Page 1 of Pack Plus One

1

LEAH

The envelope is cream-colored.

That should have been the first red flag.

I stare at the thick, embossed stationery in my hands like it might burst into flames. It probably should. That would be preferable.

Ms. Leah Carter

Formally Invited to the Union of

Pack Eric Donovan & Melissa Walsh

I groan, dropping my forehead onto my kitchen counter with a thunk.

“Oh my god, no.”

My best friend, Zoe, snatches the invitation from my grip before I can set it on fire with sheer willpower. “Wait, wait—EricEric? The guy who dumped you because you weren’t ‘pack material’?”

I lift my head just enough to glare. “Do I know another Eric who mansplained my own omega biology to me with a PowerPoint presentation?”

Zoe winces. “Yikes.”

I snatch the invitation back, flipping it open with more force than necessary. The fancy gold lettering seems to mock me as I read it for the fifth time, hoping the words might magically rearrange themselves into something less humiliating.

“Mr. & Mrs. Jonathan Walsh request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their daughter, Melissa Walsh, to Eric Donovan and pack.”

Eric. My Eric. Well, notmyEric anymore. Not for two years, three months, and sixteen days—not that I’m counting.

My eyes snag on one line near the bottom, and I let out a sharp laugh. I point to the offending text, wide eyes on Zoe: “Pack seating arrangements apply. Please RSVP with your pack or designated plus-one.”

Of course there’s a pack requirement.

“They might as well have written ‘No sad, single omegas allowed,’” I mutter, sliding off the barstool and tossing the invitation onto my coffee table.

Zoe kicks off her shoes as she flops onto my couch, mussing up her pixie cut in the process. My best friend has the uncanny ability to make herself at home wherever she goes. Right now, she’s reaching for the glass of really good Le Roux I poured myself when the invitation arrived.

She snorts, taking a generous sip. “It’s tacky. Also completely on-brand for Eric.”

“I’m not going.” I grab the wine back from her and take a gulp. “I’ll send a nice toaster and pretend I have the flu.”

“You absolutely are going.” Zoe sits up straighter, her expression suddenly serious. “Leah Carter, you’ve spent twoyears hiding from that man. You’re not going to let him think he broke you.”

“He did break me,” I remind her, hugging a throw pillow to my chest. “Remember the ice cream and sweatpants phase?”

“That was then. Now you’re a big-time businesswoman opening a cute bakery. You’re making those fancy omega-inspired desserts that everyone’s obsessed with?—”

“I’m not established yet. The grand opening is over a month away.”

“—and you look hot as hell,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “The only thing you’re missing is a pack.”

I laugh, but it comes out sounding bitter. “Minor detail.”

The truth is, I haven’t dated since Eric. Not seriously. Not even casually, really. Finding a single pack of alphas and/or betas looking for an omega isn’t rare. What’s rare is finding one that doesn’t want to immediately claim and breed said omega. Nearly impossible in this city. Don’t get me wrong. Who doesn’t want to be bred? But by therightpack.

Sweetwater City isn’t exactly known for its progressive attitudes. It has the charm of cobblestone streets and pastel-painted shopfronts, but under the surface, it clings to tradition like an alpha to an unmarked omega. Omegas host tea parties, betas own bookstores, and alphas dominate everything else.