Page 166 of Pack Plus One

“It’s a surprise,” Jude calls over his shoulder. “But I promise it doesn’t involve mariachi bands.”

“That’s... oddly specific and not particularly reassuring.”

“What he means,” Liam explains, “is that we wanted to celebrate your success properly. Somewhere special.”

“The bakery opening was special enough,” I protest. “You all already did so much?—”

“Leah,” Caleb interrupts gently, his fingers finding mine in the darkness of the back seat. “Let us do this for you.”

Something in his tone silences any further objections. I squeeze his hand in silent acquiescence, earning a small smile that transforms his usually serious face.

When we finally arrive, Mason guides me from the car toward an unassuming door tucked between two larger buildings. The subtle gold lettering on frosted glass reads simply “Thrum.”

“I’ve heard of this place,” I say, recognition dawning. “Isn’t there like a six-month waiting list?”

“For most people,” Jude agrees cheerfully. “But Liam went to school with the head chef, and Mason may have helped them with some tax situation that was allegedly ‘completely above board but required creative interpretation of certain regulations.’”

Mason’s expression remains carefully neutral. “I provided accounting services.”

“Right,” Jude winks. “Accounting services that somehow got us a private dining room on two days’ notice.”

Before I can question this further, the door swings open to reveal a dimly lit interior of polished wood and gleaming brass. A host greets us with practiced elegance, his eyes widening slightly as he takes us in.

“Le Roux party,” he confirms, recovering quickly. “Your table is ready. Please, follow me.”

We’re led through the main dining room—a cathedral-like space with soaring ceilings and intimate tables scattered like islands in a sea of luxury—and into a smaller private room. The space is illuminated by dozens of candles, their warm glow reflecting off the copper accents that adorn the walls. A circular table draped in crisp white linen awaits us, already set with gleaming silverware and crystal glasses.

“This is...” I trail off, overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of it all.

“Too much?” Liam asks, suddenly concerned.

“No,” I quickly assure him, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “It’s beautiful. I’ve just never been anywhere like this before.”

Jude grins, pulling out my chair with an exaggerated flourish. “Then prepare to have your mind blown, doll. The tasting menu here has fourteen courses, and each one comes with its own wine pairing.”

“Fourteen courses?” I echo, slightly alarmed. “I hope you’re not expecting me to remain conscious through all of them.”

“We have contingency plans for that,” Mason assures me with such seriousness that I can’t tell if he’s joking.

What follows is nothing short of impressive. Each dish arrives with dramatic presentation and detailed explanation from servers who materialize and vanish as if choreographed. They probably have. There are oysters topped with pearls of liquid nitrogen that dissolve on the tongue, wagyu beef aged for precisely 42 days, vegetables transformed into foams and gels that taste more intensely of themselves than should be possible.

Between courses, conversation flows as easily as the wine. Jude regales us with increasingly outlandish plans for Sweet Omega’s social media presence. Liam discusses potential flavor collaborations between the bakery and brewery (“The stout has chocolate notes that would complement your dark chocolate ganache perfectly”). Mason quietly ensures our glasses are never empty.

And Caleb... Caleb watches me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle, his gaze rarely leaving my face.

By the tenth course—some sort of deconstructed cheesecake that involves liquid nitrogen and edible flowers—a pleasant warmth has spread through my body. The room feels almost too warm, and I find myself absently fanning my face with the small menu card.

“Are you alright?” Mason asks, ever attentive.

“Just warm,” I whisper. “The wine, probably.”

He nods, but his expression suggests he’s not entirely convinced.

As the final course is cleared away, a server appears with four small boxes, placing one in front of each of my pack members. They exchange glances before their focus shifts to me. Jude gives me a sheepish grin.

“What’s this?” My gaze shifts to the boxes.

“Something we’ve been planning,” Liam says, his fingers drumming nervously on the table.