Page 147 of Pack Plus One

“Makes one of us,” he quips, his phone buzzing with incoming messages. He glances at the screen. “And here we go. ETA ten minutes for the cavalry.”

I sigh, resigning myself to the inevitable. “Just... tell them not to do anything stupid. Or illegal. Or legally questionable.”

“That eliminates approximately ninety percent of Caleb’s initial suggestions,” Jude says cheerfully. “But I’ll convey the message.”

True to Jude’s prediction, the rest of the pack arrives in under ten minutes. Mason is first. He takes one look at my face, then at Alpha Bites across the street, and his expression shifts from confusion to understanding.

“Ah,” he says simply.

Before I can respond, Liam enters, carrying what appears to be architectural plans for my bakery. His gaze follows Mason’s to the competing storefront, and his eyes narrow.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, setting down his plans. “Very interesting indeed.”

And then Caleb arrives, and the atmosphere in the bakery changes instantly. His alpha presence fills the space, his scentwashing over me and drowning out the others in a wave that’s both comforting and overwhelming.

“Where is he?” Caleb demands without preamble, his green eyes scanning the bakery as if expecting to find Eric hiding behind the counter.

“Across the street,” Zoe supplies helpfully, pointing through the window. “In the soulless corporate pastry emporium with the unfortunate name.”

Caleb’s gaze locks onto Alpha Bites, his expression darkening. “Alpha Bites,” he reads, his voice flat. “Subtle.”

“About as subtle as a brick through a window,” Jude agrees. “Which, by the way, is still on the table as an option.”

“No, it’s not,” I interject firmly. “No property damage. No threats. No... whatever it is you’re all thinking right now.”

The pack exchanges a look that I can’t quite interpret.

“We would never,” Liam assures me. “That would be completely unprofessional.”

“And illegal,” Mason adds.

“And deeply satisfying,” Jude mutters under his breath.

Caleb says nothing, which is somehow more concerning than if he’d agreed with Jude.

“I mean it,” I insist, stepping into the center of the room. “This is my business, my problem. I appreciate your support, but I need to handle this my way.”

Mrs. Finley, who has been observing the proceedings with undisguised interest, clears her throat. “Perhaps I should check on that zoning ordinance,” she suggests. “Marge’s nephew works in the permit office. She owes me after that unfortunate incident with the garden gnomes.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Zoe murmurs.

“That would be helpful, Mrs. Finley,” I say, grateful for her practical suggestion. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Finley nods, gathering her tote bag. “Consider it done, dear. And do consider the sage green for the walls. Much better with your complexion than that dreadful yellow.”

With that parting shot at Jude’s paint selection, she bustles out, the bell jingling in her wake.

Zoe checks her watch. “I should head out too. Some of us have actual jobs with set hours.” She squeezes my arm. “Call me later, okay? And try not to commit any felonies before happy hour.”

Once she’s gone, I’m left alone with the pack, all of whom are watching me with varying degrees of concern and protective intensity.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, though the wobble in my voice betrays me.

“Sure you are,” Jude says, rolling his eyes. “And I’m the Dalai Lama.”

“You’re upset,” Mason observes, his quiet voice cutting through my defenses.

“Of course I’m upset,” I snap, pacing the small space. “My ex-boyfriend just opened a competing bakery across the street specifically designed to undermine everything I’ve worked for. I think I’m entitled to a little emotional distress.”