Page 57 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

“Interesting,” he murmurs, setting down his plans. “Very interesting indeed.”

And then Caleb arrives, and the atmosphere in the bakery changes instantly. His alpha presence fills the space, his scent washing over me and drowning out the others in a wave that’s both comforting and overwhelming.

“Where is he?” Caleb demands without preamble, his green eyes scanning the bakery as if expecting to find Eric hiding behind the counter.

“Across the street,” Zoe supplies helpfully, pointing through the window. “In the soulless corporate pastry emporium with the unfortunate name.”

Caleb’s gaze locks onto Alpha Bites, his expression darkening. “Alpha Bites,” he reads, his voice flat. “Subtle.”

“About as subtle as a brick through a window,” Jude agrees. “Which, by the way, is still on the table as an option.”

“No, it’s not,” I interject firmly. “No property damage. No threats. No... whatever it is you’re all thinking right now.”

The pack exchanges a look that I can’t quite interpret.

“We would never,” Liam assures me. “That would be completely unprofessional.”

“And illegal,” Mason adds.

“And deeply satisfying,” Jude mutters under his breath.

Caleb says nothing, which is somehow more concerning than if he’d agreed with Jude.

“I mean it,” I insist, stepping into the center of the room. “This is my business, my problem. I appreciate your support, but I need to handle this my way.”

Mrs. Finley, who has been observing the proceedings with undisguised interest, clears her throat. “Perhaps I should check on that zoning ordinance,” she suggests. “Marge’s nephew works in the permit office. She owes me after that unfortunate incident with the garden gnomes.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Zoe murmurs.

“That would be helpful, Mrs. Finley,” I say, grateful for her practical suggestion. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Finley nods, gathering her tote bag. “Consider it done, dear. And do consider the sage green for the walls. Much better with your complexion than that dreadful yellow.”

With that parting shot at Jude’s paint selection, she bustles out, the bell jingling in her wake.

Zoe checks her watch. “I should head out too. Some of us have actual jobs with set hours.” She squeezes my arm. “Call me later, okay? And try not to commit any felonies before happy hour.”

Once she’s gone, I’m left alone with the pack, all of whom are watching me with varying degrees of concern and protective intensity.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, though the wobble in my voice betrays me.

“Sure you are,” Jude says, rolling his eyes. “And I’m the Dalai Lama.”

“You’re upset,” Mason observes, his quiet voice cutting through my defenses.

“Of course I’m upset,” I snap, pacing the small space. “My ex-boyfriend just opened a competing bakery across the street specifically designed to undermine everything I’ve worked for. I think I’m entitled to a little emotional distress.”

“You are,” Liam agrees, his tone soothing. “But perhaps we could?—”

“—discuss strategies to ensure his business mysteriously fails its next health inspection,” Jude suggests.

“Jude,” Liam and Mason say in unison, their tone warning.

Caleb, who has been unnervingly quiet, finally speaks. “What did he say to you?”

I pause my pacing, caught off guard by the direct question. “What?”

“When you confronted him,” Caleb clarifies, his voice careful and controlled in a way that tells me he’s working hard to manage his alpha instincts. “What exactly did he say to you?”

I hesitate, not wanting to pour fuel on the fire. But something in Caleb’s steady gaze makes me answer honestly.

“He implied that my bakery is unprofessional and chaotic,” I admit. “That I’m just playing at being a business owner. That his approach—catering to ’proper omegas’ with traditional values—is what customers really want.”

Caleb’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains level. “And how did that make you feel?”

It’s such an unexpectedly gentle question that it catches me off guard, my carefully constructed defenses crumbling. To my horror, tears well up in my eyes.

“Like maybe he’s right,” I whisper, the admission painful. “Like maybe I am in over my head. Like maybe I can’t actually do this.”

The pack moves as one, closing the distance between us. Jude wraps an arm around my shoulders, Liam takes my hand, and Mason presses a handkerchief into my palm. But it’s Caleb who steps directly in front of me, his large hands cupping my face with surprising tenderness.

“Look at me,” he says, and I do, my vision blurry through unshed tears. “That asshole isn’t right about anything, least of all you.”

“But—”

“No,” Caleb cuts me off. “Listen to me. I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked on this. I’ve watched you negotiate with suppliers until they drop their prices out of sheer exhaustion. I’ve tasted what you create, Leah. It’s not just food—it’s fucking art.”

His vehemence startles a watery laugh from me. “It’s just pastry.”

“It’s not ‘just’ anything,” Caleb insists. “And neither are you.”

“What he’s trying to say,” Liam interjects gently, “is that your ex is an ass stuck in the 1930s.”

“Exactly,” Jude agrees. “The guy’s so full of shit his eyes are brown.”

“His eyes are blue,” I snort.

“Not the point,” Jude says, squeezing my shoulder. “The point is, he’s wrong. And we’re going to help you prove it.”

“How?” I ask, wiping at my eyes with Mason’s handkerchief. “His bakery looks like it’s backed by serious money. He’s got staff, marketing, professional everything. I’ve got... wallpaper that won’t stick and paint that may or may not optimize appetite.”

“You’ve got us,” Mason says simply.

I look around at them—at Jude’s infectious enthusiasm, Liam’s steady reliability, Mason’s quiet competence, and Caleb’s unwavering strength—and something shifts inside me.

Maybe accepting help doesn’t have to mean surrendering control.

Maybe it just means having a safety net while I take bigger risks.

“Okay,” I say finally. “Let’s do this. You and me.”

The relief in their scents is immediate and overwhelming, a collective exhale that I hadn’t realized they were holding.

“But,” I add firmly, “no sabotage. No threats. Nothing that would reflect poorly on Sweet Omega. We win this fairly or not at all.”

“Agreed,” Mason says immediately.

“If we must,” Jude sighs dramatically.

“Of course,” Liam nods.

All eyes turn to Caleb, who hasn’t agreed to my terms.

“Caleb?” I prompt.

He holds my gaze, something fierce and protective in his expression. “I won’t do anything to harm your business or reputation,” he says carefully. “That’s all I can promise.”

It’s not exactly what I asked for, but I know it’s the best I’m going to get from him. Alpha instincts run deep, especially when it comes to perceived threats to pack.

“Fine,” I concede. “Now, can we please focus on getting this place ready for the grand opening? Starting with these display cases that need moving.”

The next few hours pass in a flurry of activity.

The pack works with surprising efficiency.

Liam calculates the optimal placement for each piece of furniture, considering traffic flow and visual appeal.

Mason creates a detailed inventory system for supplies and ingredients.

Jude starts painting the walls the exact shade of yellow that, I have to admit, does seem to make the space feel warmer and more inviting.

And Caleb... Caleb does the heavy lifting, moving display cases and tables with alpha strength that, despite my best feminist principles, I find ridiculously attractive. The way his muscles flex under his t-shirt as he positions the vintage glass display case is nothing short of mesmerizing.

I catch myself staring more than once, and each time, he meets my gaze with a knowing smirk that sends heat flooding through me. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

By late afternoon, the bakery has been transformed. The failed wallpaper has been replaced with cheerful yellow paint. The display cases gleam in their new positions. The seating area looks inviting and cozy, with vintage chairs clustered around small tables.

“This is...” I trail off, tears welling up again as I take in the space. “Thank you. All of you.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Jude says, pulling out his phone. “We need to document this for the ‘gram. Transformation content is social media gold.”

I laugh, allowing him to position me in front of the main display case for a photo. As he snaps pictures, directing me to “look more baker-y” (whatever that means), I catch Caleb watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

“What?” I ask when Jude finally declares he has enough content for a week of posts.

Caleb shakes his head slightly. “Nothing. Just... you look happy.”

“I am,” I realize, somewhat surprised by the truth of it. Despite Eric’s appearance and the threat to my business, I feel... okay. More than okay. “It’s hard not to be, with all of you here.”

Something shifts in Caleb’s expression, a softening around the eyes that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. “Good,” he says simply.

We finish the day’s work as the sun begins to set, casting golden light through the large front windows. The bakery—my bakery—is finally starting to look like the vision I’ve carried in my head for years.

“Dinner at the pack house?” Jude suggests as we lock up. “I’m thinking pasta. Carbs are critical after manual labor. It’s science.”

“It’s really not,” Liam murmurs, shaking his head, but he doesn’t disagree with the dinner invitation.

I hesitate, glancing across the street at Alpha Bites. The lights are still on, silhouettes moving behind the windows as Eric’s team continues their preparations. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach at the sight.

Caleb follows my gaze, his expression hardening. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “Don’t let him live in your head rent-free.”

“Easier said than done,” I reply.

“I know.” His hand finds the small of my back, a warm, steady pressure. “But you’re not facing him alone anymore.”