Page 62 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

LEAH

“ D uck!” I yell, moments before the stand mixer sputters to life with apocalyptic force, sending a mushroom cloud of all-purpose skyward.

Mason, ever vigilant, dives behind the counter while Liam, who clearly hasn’t developed proper baker reflexes, takes a direct hit to his perfectly pressed shirt.

“I told you the seal was loose,” Mason says, emerging from cover looking infuriatingly pristine while Liam resembles a very disappointed ghost.

I swipe flour from my eyebrows. “In my defense, we’re making triple batches because someone—” I glare pointedly at Jude, who’s filming the entire disaster for social media “—told the entire city we’d have endless croissants.”

“I said ‘while supplies last’!” Jude protests, zooming in on Liam’s flour-covered hair. “This is gold, by the way. Pure engagement fuel.”

Liam attempts to brush off his shirt with all the dignity of a duke who’s fallen into a pig pen. “We’ve been open for three hours and sold more pastry than we projected for the entire day.”

“Because we’re awesome,” Jude declares, panning his phone to capture the line that still stretches out the door and halfway down the block. My heart flutters in my chest at the sight. “Also, the mariachi band was clearly a stroke of genius.”

Jude’s doing. “For ambiance,” he said.

The band in question has relocated to the small stage area by the window, serenading the packed café with an unexpectedly lovely rendition of “Sweet Caroline.” Two elderly omegas at table six are doing enthusiastic shoulder wiggles to the music while demolishing maple pecan rolls.

“I still can’t believe you did that,” I mutter, my heart warming at the sight. Is this really my bakery? The mariachi band has been surprisingly perfect—their energy infectious, their music drawing curious passersby inside. “Though I think they’ve played the same six songs on rotation.”

“Limited repertoire, unlimited charm,” Jude winks, helping himself to a reject cookie. “Like me.”

The bell over the door jingles as Caleb shoulders his way back inside, carrying yet another crate of emergency supplies from the restaurant wholesaler across town. His expression is thunderous as usual, sending a young beta scrambling out of his path.

“Delivery,” he announces unnecessarily, setting the crate on the floor with enough force to make the register jump.

“My hero,” I say, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, leaving a perfect flour print of my lips. “Did you get the?—”

“Extra vanilla, industrial-sized parchment, emergency butter, and,” he produces a coffee cup from nowhere, “this.”

I take the cup with both hands, inhaling the rich scent. “You’re forgiven for terrifying the customers.”

“I didn’t terrify anyone,” he says defensively.

As if on cue, a toddler at the nearest table bursts into tears, pointing at Caleb with a sticky finger.

“The scary man has angry eyebrows, Mommy!”

The mother, a pretty beta with impressive eyebrows of her own, shoots us an apologetic smile. “Sorry! He says that about everyone these days.”

Caleb’s brow furrows further, which only makes the child wail louder.

“Angry eyebrows!” the toddler sobs.

Jude nearly drops his phone, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “He’s not wrong.”

“Perhaps a different station for you,” Liam suggests, steering Caleb toward the back. “Away from the small humans.”

“I like small humans,” Caleb mutters, looking genuinely wounded. “They’re just... loud.”

I pat his arm consolingly. “It’s not you, it’s your face.”

“That’s not better,” he growls.

The mariachi band chooses this moment to launch into an enthusiastic rendition of “La Bamba,” complete with coordinated hip swivels that draw applause from the café patrons.

Mason appears at my elbow, clipboard in hand. “We need to discuss inventory management,” he says, somehow making it sound like both a crisis and a perfectly reasonable observation. “At current consumption rates, you’ll exhaust your premium chocolate supply by—” he checks his watch, “—four PM.”

“That’s weirdly specific.”

He grins and shrugs.

“Have you considered a career in business management?” I grin back.

“I dabble.” Mason plants a kiss on my nose just as the bell jingles again. I look up to see Mrs. Finley making her entrance like a five-foot-nothing battleship, parting the crowd through sheer force of personality.

“Leah, dear!” she calls, waving a newspaper over her head. “You’ve made the morning edition!”

She pushes her way to the counter, cutting in front of three waiting customers.

“Look!” She slaps the paper down, jabbing a bony finger at a small article. “Local Business Beat section!”

I lean over, scanning the headline: “Sweet Omega Draws Crowds on Opening Day; Traditional Rival Struggles Across Street.”

“They’ve already written about us?” I ask, incredulous. “We’ve been open for three hours!”

“My niece’s husband’s cousin works for the paper,” Mrs. Finley says, as if that explains everything. “I might have made a call.”

“Oh, Mrs. Finley,” I laugh, scanning the article.

My laughter dies as I read the next paragraph: “Meanwhile, Alpha Bites, the traditional omega-focused bakery across the street, remained conspicuously empty during its simultaneous opening, with owner Eric Donovan refusing to comment on the apparent lack of interest in his concept.”

“Empty?” I repeat, something between guilt and vindication churning in my stomach.

“Like my Harold’s promises to fix the bathroom door,“ Mrs. Finley confirms with obvious satisfaction. “Not a soul.”

I glance out the window toward Alpha Bites. Through the sleek black awning and pristine windows, I can see Eric pacing, hands gesturing wildly as he berates his staff. Even from here, his frustrated scowl is visible.

“Don’t feel bad for him,” Jude says, reading my expression with unnerving accuracy. “He tried to sabotage you, remember?”

“I don’t feel bad,” I protest, though the churning in my stomach says otherwise. “It’s just…”

“Your compassion showing,“ Liam supplies, finally having dealt with the flour situation. “It’s one of your better qualities, though perhaps misplaced in this instance.”

Before I can respond, there’s a commotion at the door. The crowd parts to reveal Zoe.

“Make way for the conquest spoils!” she announces, striding toward the counter with the confidence of someone who’s been practicing this entrance in her bathroom mirror.

“What did you do?” I ask warily.

“Reconnaissance,” she says, setting the package on the counter with a dramatic flourish. “Open it.”

I tear away the paper to reveal a small silver trophy cup—the kind given out at elementary school field days—with a hastily engraved plaque reading “BEST BAKERY (BY DEFAULT).”

“Is this...?”

“Eric ordered it for himself,” Zoe confirms, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I spotted the box in their recycling when I went to ‘check out the competition.’”

“And you stole it?” I ask, half horrified, half impressed.

“Liberated it,” she corrects. “For the good of society. Also, his face when he couldn’t find it was priceless. Like a constipated bulldog.”

The mariachi band, probably sensing dramatic potential, switches to a triumphant fanfare.

“Hold it up!” Jude urges, phone at the ready. “This is Instagram gold!”

I hesitate, torn between pettiness and professionalism. “I shouldn’t…”

“You absolutely should,” Caleb says, surprising me with a rare grin that transforms his entire face. “After everything he’s done.”

I glance around at my packed bakery—the happy customers, the flour-covered counters, the ridiculous mariachi band, and most importantly, the pack that made it all possible—and make my decision.

I hoist the trophy overhead like I’ve just won the World Cup.

“To Sweet Omega!” I shout, embracing the moment’s absurdity. “Best bakery by default and by merit!”

The café erupts in cheers, the mariachi band launches into something that might be the Rocky theme song, and Jude captures the entire glorious mess for posterity.

“That’s going on a t-shirt,” he declares.

“Absolutely not,” I say, but I’m laughing too hard to be convincing.

The lunch rush hits like a tsunami. Mrs. Finley appoints herself unofficial greeter, telling every customer who enters about “that dreadful alpha bakery across the street” and how they’ve made “the superior choice for their patronage.”

“We don’t need to disparage the competition,“ I tell her gently after she describes Eric’s pastries as “probably made with tears and broken dreams.”

“Speak for yourself, dear,” she sniffs. “I’ve been waiting forty years to see an uppity alpha get his comeuppance.”

I’m about to respond when the bell jingles yet again. The mariachi band, now on their second wind after the coffee and pastries I provided, immediately launches into a cheerful welcome melody.

Eric stands in the doorway, his face a perfect mask of barely contained fury.

The music stops abruptly, the lead trumpet player hitting a sour note that hangs in the sudden silence.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Finley says with obvious delight. “The villain returns.”

Eric ignores her, marching straight to the counter where I’m frozen in place, still holding a serving tong full of lemon bars.

“You did this,” he seethes, voice low but vibrating with anger. “You deliberately sabotaged my opening.”

“I did what now?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“Don’t play innocent,” he hisses. “The mariachi band. The newspaper article. The... the trophy!”

I glance at the trophy, now sitting proudly beside the register. “That was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” He laughs, the sound bitter and sharp. “Just like it’s a misunderstanding that every supplier in the city suddenly won’t return my calls? Or that the health inspector showed up at 6 AM for a ‘routine inspection’?”

I blink, looking over his shoulder at the pack. Jude suddenly becomes very interested in a spot on the ceiling. Mason examines the display. Liam straightens an already-straight napkin dispenser.

Only Caleb meets my gaze directly, his expression unapologetic.