Page 11 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Cam

I am, in a word, wrecked.

After five full days of trying to convince thirteen-year-olds that World War I didn’t start because someone “caught hands in a sandwich shop,” followed by this morning’s soccer practice—where at least three kids cried and one peed on the midfield—I’m running on fumes and iced coffee.

My feet hurt, my back’s making creaking noises I’m too young for, and I’ve changed shirts four times because apparently, nothing in my wardrobe says Alpha who respects women and also flosses.

None of that matters, of course.

Because I’ve got a date.

With Aimee .

My reflection blinks back at me from the mirror—button-down, fresh shave, and a faint dab of scent balm. I smooth a hand through my hair just as Wes walks by my bedroom door, pauses, then steps in.

“Damn,” he says, surveying me with a vaguely judgmental tilt of the head. “You look like you’re about to give a TED Talk on monogamy.”

I glance down at my shirt. “Too much?”

He frowns. “Not if you’re trying to win a seat in local government. Maybe lose the cufflinks before she thinks you brought a prenup.”

“I just want to look nice. She’s always so— cool , you know? Even when she’s being sarcastic or dramatic or pretending she doesn’t care, she’s still got this… vibe.”

Wes doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, he leans against the doorframe and watches me fuss with my watch. I know that face, though.

He’s trying to decide whether or not to interfere.

“You’ve been less growly lately,” I comment. “Since the Jace date.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I’m doing cartwheels about it.”

“No, but…” I trail off. “You’ve always looked out for me, you know? I trust you.”

That gets a flicker of something behind his eyes. He shifts his stance, then pushes off the door and walks over, brushing a speck of lint off my shoulder.

“She likes Thai food,” he says casually, adjusting the hem of my shirt. “Hates coriander. Doesn’t trust clowns, slow walkers, or people who say ‘no offense’ before saying something offensive.”

I blink. “How do you—”

“She got stuck in a wetsuit at a children’s aquarium party when she was twelve. I’m pretty sure that’s her villain origin story. You wanna make her laugh? Bring that up.”

He straightens my sleeve, very seriously, as though he’s preparing me for a duel.

“Wes. What—how do you even know all this?”

“I listen,” he says, infuriatingly calm. “Also, she talks. A lot. Especially when she thinks no one’s paying attention.”

He heads for the door, then pauses—classic Wes. A pause for effect. A final, soul-crushing flourish.

“Oh—and if you want her to light up? Mention cult documentaries, novelty cheese shops with hedgehog shaped offerings, and her fake childhood chinchilla named Pickle.”

“ Pickle ?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Yeah. Just drop it into conversation. Like it’s normal.”

“…You’re messing with me.”

He shrugs, halfway into the hall. “Am I?”

“Wait—am I supposed to say ‘Pickle’ like it’s a noun or a pet or just—what even is the tone ?”

“Figure it out, Romeo.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me frozen in place, smiling like an idiot and with the weirdest sensation that I’ve just been handed a loaded grenade wrapped in a bow.

Still; I shake it off, grab my wallet, and head out the door. After all, Wes might be cagey as hell, but when it comes to protecting people, he’s never let me down before. Not once .

*

Aimee Saunders walks into the restaurant wearing a light blue dress with heels that make her legs look like a conspiracy.

Her dark hair has been curled in that effortless I-don’t-care-but-you-should way that probably took an hour to achieve, and my breath catches as her dark eyes roam over the tables.

She spots me and waves, and I stand so fast I nearly knock over a passing waiter.

“Hi!” she beams as I pull out her chair. “Sorry I’m late. I passed a woman on the street who was trying to carry an entire IKEA bookshelf without a bag, and I had to help.”

I blink. “Like… flat-packed?”

“Nope. Fully assembled. Getting off the bus.”

“Jesus.”

“I know. I respect the chaos.”

I grin, settling into my seat. “You look amazing.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m wearing mascara.”

“Correct,” I say solemnly. “I am but a man, and mascara is witchcraft.”

She snorts. “You clean up well. You look… dashing.”

“Thanks. I was going for ‘approachable dominance.’ Did it work?”

She pretends to consider it. “You look like a personal trainer who quotes inspirational TikToks.”

“So Jace, then?”

She laughs— really laughs—and I grin along with her. I like that sound. A lot .

I pick up the menu and glance at it, then nudge hers with my elbow. “You’re not allergic to shellfish, right? Or... ambiance?”

“I’m allergic to bad chat,” she says sweetly. “So tread carefully.”

“Noted.” I flip the menu over. “Have you ever been to that little place downtown—the one that does truffle-infused gouda and novelty-shaped cheeses? I figured we could check it out sometime—if you’re into hedgehog-shaped dairy products.”

Her menu doesn’t move, but her eyes do.

They narrow. Slowly.

I swallow. “What?”

“Say that again,” she says lightly.

“The... cheese place?”

“Mmhmm.” Her eyes flick lazily from the menu. “What about it?”

“It’s… cool?” I try, smiling a little too wide. “You said you liked cheese, right?”

Her head tilts. “I did?”

I blink. “Didn’t you?”

She stares at me, and I panic. My brain practically melts to mush.

“Also, you—uh—you’re into cult documentaries, right? And novelty shops? And… chinchillas?”

She sets down the menu very gently.

“Chinchillas,” she echoes.

“Yeah. Yours was named Pickle?” I frown. “Not real, obviously. A fake chinchilla. Imaginary pet. Possibly… haunted plush toy? I wasn’t clear on the backstory—”

“Cam.”

Her voice is soft.

Her smile is pretty.

Her eyes say this is how men die.

“Yes?” I squeak.

“Who told you about Pickle?”

I blink.

Sweat may or may not be forming behind my knees.

“I just thought… maybe you’d mentioned it…”

“Oh?” Her lashes flutter. “I mentioned an imaginary chinchilla, did I?”

“Maybe… in passing?”

“In passing.” Her tone is sweet as poison. “The fake chinchilla. That I told you about.”

I grip my glass of water and swallow thickly. “Okay. So technically it came up during a… helpful conversation.”

She tilts her head the other way. “Helpful how ?”

“Like—briefing helpful. Pre-date briefing, specifically. Emotional reconnaissance, if you will.”

Her brow lifts. “Emotional what? ”

Shit .

I try not to look like I’ve just stepped on a verbal landmine.

“I just mean that… someone may have… helped me brainstorm.”

“Uh-huh.” She rests her chin on her hand. “Was this person tall, broody, and fond of both dramatic exits and sour facial expressions?”

“Okay: it was Wes!” I confess, hands flying up. “Wes told me. It was all him. I was just trying to be prepared! You’re very pretty and I panic!”

She hesitates for a long, drawn-out moment.

“Let me get this straight: you memorized my likes and dislikes to impress me.”

“Yes?” I say, voice cracking. “Also! He said you hated coriander and slow walkers. And clowns. And people who say ‘no offense’ before being incredibly offensive?”

Her expression is impossible to read, and my mouth just Won’t. Stop. Moving.

“I didn’t think it would be weird, ” I blurt. “He gave me, like, a factsheet. Not an actual sheet, obviously. It… felt romantic. At the time.”

Aimee exhales a slow, pained breath. “Wes gave you a factsheet on how to survive a date with me?”

“Technically, it was more of an oral briefing. He’s a big believer in active recall.”

She stares at me, and I shift in my seat.

“It was meant to be cute?”

Another pause. Then—so calm it’s terrifying—she says, “And the hedgehog-shaped cheese?”

“Also Wes.”

She shakes her head. “ Unbelievable .”

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I wasn’t trying to manipulate you or anything. I just really wanted you to have fun. And not feel like you wasted your night. I thought maybe if I said something familiar, you’d—”

“—feel comfortable,” she finishes, and there’s something unreadable in her expression now. “Yeah. I get it.”

“You do?”

“I do,” she says lightly. “Because now I know exactly what I’m going to say the next time Wes growls in my presence.”

“…what?”

She lifts her glass, all toast-like. “Pickle sends her regards.”

I groan.

“So… Assuming that’s a no to the cheese place?”

She points a breadstick at me. “Only if you promise never to say the words ‘hedgehog cheddar’ in my presence again.”

“Done.” I nod quickly. “Standard-shaped dairy from here on out.”

Her lips twitch, and then the tension melts away just a little. If she’s really plotting Wes’s downfall the way he’s been insisting, at least she’s pausing for pasta.

And honestly, I’ll take that as a win.

*

The date goes better than I could’ve hoped.

No, scratch that—better than I could’ve imagined.

She laughs. Not just at my jokes, but with that real, bubbling kind of laugh that comes from being relaxed and at ease.

She sips her wine slowly, tells stories with her hands, and when I mention my freshman class and the kid who asked if the Cold War was called that because it happened in winter, she actually snorts .

It’s a good sound. I want to bottle it.

And when she smiles—like, really smiles—it hits me somewhere low and primal. I think I might’ve imprinted on her like a baby duck. Or a very well-behaved alpha who suddenly wants to rearrange his whole life around making sure she never has a bad day again.

I don't kiss her at the restaurant. I want to—god, I want to—but I don't.

This is the part I never get right: the part where I don’t rush, where I take my time and let things build .

I offer to drive her home, and to my surprise, she agrees.

I unlock my car and help her in. The first few minutes of the drive are quiet, but in a comfortable way.

Her profile’s lit up by the soft glow of the dashboard, her hair catching faint gold from the streetlights.

She's not wearing strong perfume—probably because of the blockers—but underneath it, there's this faint hint of her.

I want to drown in it.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence. “How many of those fun facts did Wes actually give you?”

“Just the highlights,” I say, shooting her a grin. “Although in hindsight, I should’ve guessed ‘hedgehog-shaped cheddar’ was a trap.”

She laughs in agreement.

“You know,” I say, drumming my fingers lightly on the steering wheel, “he really does look out for me. Always has.”

Aimee studies me with an assessing, sideways glance. “Interesting definition of ‘looking out,’” she says finally. “Weaponizing cheese trivia and childhood chinchilla trauma.”

I chuckle. “I mean, yeah. But he does floss. So.”

She huffs another laugh, but I notice she glances out the window as if she’s trying to steady something in herself.

I steal another glance at her as I pull up outside her apartment building. “I had a really good time tonight.”

She hesitates, then says, “Yeah. Me too.”

I put the truck in park, but I don’t move to unbuckle. She doesn’t either. The air between us shifts. Her scent’s a little stronger now, like it’s fighting through the blockers just to get to me.

And I’d let it. I’d let her.

“You want me to walk you up?” I ask, voice low but careful.

She tilts her head. “What would you do if I said yes?”

“Whatever you let me.”

Her breath hitches slightly, and for a second, she just looks at me. Then—so softly I almost miss it—she says, “Okay. Come up.”

My brain short-circuits somewhere between pride and panic, but I manage a nod. “Cool. Yeah. I can do that.”

She unbuckles slowly, opens the door, and steps out, her heels clicking against the pavement. I follow, locking the car behind us, trying not to stare at the way her dress hugs her hips.

She pauses at the entrance to her building and glances back over her shoulder with a sly little smile.

“Just to my door,” she warns. “Don’t get cocky.”

“No promises.”

“I could be luring you to your death, you know,” she adds as we head up the stairs. “I might have a freezer full of severed alpha heads and a hobby in taxidermy.”

I grin. “Romantic.”

She snorts. “You’d still help me carry the bags, wouldn’t you?”

“Bags, bodies—whatever you need, sweetheart.”

She gives me a look that’s halfway between fond and dangerous. It makes my steps feel heavier, more certain. My instincts are buzzing under my skin like static, but I just about manage to keep them locked down.

Her apartment’s on the second floor. When we reach the landing, she digs around in her purse, grumbling softly about keys and lip balm conspiracies, before finally unlocking the door. She leans against it and looks up at me.

“Thanks for tonight,” she says. “It was… actually nice.”

“ Actually ?” I echo, pretending to be offended.

She smirks. “High praise from me.”

“I’ll take it. Though for the record, I had an amazing time. And not just because I wasn’t peed on by a student today.”

She laughs— really laughs—and it’s like being lit up from the inside.

Then something shifts. Her gaze lingers on me, her expression flickering somewhere between curiosity and caution.

I take a breath. “Can I kiss you?”

She freezes for just a second. Her eyes search mine, and then she nods. I step closer. My hand brushes her waist, the other gently tilting her chin—

And then I kiss her.

It starts soft; more of a question than anything else.

But the second her mouth parts under mine and her fingers twist in my shirt, I know I’m done for.

Her scent curls up through the edges of her blockers, and every instinct I’ve got roars to the surface.

I rein it in, though. I don’t want to lose this: not to heat, and not to ego, so I slow it, ease back just enough to rest my forehead against hers.

We’re both breathing hard. Her lashes flutter, and when she finally opens them, they’re glassy and unreadable. Then she clears her throat, straightens slightly, and smooths a hand down her dress.

“Well,” she says lightly, voice husky. “Goodnight, Cameron.”

I smile, still drunk on her. “Sweet dreams, Aimee.”

She steps inside and closes the door softly, but not before one last flicker of something passes between us—heat, warning, maybe both.

The deadbolt slides home, and I just stand there for a second, dazed. Then I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.

Wes is going to murder me.

Totally worth it.