Page 53 of Pack Plus One

“No,” Zoe agrees, her voice softening. “It’s real life, where sometimes good things happen, and you have to decide whether to grab them with both hands or run away like a coward.”

I peek at her through one eye. “Low blow.”

She shrugs, unrepentant. “You climbed out a fire escape and landed in literal garbage to avoid talking to a man who brought you coffee. I think we’ve moved beyond niceties.”

“It’s not just Caleb,” I sigh. “It’s all of them. Jude and his ridiculous humor, Liam with his gentle encouragement, Mason with his... silent intensity. It’s overwhelming.”

“What’s overwhelming is that you’re sitting in my bathtub smelling like yesterday’s tuna casserole because you couldn’t just say ‘I need space’ like a normal person.”

I splash water at her, which she dodges too easily.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll text them. Tell them I need more time to think.”

“Or,” Zoe suggests, her eyes gleaming with mischief, “you could invite them over. All of them. At once. Like a... pack interview.”

The mental image of all four of them crammed into my tiny apartment makes my stomach do a complicated flip.

“Absolutely not.”

“Your loss,” Zoe sighs dramatically. “Now, hurry up and finish decontaminating yourself. You still have a bakery to launch, and unlike your love life, your sourdough won’t wait forever.”

13

LEAH

The next two days pass in a blur of flour and avoidance tactics.

I keep my phone on silent.

I take the back entrance to my apartment.

I even—God help me—consider dyeing my hair, as if four males who can literally smell me from a block away would be fooled by blonde highlights.

Zoe watches my descent into madness with the glee of someone who’s already picked out her maid-of-honor dress.

“Still no texts?” she asks Friday morning, perched on my countertop swinging her legs like this is all some delightful sitcom and not my personal psychological thriller.

I brandish a rolling pin at her. “I’m focusing on my business. My independent, pack-free business.”

The lie tastes like burnt sugar on my tongue.

“You know it’s okay to miss them, right?” Zoe says gently, sliding off my counter. She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’ve got to head to the gallery before my boss has another meltdown over the new exhibit layout.” She checks her watch, then adds, “Call me if you need anything. Or if there are any... developments.”She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively before heading out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

An hour later, I’m at the bakery, the morning quiet settling around me. Outside, Sweetwater’s main street is just beginning to wake up—the coffee shop a few doors down already has a line of bleary-eyed commuters, and the antique store owner is arranging a new display in her window. The farmer’s market vendors will be setting up their stalls in the town square soon, filling the air with the scent of fresh produce and local honey.

Inside my not-yet-open bakery, the empty space echoes in a way it never did before. I’ve been coming here for weeks, testing recipes and preparing for the grand opening, but today the silence feels different. There’s nothing disturbing my peace as I arrange my test kitchen and put the finishing touches on the menu board. It’s just me.

Just my recipe notebook.

Just the hollow thunk of my own heartbeat when my phone finally pings.

I’m in the middle of calculating ingredient costs for a large batch of apple pie filling when I hear it, and I freeze. Slowly, I set down my pencil and reach for my phone.

Caleb

Hope your day is going well. No pressure, just thinking of you.

The calculator I’m holding slips from my fingers and hits the floor with a clatter that sounds suspiciously like surrender.