Page 19 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

LEAH

T he next two days pass in a blur of flour and avoidance tactics.

I keep my phone on silent.

I take the back entrance to my apartment.

I even—God help me—consider dyeing my hair, as if four males who can literally smell me from a block away would be fooled by blonde highlights.

Zoe watches my descent into madness with the glee of someone who’s already picked out her maid-of-honor dress.

“Still no texts?” she asks Friday morning, perched on my countertop swinging her legs like this is all some delightful sitcom and not my personal psychological thriller.

I brandish a rolling pin at her. “I’m focusing on my business. My independent, pack-free business.”

The lie tastes like burnt sugar on my tongue.

“You know it’s okay to miss them, right?

” Zoe says gently, sliding off my counter.

She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’ve got to head to the gallery before my boss has another meltdown over the new exhibit layout.

” She checks her watch, then adds, “Call me if you need anything. Or if there are any... developments.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively before heading out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

An hour later, I’m at the bakery, the morning quiet settling around me.

Outside, Sweetwater’s main street is just beginning to wake up—the coffee shop a few doors down already has a line of bleary-eyed commuters, and the antique store owner is arranging a new display in her window.

The farmer’s market vendors will be setting up their stalls in the town square soon, filling the air with the scent of fresh produce and local honey.

Inside my not-yet-open bakery, the empty space echoes in a way it never did before.

I’ve been coming here for weeks, testing recipes and preparing for the grand opening, but today the silence feels different.

There’s nothing disturbing my peace as I arrange my test kitchen and put the finishing touches on the menu board. It’s just me.

Just my recipe notebook.

Just the hollow thunk of my own heartbeat when my phone finally pings.

I’m in the middle of calculating ingredient costs for a large batch of apple pie filling when I hear it, and I freeze. Slowly, I set down my pencil and reach for my phone.

Caleb

Hope your day is going well. No pressure, just thinking of you.

The calculator I’m holding slips from my fingers and hits the floor with a clatter that sounds suspiciously like surrender.

Simple. Direct. No demands, no questions, just... presence.

I stare at the text for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the reply button. Before I can decide what to do, the bell above the door chimes.

My head snaps up, “Sorry, we’re not open for business ye—”, only to have my lungs forget how to work.

Mason stands in the doorway, backlit by morning sun like some kind of damn romance novel cover.

His black t-shirt stretches across shoulders that somehow got broader in the time since I last saw him.

The scent of sandalwood and crisp autumn air hits me, making my thighs press together behind the counter.

“Morning.” His voice is rougher than I remember, sleep-rough and delicious.

I choke on air. “What are you?—”

He sets a small paper bag on the counter with those precise, elegant fingers that had mapped every inch of me Sunday night. My mouth floods with saliva— and not just from the buttery, almond-scented steam rising from the bag.

“Marzipan croissants,” he says, watching my reaction with those dark, knowing eyes. “They say they’re good, though I’m sure the ones you make definitely put these to shame.”

My pulse thunders in my ears.

“I...” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy. “You didn’t have to?—”

“I know.” He leans in just enough that his scent wraps around me, that clean-laundry-and-danger aroma making my needy omega self whimper.

The possessive edge in his voice sends a shockwave straight to my core. My fingers tremble as I reach for the bag, brushing against his. The contact lasts less than a second but burns like a brand.

When I look up, his gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers.

The air between us crackles.

What is he doing here?!

“I...” Words fail me. “Thank you.”

He nods once, then, to my surprise, he turns to leave.

Immediate disappointment, from somewhere deep inside me, springs up like a fountain.

“Wait!” The word escapes me before I can think better of it.

Mason pauses, looking back over his shoulder.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “We may have looked up your bakery’s website. You mentioned the grand opening is soon. It made sense you’d be here, preparing.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure if I should be flattered or alarmed by their thoroughness.

“For what it’s worth,” Mason adds, his hand on the door, “we understand your need for space. We’re not trying to pressure you. We just... care.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving me staring after him with the coffee growing cold in my hands.

They care .

The simple statement echoes in my mind as I sip the perfectly made latte. It’s not the grand declarations of love or possessiveness I might have expected from a pack. It’s quieter, more thoughtful.

And more dangerous.

That evening, when I get home, the building manager intercepts me in the lobby, his expression a mix of confusion and amusement.

His stocky frame blocks my path to the elevator, his perpetually wrinkled uniform shirt suggesting he’s had a long day managing the building’s endless maintenance requests.

“Ms. Carter, there’s been a... delivery for you. I put it in your apartment. Didn’t think you’d want it sitting in the hallway.”

“A delivery?” I echo, immediately suspicious. “What kind of delivery?”

He scratches his head. “Hard to describe. You, uh, you’ll see.”

I take the elevator up, dread building with each floor. When I unlock my door, I’m greeted by the sight of...

Vegetables.

Not just a few vegetables. Twelve bouquets of them. Carrots, zucchini, eggplants... arranged in increasingly suggestive shapes. A card sits propped against the largest arrangement, which features a particularly well-endowed carrot surrounded by baby eggplants.

I know you eat all your veggies like a good girl. Thought I’d help your diet along. Call me when you’re hungry for something meatier. - J

Jude’s handiwork, without a doubt.

I’m still staring in horror at the vegetable pornography when my door bursts open.

“Hey, I saw your building manager downstairs, and he said you got a—HOLY SHIT!” Zoe stops dead in her tracks, eyes widening to comical proportions. “Is that a zucchini wearing a... crown?”

“I think it’s supposed to be a...” I trail off, gesturing vaguely. “You know.”

Zoe’s laughter fills the apartment, a full-bellied howl that threatens to bring the neighbors knocking. “This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen! Please tell me you’re going to marry this man immediately.”

“I’m going to murder this man immediately,” I correct her, though I can feel my lips twitching dangerously.

“You can’t ghost a pack that knows exactly where you live,” she manages between gasps of laughter, pulling out her phone to document the vegetable extravaganza. “And this proves it.”

“This proves they’re insane,” I argue. But the ridiculousness of the situation is starting to get to me, and a reluctant chuckle escapes before I can stop it.

“Insanely into you,” Zoe counters, circling what appears to be a radish harem surrounding a mighty cucumber. “So, what’s the plan? Are you going to call the cops, or call them over?”

“Neither,” I declare, grabbing the card and tucking it away before she can read it. “I’m going to focus on my bakery. That’s the plan. That’s always been the plan.”

Zoe’s expression softens. “Leah, honey, I know you’re scared. But hiding from them isn’t the answer.”

“I’m not scared,” I protest automatically. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie.

I’m terrified. Not of them, but of what they make me feel. Of how quickly they’ve insinuated themselves into my life, my thoughts, my desires.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Zoe picks up a particularly suggestive carrot, waggling it at me. “Meanwhile, you’ve got three alphas and a beta who are clearly willing to go to ridiculous lengths to win you over. Most people would kill for that kind of attention.”

I sigh, sinking onto my couch. “I know. I just... I need to handle this my way.”

“And your way involves... what, exactly? More dumpster diving? Carrier pigeons? Smoke signals?”

“Very funny,” I mutter, though a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “I just need to clear my head. Focus on the bakery for a bit. Then maybe... talk to them. Calmly. Rationally.”

“Uh-huh.” Zoe’s voice drips with skepticism. “And when is this calm, rational conversation happening? Before or after the heat death of the universe?”

I throw a decorative pillow at her head.

Thursday evening arrives with a vengeance. The bakery’s plumbing decided to revolt, flooding the back prep area and sending me into a panic spiral that ended with an emergency plumber, a hefty bill, and a newfound hatred for copper pipes.

I’m opening in just a few weeks! Everything needs to be perfect!

By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. Mentally and physically drained as I trudge up to my apartment. The vegetable bouquets have been dealt with—some tossed, some actually used in a surprisingly decent stir fry—and all I want is a hot shower and an early night.

As I fumble with my keys at my apartment door, the familiar scent of dark chocolate and espresso envelops me.

Before I can react, a warm hand closes around my wrist, spinning me around. My back hits the door with a soft thud as Caleb pins me there, his body pressed close, his green eyes burning into mine.

“Running from me, omega?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that makes my knees weak.

I swallow hard, my heart racing so fast I’m sure he can hear it. “I’m not running,” I manage, but my voice has come out embarrassingly breathy. “I’m just... busy.”

“Busy hiding in laundry rooms? Busy climbing out fire escapes?” His lips twitch, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Busy landing in dumpsters?”

My cheeks burn. “How did you?—”

“Your neighbor, Mrs. Finley, is quite the conversationalist.” His thumb traces circles on the inside of my wrist, sending shivers up my arm.

And his eyes. Fuck. He’s looking at me as if he wants to take me inside and do some wicked things to me that I will definitely enjoy.

No ! Down girl ! “She wanted to make sure I knew you were safe after your ‘accident.’”

“Traitor,” I mutter.

Caleb leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Because if you are running,” he adds, his voice dropping to a whisper that makes my core clench with want, “I’m very good at the chase.”

A whimper escapes me before I can stop it, and his scent deepens in response, heavy with alpha satisfaction.

“Caleb, I?—”

“I know,” he interrupts gently, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. “You need space. Time. I understand.”

“Then why are you here?” I ask. Fuck. I hate how vulnerable I sound.

His expression softens. “Because I wanted to make sure you were okay. And because I…needed to see you.” His honesty disarms me. “Just once. Then I’ll go. I promise.”

The simplicity of it, the quiet certainty in his voice, makes my chest ache. I should push him away. I should stand firm. I should?—

My hands rise to his chest of their own accord, not to push him away but to feel the solid warmth of him beneath my palms. His heart thunders beneath my touch, strong and steady.

“One minute,” I whisper. “Then you go.”

His lips curve into that barely-there smile that does dangerous things to my insides. “Deal.”

We stand there, my back against the door, his body a warm wall in front of me, neither of us moving. Just... breathing each other in. His scent wraps around me like a blanket, familiar now despite the short time I’ve known him.

“Your minute’s almost up,” I murmur, but I make no move to push him away.

“I know.” His eyes drop to my lips, then back to meet my gaze. “May I?”

The question—so formal, so respectful despite the possessive press of his body against mine—nearly undoes me.

I should say no. I should stand firm on my need for space, for time.

Instead, I nod, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

His lips meet mine in a soft, restrained, gentle claim. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones with a tenderness that makes my heart stutter.

I melt into him, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer despite all my earlier protests. He growls softly, the sound vibrating through both our bodies, and deepens the kiss just a fraction, waiting for me to take it.

And God help me, I want to.

The thought is like a bucket of cold water. I pull back abruptly, breaking the kiss, my breath coming in short gasps.

“Your minute’s up,” I whisper, unable to meet his eyes.

Caleb steps back immediately, his hands falling to his sides. “So it is.”

The sudden absence of his warmth makes me shiver, but I force myself to remain still, to not reach for him again.

“Leah.” His voice is gentle, but there’s a thread of steel running through it that makes me look up. “I meant what I said before. We’ll give you space. Time. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely audible.

“But,” he continues, his eyes dark with promise, “when you’re ready—and you will be ready—we’ll be waiting.”

With that, he turns and walks away, his stride measured and confident. I watch him go, my body humming with a confused mix of relief and disappointment.

Only when the elevator doors close behind him do I allow myself to slump against my door, eyes closed, lips still tingling from his kiss.

Space. Time. That’s what I asked for. That’s what I need.

So why does it suddenly feel like the last thing I want?