Page 18

Chapter

Twelve

LEXIE

T he black dress makes me look like I'm attending a funeral. The red one screams "desperate." I hold up the emerald green against my chest, studying my reflection with a critical eye. Maybe? At least it brings out the warmth in my brown eyes and complements my reddish-brown hair.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter to the empty bedroom. "It's just a blind date that will probably end in disaster like all the others."

Still, I slip the green dress over my head, smoothing it down over my hips. It hugs my curves without being too clingy. Classy but not stuffy. The kind of dress that says, "I made an effort but didn't reorganize my entire life for this."

Perfect for a blind date with a pack.

A pack. What was I thinking?

I shake my head at my reflection. "You weren't thinking. You were drinking wine and feeling sorry for yourself because Mark's getting mated."

Mark and his picture-perfect pack with their color-coordinated outfits and their golden retriever in a matching sweater. Like some kind of Hallmark movie come to life, minus all the warmth and sincerity.

I still can't get the day I found him with that bitch out of my head. The woman I'm pretty sure sent me that invitation, since it was feminine handwriting even if it was signed by Mark.

They were in my bed. She looked exactly like she did in the Instagram photo someone tagged Mark in.

Perfect blonde hair, sleek influencer body with tits that probably cost as much as Mark's prized Lexus.

She had the decency to look ashamed, at least, and pretended like she had no idea while he made all the excuses in the world, but that invitation suggests she's not as innocent as she pretended to be.

I should've thrown that invitation directly into the trash instead of letting it burrow under my skin. Now I'm actually considering going to the ceremony, just to prove I'm fine. That I've moved on too.

Maybe if tonight goes well, I could bring my dates. Whoever they are.

Because blind dates arranged by algorithms always end in happily ever after, I think, reaching for my mascara.

The dating app had been frustratingly vague.

Beyond Bond's "Blind Match" feature apparently doesn't believe in sharing basic information, like how many people are in this pack I'm meeting or what they look like.

Just a restaurant name, reservation time, and an assurance that we're "highly compatible. "

Whatever that even means.

I brush on a final coat of mascara, then step back to take in the full effect. My hair falls in soft waves past my shoulders instead of my usual practical bun. The dress fits well. The ankle boots add just enough height without guaranteeing blisters.

"Not bad, Goodwin," I tell my reflection. "Even if this ends with you climbing out another bathroom window, at least you'll look good doing it."

I grab my purse and keys, taking one last glance around my apartment. The stacks of inventory waiting to be shipped. The half-finished designs on my drafting table. The empty walls I still haven't bothered to decorate.

This is my life. Simple. Safe. Predictable.

And lonely as hell.

Maybe that's why I'm actually going through with this ridiculous blind date. Because while I've gotten good at being alone, I still haven't figured out how to stop being lonely.

The restaurant is nicer than I expected with its soft lighting, exposed brick walls, and white tablecloths.

Not quite Martin's level of fancy, but definitely a cut above the casual bistros I usually frequent.

As the hostess leads me through the main dining area, I scan the tables, wondering which one holds my mystery date.

Or dates , plural. Since it's a pack.

Four failed relationships with men who ultimately left me for packs with an omega. Why am I potentially setting myself up for number five?

Because sitting at home alone on a Friday night while everyone else moves forward with their lives feels worse than the uncertainty.

The hostess stops at an empty table by the window. "It looks like your party made a reservation for 7:30. Can I get you anything while you wait?"

"A glass of the house red, please." I slide into my seat, checking my watch. 7:22. I'm early, thanks to unexpectedly light traffic.

As I wait, I find myself rehearsing potential exit strategies. I'll give them until 7:31. One minute late, and I'm out of here. My dating history has earned me the right to be ruthlessly efficient with my time.

The wine arrives, a decent pinot noir that takes the edge off my nerves. I sip slowly, watching the door and trying not to look like I'm watching the door. The minutes tick by.

7:25.

7:28.

7:30.

7:31.

I set down my glass and reach for my purse. So much for highly compatible.

That's when he walks in.

Holy. Shit.

He's enormous, at least 6'4", with shoulders that nearly fill the doorway.

Not just tall, but solid, like he was carved from marble and then covered in a perfectly tailored navy suit.

Brown hair, just long enough to have personality.

A strong jawline darkened with stubble. And even from across the room, I can see the intensity in his blue eyes as they scan the restaurant.

I realize I'm staring only when those blue eyes land on me. His face transforms with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and suddenly he's not just physically gorgeous, but somehow charming too.

He says something to the hostess, who points in my direction, and his eyes light up like he just won the lottery. As he makes his way toward me, I take another sip of wine, partly to calm my nerves and partly to hide the fact that my mouth has gone completely dry.

"Lexie?" His voice is deep, a little rough around the edges. And hopeful. Earnest.

I nod, not quite trusting my voice.

"I'm Darren." He extends a large hand, which I shake automatically. His palm is warm, calloused in a way that speaks of actual work. "I'm so sorry I'm late. Trying to wrangle my packmates is like herding cats."

"It's fine." I find my voice as he sits down across from me. "Where are they?"

He glances at his phone, brow knitting. "They'll be here if they know what's good for them."

I raise an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"Nothing." He looks up, and his expression shifts as he really takes me in. "Holy shit, you're gorgeous."

The bluntness of the compliment startles a laugh out of me. "You're not so bad yourself."

He doesn't smirk or preen like most attractive men would. Instead, he actually flushes slightly, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that seems almost shy. It's disarmingly genuine.

"So," he says, unfolding his napkin, "beyond what the app told you, which was probably next to nothing, what were you expecting tonight?"

I consider lying, then decide honesty might be refreshing. "In a word? Disaster. My dating history is basically a series of cautionary tales."

He laughs, a rich sound that echoes through me pleasantly. "Mine too, honestly. Though probably for different reasons."

"Try me," I challenge. "My last date tried to sell me insurance."

He blinks. "Like, metaphorically?"

"No, literally. Brought brochures and everything."

Darren throws his head back with a hardy laugh that draws glances from nearby tables. "Okay, you win. The worst I've had was a woman who just wanted hockey tickets."

I raise an eyebrow. "Hockey tickets?"

He freezes for a split second, then adjusts his tie. "Yeah, I, uh..."

The waiter arrives before he can finish, and we order drinks and appetizers. As he retreats, Darren seems to jump at the chance to steer the conversation in a different direction.

"So, the app said you're a business owner?"

"I am." Pride creeps into my voice despite my attempt at nonchalance. "I design and sell clothing. Some handmade, some modified. Mainly sweaters and accessories."

"That sounds really cool." His interest seems genuine as he leans forward. "How did you get started?"

Before I know it, I'm telling him about my journey from designing costumes for community theater to launching my online store. He asks smart questions about manufacturing and design processes, listens intently to my answers, and shares his own insights.

"The early days are the hardest," he says, nodding as I describe working through the night to fill unexpected orders. "Everyone sees the success, not the grind that got you there."

"Exactly!" I'm surprised by how well he gets it. "People think I just woke up one day with a running business, but it's been years of fourteen-hour days and ramen noodle dinners."

Darren looks slightly green. "Tell me about it. I ate so much of that shit during college, I couldn't pass it in the grocery aisle for years without gagging."

"You still look a little queasy," I admit with a giggle.

By the time our entrees arrive, I've nearly forgotten we're supposed to be meeting his pack.

The conversation flows so easily between us that it feels like we've known each other for years rather than an hour.

He's funny without trying too hard, thoughtful without being pretentious, and he looks at me when I speak like he's actually listening instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.

It's downright unnerving how much I like him already.

The waiter refills our wine glasses, and I realize we've been so engrossed in conversation that I haven't seen him check his phone once.

"Should we be worried about your packmates?" I ask.

A flash of annoyance crosses his face. "Honestly? I'm starting to think we've been stood up."

Wouldn't be the first time in my case, but I decide not to admit that.

"Let me guess. Cold feet about the whole online dating thing?"

"Something like that." He takes a sip of wine. "Their loss, honestly."

I'm surprisingly okay with this development. One-on-one is much less intimidating than meeting an entire pack all at once.

"So," I venture, "what do you do? When you're not being stood up by your own pack, I mean."