Page 17 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

LEAH

I wake up Monday morning with a pounding headache and a vague sense of impending doom.

Four times.

Jude’s stupid, smug voice echoes in my skull. “ That’s what happens when you come that hard, doll .”

I groan into my pillow, trying to suffocate myself with memory foam. The wedding. The almost-mark. The pack. The sex . My thighs clench at the reminder, sore in the best possible way.

No. Bad omega.

I glance at the clock: 7:15 AM. Caleb’s text from last night flashes through my mind like a warning siren:

Caleb: Tomorrow. 8 AM. I’m bringing coffee .

I snort. Yeah, right. Like Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Intimidating actually meant that. Probably just a playful parting shot after a ridiculous weekend.

Rolling out of bed, I pull on my running gear. A good jog will clear my head, sweat out the lingering scents of the pack, and—most importantly—help me forget the way Caleb’s hands felt on my hips last night.

The morning air does nothing to clear my head.

Three miles later, I’m back at my apartment building, drenched in sweat and no less distracted than when I left. Every pounding footstep against pavement had only seemed to echo Caleb’s text in my skull: 8 AM. I’m bringing coffee .

As if.

The man probably sends those messages to all his one-night-stands. I yank open the lobby door too hard, still trying to convince myself that’s all this was.

I take the elevator up. The ride gives me exactly twelve seconds to regret not stretching properly, and approximately ten of those seconds are spent remembering how Jude’s tongue had felt working the tension from my g-spot.

Damn it .

I’m so busy scowling at my traitorous thoughts that I almost miss it. That rich, dark scent curling through the hallway the moment I step off the elevator. My sneakers squeak against the tile as I freeze.

No. No way.

But there’s no mistaking that particular blend of dark chocolate. My stomach does a slow, treacherous flip even as my pulse kicks into a sprint.

Peeking around the corner, I confirm my worst fear.

Shit .

There he is, leaning against my doorframe with the casual confidence of a man who owns the building.

Two coffee cups in hand, looking entirely too at ease for someone who allegedly spent a night on a hard floor.

His dark hair is slightly tousled, his jaw freshly shaved, and the soft shirt he’s wearing hugs his chest in a way that should be illegal before noon.

Way too good .

My traitorous omega biology makes me want to hum with appreciation. It sends a rush of warmth through my core that has absolutely nothing to do with the coffee he’s brought.

Nope. Abort, abort !

Before he can see me, I duck back around the corner, pressing myself against the wall, adrenaline surging through my veins. Think, Leah, think . I need somewhere to hide! But where!

My heart hammers hard in my chest and I feel like he’ll come down the corridor, turn the corner, and see me at any moment. That’s when it hits.

The basement laundry room! Perfect hiding spot.

I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it twice before managing to speed-dial Zoe.

“He’s here,” I hiss-whisper the moment she picks up. “Caleb. With coffee.”

Zoe’s muffled laughter echoes through the phone. I couldn’t help it. I’d spilled everything to her last night after I spent several hours unable to sleep. I’d needed to tell someone . “He brought you coffee? Awwww, that’s so... alpha.”

“Alpha? He’s stalking me!”

“Stalking you with lattes? Honey, that’s a romantic, not a horror movie.

” I can practically hear her rolling her eyes.

“Just go up there and get your caffeine fix. And maybe his number while you’re at it.

” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Though, if he tries anything funny, you know I’ve got that taser. ..”

“I already have his number,” I hiss, “which is part of the problem!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Zoe says flatly. “Go get your hot alpha and your hot coffee. In that order.”

“You’re a terrible friend,” I inform her before ending the call.

I ignore Zoe’s terrible advice and tiptoe toward the stairwell, wincing at every creak and groan of the old building.

Mrs. Finley’s door opens just as I’m passing, and I freeze like a startled deer.

She’s a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, with steel-gray hair cut in a bob and eyes sharp enough to fillet a man at twenty paces.

She’s lived in this building even longer than I have and she helped me settle in those first few weeks. Always bringing me dinner with the excuse that she cooked too much. Pretty sure that was a lie.

“Oh! Leah, dear,” the elderly woman exclaims, eyeing my hunched posture and wild eyes. “Are you alright? You look... furtive.”

“Fine!” I chirp, voice three octaves too high. “Just... getting some exercise! Stairs! Great for the... glutes!”

She blinks at me for a long moment, then peers down the hallway. Her face lights up. “Is that handsome young man still looking for you? The tall drink of water by your door? I saw him when I came up earlier.”

Fuck, she saw Caleb?

“No! I mean, yes, but—” I lean in, lowering my voice. “I’m not home.”

Mrs. Finley’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. “Clearly.”

“Please,” I beg. “If he asks, you haven’t seen me.”

She pats my arm, her eyes twinkling. “Your secret’s safe with me, dear. Though why you’re hiding from a man who looks like that is beyond me. In my day...”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Finley,” I grimace apologetically, already backing toward the stairwell. “Any other time I’d love to hear about your day, but I really have to run.” The door closes behind me with a merciful click, and I slump against the wall, exhaling shakily.

I make it to the basement, slip into the laundry room, and text Zoe:

Had to hide in the flipping basement. Send provisions (and possibly a hazmat suit. His scent is everywhere).

Zoe’s response is immediate:

Seriously?

You’re going full survivalist mode over a cup of coffee?

You’re missing out. Just sayin’.

Also, no hazmat suit. But I’m bringing wine. And maybe some rope. Just in case.

Followed by a string of emojis that I can’t even begin to decipher.

I silence my phone, my heart still pounding. The laundry room smells of detergent and fabric softener, but even that can’t mask the phantom scent of Caleb that seems to have imprinted itself on my brain. I sit on the dusty dryer, trying to catch my breath.

Dark chocolate and…espresso? I groan. There’s something deeper, too. Something that makes my skin tingle despite my best efforts to ignore it.

This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman hiding in a laundry room to avoid a man bringing me coffee. A man I’ve seen naked. A man who’s seen me naked. A man who made me come so hard I nearly blacked out.

Don’t think about that .

I wait, listening for his footsteps on the stairs even though there’s no way he’d know I’m hiding down here. Minutes stretch into an hour. Still nothing.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I cautiously open the laundry room door. The basement is empty, silent. I creep up the stairs, my senses on high alert, half expecting Caleb to jump out at every landing.

As I reach my floor, I catch a faint whiff of his scent lingering in the air. My door is undisturbed, but there’s something on the floor beside it. A small coffee cup sits there, a silent testament to his persistence. And maybe... his disappointment?

I approach it cautiously, as if it might bite. The cup is still warm, wisps of steam escaping from beneath the lid. There’s writing on the side.

For when you’re ready to stop hiding in the laundry room. -C

My cheeks burn. How did he know?

A strange mix of relief and something else—something that feels suspiciously like regret—washes over me. I pick up the cup, the warmth seeping into my fingers. The scent of perfectly brewed coffee wafts up, mingling with the darker notes of Caleb’s scent that cling to the cardboard.

A sigh leaves my shoulders as I step into my apartment and close the door. I stare at the cup as I head to my kitchen, mouth pressing into a thin line as I hold it over to my sink, ready to dump it.

But it would be a shame to waste perfectly good coffee.

With another sigh, I take a hesitant sip, then a longer one. It’s delicious—rich and sweet with just the right amount of spice. Before I know it, I’ve drained the entire cup, a soft, satisfied sound escaping my lips as I swallow the last drop.

It’s only then that I realize I’m still holding the empty cup to my face, inhaling deeply. His scent still lingers on it. I’m inhaling deeply again when I catch myself and toss the cup in the recycling bin in the kitchen.

It’s fine. I just need space. Time to think. Time to process without the distraction of his scent, his voice, his... everything .

Tuesday morning, I’m checking my mail, apartment door cracked open just enough to see the hallway. A thick manila envelope catches my eye, my name written in elegant script that’s somehow both precise and fussy.

From the desk of Liam Le Roux, PhD.

I flip it over with a mix of curiosity and wariness. The envelope is heavy—too heavy for a simple note—and sealed with what appears to be actual wax, complete with an embossed “L.”

Of course he has personalized wax seals. Why wouldn’t he?

I slide my finger under the flap, breaking the seal, and peek inside. A professionally bound document slides out, complete with color tabs and a cover page titled “Strategic Partnership Proposal: Le Roux Craft House & Sweet Omega Bakery.”

I blink, genuinely surprised. He’d been serious? When Liam had mentioned a potential partnership during our conversations at the wedding, I’d assumed it was just polite small talk. But this...