fries it is."

"Good. Get me a bacon burger."

She turns to eyeball me. "I thought you said you weren’t hungry."

"That was five minutes ago. Now I am."

* * *

Click.

The TV screen flickers to another mind-numbing reality show. I groan, tossing the remote onto the couch beside me. How many channels does Penelope have, and why is there nothing worth watching on any of them?

I glance at my phone. 8:37 PM. Penelope won’t be home for hours.

Sinking deeper into the cushions, my soul slides out of me with a long, long sigh. This forced vacation is killing me. I never realized how much I relied on work to give my life structure. Purpose. Hell, even a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Now? I’m just... existing. Floating in a sea of nothingness. No anchor. No life jacket. Just the sea, the sea, and more sea. Enough to drown in.

Maybe I need a hobby. Something to fill these endless hours stretching before me. But what? Knitting?

I picture myself hunched over a pair of needles, a tangled mess of yarn at my feet. No, too fiddly. And I’d probably stab myself more times than I’d actually create anything useful.

Gardening, maybe?

For a moment, I envision a lush backyard oasis, filled with colorful flowers and aromatic herbs. Then reality sets in. I’d have to go outside. In the heat. And dirt. And deal with bugs. Hard pass. Besides, we’re closing in on the snow-filled months.

Cooking? I snort at the thought. Cooking isn’t a hobby. It’s to fill my belly. It’s fine, I guess, but it isn’t a hobby.

Besides, cooking for one is just depressing.

I imagine myself standing before an easel, brush in hand, creating a masterpiece. Then I remember my stick figure drawings from elementary school. Yeah, no. The world doesn’t need to suffer through my attempts at art.

Maybe something more active? Rock climbing? I picture myself scaling a sheer cliff face, muscles straining, heart pounding. Then I remember I get winded walking up a flight of stairs. Plus, all that equipment? No thanks.

There’s always photography. Wandering the city, capturing moments in time... Then I remember how much I hate tourists blocking sidewalks to take pictures of random buildings. I’d become the very thing I despise.

Woodworking? The image of crafting beautiful, handmade furniture flashes through my mind. Then I think about the noise, the mess, the potential for grievous bodily harm involving power tools. Nope.

I want to live and die with ten fingers and toes.

Yoga? The idea of finding inner peace and flexibility is appealing. Then I recall the one time I tried a yoga class. The non-slip mat is not actually non-slip; my sweaty hands somehow slid and I faceplanted during downward dog.

Anything with activity is an automatic no.

Collecting something? Stamps? Coins? Vintage teacups? But then what? I’d just have a bunch of... stuff. Taking up space. Gathering dust. Reminding me of the void I’m trying to fill.

Who knew finding a hobby could be so exhausting? Maybe my hobby should be coming up with hobbies I don’t want to do. At least I seem to excel at that.