Page 7 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Aimee

W hen Jace answers the door, I have two immediate thoughts:

I am going to die on this date. I am going to die on purpose —smiling, sweating, with no regrets and zero electrolytes left in my system.

Because holy hell.

The man is a walking protein shake; a gym-built god in deep blue jeans and a sleeveless black tee that’s practically clinging to his torso.

His arms are outrageously defined, his chest is criminal, and even wrapped up in denim, his thighs look like they have their own gym memberships and possibly separate tax brackets.

I black out a little just looking at them.

Rachel never said I couldn’t sleep with them. In fact, I’m 99% sure her exact words were “wring them dry and write about it.” So, you know. Not exactly a glowing endorsement of abstinence.

Still, I’m trying to be strategic. In control .

Which is exactly why I refused Jace’s offer to pick me up earlier. No way am I handing out my home address like candy on the first date. A woman’s got to have boundaries—especially when she’s considering obliterating them later. You know: for science.

“You ready?” Jace asks.

“No,” I say honestly.

“Excellent.”

My knees threaten to buckle. I pretend it’s the incline of the driveway.

He opens the car door for me, and I step inside, equal parts smug and shaken. Just as I settle into the passenger seat, I glance back toward the house—

And there he is. Leaning in the hallway arch, dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, laptop in one hand, coffee in the other. No doubt he’s allegedly working from home today, though I have a strong suspicion the only case he’s focused on right now is mine .

“Shouldn’t you be at the office?” I call out sweetly.

Wes sips his coffee like it’s wine and glares like it’s foreplay. “Shouldn’t you be doing… whatever it is you’re actually here to do?”

“Working on it,” I mutter under my breath, before smiling wide. “Don’t wait up.”

He scoffs. “Trust me, I won’t.”

Jace rolls his eyes as he rests his palms against the roof. “Ignore him. He’s just jealous he doesn’t have an ass like mine.”

“You don’t know that I don’t !” Wes calls after us.

“You’re right,” Jace replies cheerfully. “But I also don’t care. ”

I laugh, and he winks down at me before he closes the passenger side door. I try my best to ignore the fire in my chest. Or loins. Or wherever it is you store unresolved alpha tension and questionable life decisions.

*

The beach trail that leads up to the farmers market is stupidly scenic.

Waves crash rhythmically in the distance, there are birds doing poetic things overhead, and the breeze is fresh and salt-tipped.

Meanwhile, I’m trying not to trip over a rogue piece of driftwood and faceplant into a fantasy where this man—this actual, real-life thirst trap—respectfully ruins my life and then carries me home in broad daylight with zero shame.

Jace walks beside me with no visible effort. He’s all long strides, sun-warmed skin, and smug alpha ease. It’s… a lot. Especially without Wes here, lurking in the background to glower and scowl and give me something to push against.

Wes, at least, was a buffer. An emotional block of ice I could hurl snark at while pretending I wasn’t affected. But this is warm, flirty danger in freshly-changed mesh shorts and a backwards cap, and I am not okay.

“Are you seriously not wearing a scent patch?” I frown, desperate to focus on anything that isn’t his biceps or the way his smile makes my uterus whimper.

He scoffs. “Hell no.”

“Wow. Not even a suppressor mist?”

“Why would I suppress?” he asks, dead serious. “I’m an alpha . Suppressing would be false advertising.”

“Oh my god,” I groan. “You’re a walking alpha pamphlet. You’re alpha-coded .”

“I’m alpha-accurate,” he says, with that shit-eating smirk that probably has a fan club.

I snort. “Well, I’m scent-blocked. Obviously.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice dipping as he leans in just a fraction, “but I’d still know you anywhere.”

My ovaries stage a walkout. Warmth flashes low in my belly, licking up my spine.

“Well, I’m not the one trying to start a scent war in the middle of a nature trail.”

He narrows his eyes as he smirks. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I can take them off if we’re playing fair,” I say, my voice several octaves higher than usual.

His eyebrows lift. “You trying to get mounted in the sand, Omega?”

My nervous system is now vibrating. Cool. That’s new.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened on a trail,” I blurt, because apparently I’m legally incapable of shutting up around attractive alphas with thigh tattoos.

Jace laughs— really laughs—and it’s so annoyingly hot I almost forget how to walk in a straight line.

“I like you,” he grins.

“Of course you do,” I mutter, internally screaming and composing a eulogy for my last remaining shred of dignity.

We hit the incline toward the market and I start sweating. Not from the hill—but from him, and the effortless, infuriating chemistry that makes it very hard to remember what I’m here for.

I need to pull it together— fast . This is supposed to be an exposé, not a full-blown scent-match slow burn with a bonus six-pack.

I came here for revenge. For journalism . The one thing I didn’t plan for in this whole heat-proof, heartbreak-fueled revenge arc was actually liking any of them.

“I usually do this with a weighted vest and a gallon of water strapped to my back, but I figured I’d take it easy today,” he says.

I blink at him. “You hike with what now?”

“Core stability,” he says seriously. “Also, leg day was yesterday.”

He’d changed out of his jeans into a pair of light gray shorts for the walk over, and I glance down at his calves—strictly collecting critical data—and immediately feel like I need to repent at the mental images that flash through my mind.

“Do you do this every week?” I ask, wiping sweat from my upper lip.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Unless I’m working. I own my gym and teach group classes there. I do some personal training sessions, too. Oh, and fight conditioning.”

“Of course you do,” I say under my breath.

“Huh?”

“Oh, nothing,” I smile sweetly. “So do you condition people to fight you specifically, or…?”

He laughs; full-on, head-tipped-back, biceps-flexing, teeth-flashing laughter.

(I am momentarily blinded by sunlight and pheromones.)

“Only if they flirt first,” he grins, and I trip over absolutely nothing.

*

We arrive at the farmer’s market, and Jace immediately turns into that guy . You know the type: walking thirst trap with the body of a demigod and the situational awareness of a golden retriever.

He’s changed back into his jeans—which is rude, because now I have to watch the way they cling to his thighs—but is shirtless within seven minutes.

Seven . He accidentally spilled water on himself from his emotional support gallon jug, which, of course, meant the shirt had to go. For... drying purposes.

And now I’m being punished.

“Want to try a smoothie?” he asks, holding up two tiny compostable cups.

“I—sure,” I croak, because my frontal lobe has shut down in protest after clocking his bicep flex.

I reach out to take one, but he doesn’t let go.

“Uh— I can hold it myself?”

“Nope,” he says. “Open up.”

“I’m a grown woman,” I protest weakly, already halfway to doing it anyway.

His gaze drags down my body, and my skin ignites.

“Damn right you are,” he murmurs, tipping the cup toward my lips as if this is some kind of smoothie-based seduction ritual. “C’mon. You’ll like it. Mango-pineapple.”

And because I’m a spineless, scent-blocked disaster with something to prove and a very flimsy revenge plan, I open my mouth. Like a baby fucking bird.

It hits my tongue, and I sigh. Out loud.

“Mmm,” I say, somehow managing to make it worse. “ Delicious .”

Fuck. I hate myself.

“And now you’ll taste like mango.”

He grins, far too pleased with himself. At this point, I’m too suppressed to function and too attracted to care.

“I’m going to throw myself into traffic,” I mutter.

“What was that?”

“Oh wow!” I blurt, finger-gunning the nearest stall. “Look! Organic radishes. My kink.”

“Radish kink noted,” Jace says seriously, pulling out his phone and typing.

“You’re not—you didn’t—are you making a list?!”

“Yep.” Tap, tap. “ Aimee: radishes, mango smoothies, emotionally unavailable banter. Got it.”

Dear sweet mother of suppressants—he’s hot, charming, smells like sun-warmed danger, and he’s writing a fucking kink list in the middle of a farmer’s market.

“I’m just saying,” I add as we pass a flower stall, fully committed to the bit and very much not okay, “if you keep being this nice to me, I might end up writing ‘Jace’ in my scent journal and circling it with hearts.”

His brow arches. “You have a scent journal?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. It’s none of your business,” I snap, which is the exact thing someone with a scent journal would say. “What are you, the Scent Police?”

He plucks a daisy from the display, smooth as ever, and hands it to me with a wink so lethal it should come with a health warning. “Add this. For accuracy.”

I stare at the daisy.

“Wow,” I breathe, as my brain-to-mouth filter fully fails.

My suppressants are working so hard they deserve a bonus. My scent blockers are practically melting off my skin. My knees? Gone . Vanished. Off living a quiet life somewhere far from this disaster.

“You okay there?” he teases.

“I’m great !” I chirp, taking the daisy and tucking it into my bag as if that’ll somehow defuse the situation. “I definitely didn’t almost ask if you lift flower crates for core activation.”

He leans in just enough for my brain to short-circuit. “I definitely can , if that’s what gets you going.”

I nearly trip over a paving stone. My foot wobbles, and my pride shatters.

Abort mission! Abort mission!

This is a disaster. A pheromone-soaked, criminally handsome disaster. I am a serious woman . A focused professional. A whole journalist with a mission and a backbone.

But despite all of those things, we keep walking, because I have no self-preservation instincts left.

*

This is not going well.

He buys me kettle corn. A literal child calls him Coach Jace and he waves back, dimples flashing. He crouches to pet a passing dog—as in full knee bend, thighs flexing, back muscles stretching under sun-warmed skin while it licks his face.

Jace laughs along, and somehow, I’m the one panting.

My body’s buzzing like I’ve swallowed a vibrator.

My scent blockers feel tight, and my instincts are practically screaming to touch him .

I tell myself it’s just the pheromones and the proximity, that it’s the natural result of Wes being a scowling repressive iceberg and Jace being the human embodiment of a lust spell.

But I know it’s a lie.

It’s him . It’s the way he keeps glancing at me as though he already knows what I sound like when I come. It’s the way his fingers brush mine when he hands me the kettle corn. The way he keeps stepping close like he’s testing a theory—like he wants to see how far he can push me before I cave.

And honestly, I’m about six seconds from crumbling.

Because what’s the harm, right? I could give in. I could very easily scratch the itch and get the revenge I came for.

Ruin my ex, ride his packmate, write about it, and win a Pulitzer. That’s got to be the omega definition of work-life balance.

“Ready to try the artisanal nut butter stall?”

I blink, immediately snapped out of my trailing thoughts. “Sorry, the what ?”

“Nut butter.” He says it slow. “It’s hand-ground. Very creamy.”

He’s looking directly at my mouth when he says it, and my soul leaves my body.

It’s official: this man is actively trying to kill me. I knew I wasn’t going to make it out of this date alive.

“Cool,” I say, voice breaking against my will. “Nuts. Butter. Love that for us.”

And when I die right here on this sun-drenched sidewalk, bury me in a scent patch and lie to my mother.

And maybe give Jace my number.

(You know: for closure.)