Page 143 of Pack Plus One

My cheeks warm. “Caleb’s... handling some supplier issues.”

Zoe’s eyebrows shoot up. “By ‘handling’ do you mean threatening to disembowel someone over flour prices?”

“No,” I scoff. Then add, “Maybe. I didn’t ask for specifics.”

The truth is, having four males orbiting my bakery plans has been both wonderful and completely terrifying. Their support is unwavering, but I’m still learning how to accept help without feeling like I’m surrendering control. It’s a delicate balance.

“They’re coming by later to help move the display cases,” I add, attempting to reposition the wallpaper yet again. “Caleb insisted.”

“I bet he did,” Zoe smirks. “Nothing says ‘I’m completely smitten with this omega’ like volunteering for manual labor.”

“It’s not like that,” I protest weakly, but we both know it’s exactly like that. The Le Roux pack has been claiming me in a hundred little ways since our reconciliation—from scent-marking my oven mitts to arranging deliveries to showing up with coffee at precisely the moment I’m about to have a meltdown over permit paperwork.

It’s terrifying how quickly I’ve adapted to their presence in my life, how easily I’ve slipped into letting them help. Forsomeone who’s been stubbornly independent for years, it feels dangerously close to dependence.

“Right,” Zoe drawls, clearly unconvinced. “The bakery looks amazing, though,” she says, changing the subject as she surveys the space. “Even with the wallpaper staging a rebellion.”

She’s right. Despite the chaos of renovation, Sweet Omega is coming together beautifully. Just a few more tweaks, like the wallpaper, and I’ll be ready.

“Two weeks,” I breathe, allowing myself a moment of pride. “I can’t believe it’s actually happening.”

“Believe it,” Zoe says firmly. “You’ve worked your ass off for this.”

The bell jingles again, and we both turn to see Mrs. Finley bustling in, armed with a tote bag that looks suspiciously full of unsolicited decorating advice.

“Girls!” she exclaims, her sharp eyes taking in the wallpapering disaster. “Oh dear. That’s not going to work at all.”

“Hello to you too, Mrs. Finley,” I sigh, already bracing myself.

“I brought fabric swatches,” she announces, digging into her tote. “That wallpaper is all wrong for your complexion, dear. An omega should surround herself with colors that complement her natural glow.”

Zoe catches my eye, visibly fighting a laugh. “I wasn’t aware wallpaper needed to match one’s complexion,” she says innocently.

“Of course it does,” Mrs. Finley says, dead serious. “How else will customers know this establishment belongs to a respectable omega? First impressions are everything.”

I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that my baking skills, not my “omega glow,” should be the selling point.

“These would be much better,” Mrs. Finley continues, spreading fabric samples across my counter. “The sage green,especially. Very calming for alpha clientele. My Herbert always said a calm alpha is a spending alpha.”

“Is that right?” I manage, exchanging a look with Zoe.

“Absolutely. That’s why I always wear blue when we go shopping. Even now, these darn bunions won’t stop me. Puts him right at ease while I max out his credit cards.” She winks at me. “Decades of marriage, dear. I know a thing or two about managing alphas.”

Before I can formulate a response that won’t involve screaming into my coffee cup, Mrs. Finley’s attention is drawn to something outside. She stiffens, squinting through the front windows.

“What on earth...?”

Zoe and I turn to look, and my stomach drops through the floor.

Across the street, where the old hardware store used to be, workers are hanging a massive black awning. Bold white letters gleam in the morning sunlight:

ALPHA BITES: PROPER PASTRIES FOR PROPER OMEGAS.

“What…the actual…fuck?” Zoe breathes, echoing my thoughts precisely.

I step closer to the window, convinced I must be hallucinating. But no—the sign is very real, as is the man standing beneath it, directing the installation with precise gestures.

My ex-boyfriend. Eric.