Chris had tried. He really had.
He had gotten out of bed, dressed himself, picked a shirt that didn't scream 'freshly claimed,' and sat down at his desk with the noble intention of reviewing his lectures like a functioning adult.
Instead, he was now folded forward over his arms, forehead pressed to the wood, muttering something that sounded like a muffled plea for divine intervention.
Across from him, in a guest chair he had not been invited to occupy, Rowan lounged like he had paid for premium front-row seats to this meltdown. He was still reading aloud from the tabloids, his voice far too cheerful for someone whose job included security.
"'King of the Wild Alpha Rut—Who's Taming Who?' Oh, here's the best part: 'Insiders claim the Consort's shirt was cut low enough to destabilize foreign economies.' They even included a financial chart."
Chris's groan vibrated across the desk. "I'm going to burn your phone."
