Page 48 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

LEAH

I ’m gazing at the four men in my little apartment, hardly believing they’re mine, when my phone emits an aggressive chime that has me bolting upright in bed, my knee connecting with what feels like Caleb’s ribcage as I scramble for it.

“ Fuck —delivery!” I gasp, suddenly remembering. “The flour—specialty order—thirty minutes— fuck !”

“What?” Liam’s already alert, his eyes scanning his phone screen with that intense focus I’ve come to appreciate.

I almost fall on my face in my effort to get off the bed. “Specialty flour from Lyon. Non-refundable upon rejection.”

The pack moves immediately in a way that would be impressive if I wasn’t too busy panicking about potentially losing thousands of dollars in imported ingredients:

Caleb rolls out of bed, somehow already dressed. It’s alpha witchcraft how he manages to look put-together within seconds of consciousness while I probably resemble something dragged backward through a hedge.

Jude attempts to leap into action but faceplants spectacularly trying to put on pants backward, hopping on one foot while cursing in what might be Italian but is more likely just creative gibberish.

“Why does anyone need flour so early in the morning?” he wails.

“Isn’t that against the Geneva Convention? ”

Mason produces a mug of coffee from seemingly nowhere and offers it to me. I accept it gratefully, the warmth of the mug grounding me slightly as I frantically try to button my shirt, only to realize three buttons in that I’ve got it inside out and backward.

Liam calculates optimal routes while I struggle with my clothing. “Uber arriving in three minutes,” he announces, watching his phone screen. “There’s construction on Main Street so we should request rerouting via Cedar Avenue. We’ll get there in seventeen minutes if traffic remains constant.”

“Seventeen minutes?” My voice rises to a pitch that makes Caleb wince. “The delivery’s in thirty! I need to unlock, turn off the alarm system, make space for all those bags—” Oh god. This is terrible. I don’t have enough time!

“Breathe,” Caleb orders, his alpha command cutting through my spiral with startling effectiveness. He’s already gathering my jacket and bag, movements quick. “We’ve got this.”

Jude hops into view, one foot now correctly placed in pants, the other still searching for its proper home. “We’re like the A-Team but with better hair and more sexual tension,” he declares. “No flour left behind!”

I’m torn between strangling him with his own pants or kissing him for the absurd tension-breaker.

“I’ll help with moving the bags,” Liam offers calmly.

“We all will,” Mason adds.

I pause mid-panic, suddenly struck by the scene before me: four males in various states of dishevelment, all mobilizing for my bakery crisis without question or complaint.

None of them asking why I didn’t plan better, why the delivery is scheduled so early, why this matters so much. They’re just... helping.

“You guys are...” I start, but can’t find the right words to encompass what I’m feeling. “Your shirt’s on inside out,” I tell Jude instead, but I hope my scent conveys the gratitude I can’t articulate.

We make it to the Uber in record time, piling in like we’re auditioning for a clown car routine.

I’m painfully aware that my hair resembles a bird’s nest that survived a hurricane, and I haven’t even brushed my teeth.

But the way Caleb’s looking at me…the way Liam is…

the way Mason and Jude are…you’d think I’m the prettiest girl in the room.

“Could you possibly go any faster?” Jude asks our driver, leaning forward between the seats. “We’re having a flour emergency.”

The driver—a middle-aged beta who looks like she’s seen it all—flicks her eyes to the rearview mirror. “A what emergency?”

“Flour,” I repeat, feeling increasingly frazzled. “For my bakery. There’s a delivery and if we’re not there?—”

“Say no more,” the driver says, hitting the gas with newfound purpose. “My sister-in-law’s an omega with a catering business. I respect the hustle.”

I watch our ETA drop by three minutes as she executes a particularly creative interpretation of traffic laws, and make a mental note to leave her five stars and a massive tip.

Caleb’s hand finds mine, his larger fingers enveloping mine in a gesture that’s both possessive and steadying. “Deep breaths,” he murmurs, pitched low enough that only I can hear it clearly. “We’ll make it.”

And we do—barely. The Uber screeches to a halt outside my bakery, and I tumble out with keys already in hand. The sight of my storefront—“SWEET OMEGA” painted in elegant script on the glass—sends a fresh wave of panic through me. This is real. This is happening. This is mine .

The delivery truck is already here. Early . A bored-looking beta in a company uniform checks his watch with aggressive impatience.

“You’re late,” he announces as I rush toward him, keys clutched in my sweaty palm.

Before I can respond, Caleb steps forward, shoulders squaring and scent spiking with protective alpha rage that makes the air around him practically shimmer with menace. “ Try again ,” he suggests, voice pitched low in a way that makes even my omega instincts stand at attention.

The beta pales, taking an instinctive step back. “You’re... fashionably early?” he offers weakly.

“Much better,” Caleb agrees pleasantly, all teeth.

I push past both of them with the single-minded focus of a baker on a mission. I have flour to rescue. “Where do I sign? And please tell me everything survived the trip from Lyon.” I’m already opening the service entrance, Liam right behind me.

The delivery beta switches to professional autopilot, clearly preferring to interact with me rather than the growling alpha currently staring holes through his skull.

“Six specialty flour varieties, two cases of imported butter, and the vanilla beans from Madagascar,” he recites, offering a digital signature pad.

“All accounted for, temperature controlled during transit.”

I sign quickly and help swing open the rear service door to my bakery— my bakery —while Liam disarms the security system once I tell him the code.

The space is still in transition, caught between what it was (a former boutique clothing store) and what it will be (Sweet Omega, the bakery I’ve dreamed of since I was sixteen).

Sheets of plastic still cover some of the new fixtures, dust cloths draped over equipment waiting to be properly arranged.

Mason moves in behind me, taking the delivery advice from the beta and frowning down at it. “Start with the refrigerated items,” he directs, taking charge of the delivery logistics with calm authority.

“Jude, stop poking the butter and help carry,” he adds, and I turn to see Jude indeed prodding at a case of imported French butter like it might perform tricks.

“So much fuss over ground wheat,” Jude mutters, but he hefts a bag of specialty flour over his shoulder with surprising care, following Caleb who’s already loaded himself with what looks like half the delivery.

As we begin unloading the delivery items, I feel a flutter of nervousness having them in my bakery in this vulnerable, unfinished state.

The front of the shop is nearly complete—gleaming display cases, freshly painted walls in warm cream, the elegant “SWEET OMEGA” signage.

But the kitchen space is still a work in progress, with tools and equipment waiting to find their permanent homes.

“This is impressive,” Liam comments, his eyes taking in the layout I’ve designed.

“Really?” My heart does a little flutter in my chest.

“Yeah, and the lighting is perfect,” Jude adds, surprising me with his observant eye. “Natural light in the front, but these fixtures over the work stations?” He gestures to the specialized lighting I’d splurged on. “You can actually see what color your dough is. Genius.”

My chest warms with their approval. Once the delivery guy has departed (with noticeable relief), I close the door and turn to face them all properly.

“Welcome to Sweet Omega.” I can feel the blush creeping up my neck. “It’s not finished yet, but...”

“It’s perfect,” Caleb states, with the authoritative certainty only an alpha can muster. His eyes move over everything, territorial and approving in equal measure.

“Show us everything,” Mason encourages, his dark eyes warm with interest. “We want the full tour.”

I lead them through the space, pointing out features as the tingle of nervousness in my chest slowly fades.

I show them the specialized proofing cabinet I hunted down from a retiring baker in Vermont.

The marble slabs for pastry work, salvaged from an old hotel’s kitchen renovation.

The coffee station where I’ll partner with a local roaster.

The vintage display cases I restored myself over countless weekends.

“And this,” I say, approaching the crown jewel with reverence, “is the oven.”

It’s a gleaming behemoth, all stainless steel and digital displays. I saved for years for this specific model—commercial-grade with stone baking decks and steam injection capabilities that will give my breads the perfect crust.

“I haven’t actually used it yet,” I admit, running my fingers along its pristine surface. “Today will be its maiden voyage.”

“You’re christening it with us here?” Jude clutches his chest dramatically. “I’m honored. Truly.”

I roll my eyes at his theatrics, but there’s truth in his words. Having them here for this moment feels significant in ways I hadn’t anticipated. This isn’t just the first bake in my new space—it’s the first time I’m sharing my craft, my passion, with people who seem to genuinely care.

“I thought we could make croissants,” I suggest, moving toward the refrigerator. “First official bake in Sweet Omega’s kitchen.”

“From scratch?” Jude looks momentarily alarmed. “Doesn’t that take like twelve hours or something?”