Page 29 of Pack Choice

I almost spill the water I’m pouring. I spin around clutching the bottle to my chest.

The owner of the voice is leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his wide chest. Golden hair falls around his face and bright blue eyes dance with amusement. He’s dressed in designer jeans and a white t-shirt that’s startling against his tanned skin.

“And you are?” he asks, those blue eyes meandering lazily down my body, in a way that seems to warm every single cell on my skin.

“I’m Molly,” I say, “Mr. Turner’s new assistant.”

“Colt didn’t tell me he had a new omega assistant.” His eyes drag back up my body to my face, my skin warming even more. He uncrosses his arms and holds out his hand to me. “I’m River Caspian.”

“I know who you are,” I say, placing the bottle down on the table behind me.

Of course, I know who he is. Everyone in the city knows who he is. River Caspian. Legendary racing driver. Winning practically every World Championship since he arrived on the scene a decade ago. Tabloid favorite. Known bad boy.

Definitely a bad boy. I can tell by the way those eyes twinkle with amusement.

“You do, do you? And how come I’ve never met you before, little one?”

Probably because my family – like every other well-to-do family in this city – knows to keep their omega daughters well clear of an alpha like River Caspian. He may win titles, but he also has a propensity for breaking rules and picking up fines left right and center. If he wasn’t so good at winning, I bet they’d have kicked him out of the sport long ago.

“I doubt we move in the same circles,” I say. I’ve spent the last few years home, baking and caring for my mom. Not traveling the world, partying hard.

He pushes off the door frame and moves closer, allowing me a glimpse at the inks on his arms. A list of the titles he’s won. An image of his car. A lone wolf.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Another one! Seriously? They’re like buses.

His lone wolf status is the main reason River Caspian appears in the gossip columns more often than not. When will he find himself a pack? The journalists – and most of the omega mothers – have been asking themselves that ever since he got famous. River has always insisted he doesn’t operate that way.

He moves closer still, his nostrils flaring as he sucks in my scent.

His own becomes more vivid to my senses. That tang of gasoline again. Did he choose to become a driver because of his scent or did his scent change to match his career?

“Colten was always more of a bad boy than he made out,” he says, staring down into my face, the distance between us less than a foot. “Dresses all smart, acts all respectable but underneath it all,” he chuckles, “goes and gets himself a pretty little, unmated omega.”

“He didn’t ‘get’ me,” I say.

His tongue slips out between his teeth and slides along his lower lip. The movement of it is sort of hypnotizing. I’m surprised I don’t go cross-eyed.

“But has hehadyou?”

I consider slapping him. Partly because the comment is damn sexist and pretty rude, and also because I have a feeling he’d like it.

But I don’t get a chance to make up my mind because in the next moment, there are two more alphas crowding into the doorway. Mr. Red Flag and Mr. Military.

Both looking equal parts concerned and pissed off.

“Molly, are you okay?” Ford asks, pecs tightening, as Colten says, “River, step away from the omega.”

River shrugs, and his cheeks dimple as he smiles at me.

I’ve seen that smile a million times on the front of magazines, across the internet and on TV, but to see it in real life – right in front of my face, directed entirely at me – is something altogether different. I swear my legs shake and my insides flip right over 360 degrees.

“We were just getting acquainted, weren’t we, Molly?”

“MollyStormgate,” Colten emphasizes.

I wait for River’s smile to falter, instead it grows even wider.

“Fuck, you’re a little Stormgate? What the hell are you doing here?”