Page 55 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

LEAH

S ome days later

I’m one rogue strip of wallpaper away from snapping.

The floral print I’d insisted on—because it was “charming” and “whimsical”—is fighting me like a feral cat. I press it against the wall with both hands, holding my breath as the glue starts to set. For a glorious half-second, it stays put.

Then it peels away again, flopping to the floor like it’s staging a protest.

“Right,” I mutter, picking it up for what feels like the hundredth time. “You want war? Fine. Let’s go.”

The bell above the bakery door jingles, and Zoe strides in, her beta energy sharp and brisk as usual. She’s carrying two coffees and a croissant, which she waves at me like a peace treaty.

“You’re late,” I say, glaring at her from the top of my wobbly ladder.

“I brought caffeine,” she replies, unapologetic. “Time runs on coffee, not clocks.”

I climb down, wiping glue-covered hands on my leggings before grabbing the cup she offers me. “If you’re not here to suffer with me, you’re legally required to leave.”

“Oh, I’m here to suffer,” she says, taking a bite of her croissant as she surveys the chaos around her. “But mostly I came to make sure you haven’t accidentally glued yourself to the wall.”

“Not yet,” I mutter, sipping my coffee. “But give it time. The launch is in two weeks, and this stupid wallpaper is trying to kill me.”

Zoe sets her coffee down, tilting her head to examine my wallpapering handiwork. “It’s... definitely a statement.”

“The statement is ‘I have no idea what I’m doing,’” I groan. “Why did I think DIY was a good idea? I should have hired professionals like a normal person.”

“Because you’re pathologically incapable of delegating,” Zoe says cheerfully. She pulls her hair back and rolls up her sleeves. “Also, you’re broke.”

I can’t argue with her assessment. Opening a bakery has drained my savings to the point where every penny counts. Hence the DIY wallpapering disaster unfolding in my would-be charming seating area.

Zoe picks up the fallen strip of wallpaper with two fingers, like she’s handling something potentially radioactive. “So what’s the plan here? Just keep gluing it until it submits to our authority?”

“Exactly,” I nod, snatching it back. “Wallpaper responds to dominance. I read that on the internet.”

“Right alongside ‘essential oils cure taxes’ and ‘the moon is made of alpha tears’?”

I laugh despite myself. Having Zoe here makes the monumental task of finishing the bakery feel slightly less overwhelming. Two weeks till the official grand opening.

“Have you seen the guys this morning?” Zoe asks casually—too casually. She’s been unnervingly interested in my pack situation since the day they showed up at her apartment to bring me home.

“Mason stopped by at dawn and helped me with the seating arrangements,” I say, trying not to smile at the memory of the beta’s muscles flexing.

“Jude sent sixteen texts about the sign installation, each one with more exclamation points than the last. And Liam called to confirm the health inspector’s visit scheduled for Thursday. ”

“And the big bad alpha?”

My cheeks warm. “Caleb’s... handling some supplier issues.”

Zoe’s eyebrows shoot up. “By ‘handling’ do you mean threatening to disembowel someone over flour prices?”

“No,” I scoff. Then add, “Maybe. I didn’t ask for specifics.”

The truth is, having four males orbiting my bakery plans has been both wonderful and completely terrifying. Their support is unwavering, but I’m still learning how to accept help without feeling like I’m surrendering control. It’s a delicate balance.

“They’re coming by later to help move the display cases,” I add, attempting to reposition the wallpaper yet again. “Caleb insisted.”

“I bet he did,” Zoe smirks. “Nothing says ‘I’m completely smitten with this omega’ like volunteering for manual labor.”

“It’s not like that,” I protest weakly, but we both know it’s exactly like that.

The Le Roux pack has been claiming me in a hundred little ways since our reconciliation—from scent-marking my oven mitts to arranging deliveries to showing up with coffee at precisely the moment I’m about to have a meltdown over permit paperwork.

It’s terrifying how quickly I’ve adapted to their presence in my life, how easily I’ve slipped into letting them help. For someone who’s been stubbornly independent for years, it feels dangerously close to dependence.

“Right,” Zoe drawls, clearly unconvinced. “The bakery looks amazing, though,” she says, changing the subject as she surveys the space. “Even with the wallpaper staging a rebellion.”

She’s right. Despite the chaos of renovation, Sweet Omega is coming together beautifully. Just a few more tweaks, like the wallpaper, and I’ll be ready.

“Two weeks,” I breathe, allowing myself a moment of pride. “I can’t believe it’s actually happening.”

“Believe it,” Zoe says firmly. “You’ve worked your ass off for this.”

The bell jingles again, and we both turn to see Mrs. Finley bustling in, armed with a tote bag that looks suspiciously full of unsolicited decorating advice.

“Girls!” she exclaims, her sharp eyes taking in the wallpapering disaster. “Oh dear. That’s not going to work at all.”

“Hello to you too, Mrs. Finley,” I sigh, already bracing myself.

“I brought fabric swatches,” she announces, digging into her tote. “That wallpaper is all wrong for your complexion, dear. An omega should surround herself with colors that complement her natural glow.”

Zoe catches my eye, visibly fighting a laugh. “I wasn’t aware wallpaper needed to match one’s complexion,” she says innocently.

“Of course it does,” Mrs. Finley says, dead serious. “How else will customers know this establishment belongs to a respectable omega? First impressions are everything.”

I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that my baking skills, not my “omega glow,” should be the selling point.

“These would be much better,” Mrs. Finley continues, spreading fabric samples across my counter. “The sage green, especially. Very calming for alpha clientele. My Herbert always said a calm alpha is a spending alpha.”

“Is that right?” I manage, exchanging a look with Zoe.

“Absolutely. That’s why I always wear blue when we go shopping. Even now, these darn bunions won’t stop me. Puts him right at ease while I max out his credit cards.” She winks at me. “Decades of marriage, dear. I know a thing or two about managing alphas.”

Before I can formulate a response that won’t involve screaming into my coffee cup, Mrs. Finley’s attention is drawn to something outside. She stiffens, squinting through the front windows.

“What on earth...?”

Zoe and I turn to look, and my stomach drops through the floor.

Across the street, where the old hardware store used to be, workers are hanging a massive black awning. Bold white letters gleam in the morning sunlight:

ALPHA BITES: PROPER PASTRIES FOR PROPER OMEGAS.

“What…the actual…fuck?” Zoe breathes, echoing my thoughts precisely.

I step closer to the window, convinced I must be hallucinating. But no—the sign is very real, as is the man standing beneath it, directing the installation with precise gestures.

My ex-boyfriend. Eric.

“Is that...?” Zoe starts, then trails off as recognition dawns. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

“That young man,” Mrs. Finley says, peering through her bifocals, “looks familiar.”

“He should,” I say through clenched teeth. “He’s the alpha who told me opening my own bakery was ‘cute but unrealistic for an omega.’”

“The one who said your cupcakes were ‘adequate for amateur work’?” Zoe adds helpfully.

“The very same.”

Mrs. Finley’s expression hardens. “Well,” she says, drawing herself up to her full five-foot-two height, “this simply won’t do.”

And before I can stop her, she’s marching toward the door, fabric swatches forgotten.

“Mrs. Finley, wait—” I call, but it’s too late. The elderly omega is already crossing the street with alarming speed for someone who complained about her bunions not five minutes ago.

“Oh my god,” Zoe whispers, gleeful. “This is going to be amazing.”

We scramble after her, dodging a delivery truck as we rush across the street. By the time we reach Alpha Bites, Mrs. Finley is already facing down Eric, her tiny frame vibrating with indignation.

“Young man,” she’s saying as we approach, “do you have a permit for that awning installation?”

Eric looks down at her, his expression a mix of confusion and condescension. “Yes, ma’am. Everything’s in order.”

“I very much doubt that,” she sniffs. “The neighborhood association has strict guidelines about signage. Article seven, section three clearly states that all exterior modifications must be approved by the committee.”

Eric’s mouth opens, then closes. He clearly hasn’t expected to be confronted by a septuagenarian wielding bylaws like weapons.

“I assure you, our paperwork is in order,” he says, his alpha voice dropping into that authoritative register that used to make me want to please him. Now it just makes me want to vomit.

“We’ll see about that,” Mrs. Finley says ominously. Then, spotting me and Zoe, she adds, “Ah, Leah dear. Come explain to this young man the consequences of violating zoning ordinances.”

Eric’s gaze shifts to me, and his expression changes—surprise, followed by something that might be guilt, quickly masked by smug satisfaction.

“Leah,” he says, his voice warming with false affection. “What a coincidence.”

“Coincidence,” I repeat flatly. “You’re opening a bakery. Directly across from mine. And you’re calling it a coincidence.”

He has the audacity to shrug. “It’s a prime location.”

“It’s deliberate sabotage,” Zoe counters, stepping forward. “And pathetically transparent.”

Eric’s attention shifts to Zoe, his lip curling slightly. He’s never liked her, probably because she saw through his alpha posturing from day one. “This is a business decision,” he says coolly. “Nothing personal.”