Page 64 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

LEAH

“ Y ou need to wear the red dress!” Zoe rifles through my closet with the determined efficiency of someone conducting a military operation.

The moment I texted her that the pack had something planned for tonight, she’d rerouted straight to my apartment.

“The one that makes your ass look like it should be in a museum.”

I peer over her shoulder, watching hangers fly past at alarming speed. “I don’t recall owning anything like that.”

“Trust me,” she mutters, extracting a garment I’d forgotten I owned. “This one.”

The dress in question is red silk, with a neckline that dips just low enough to be interesting without crossing into scandalous territory. I vaguely remember buying it for a catering event that subsequently cancelled, leaving it to languish in the back of my closet for the past two years.

“Are you sure? It seems a bit... much for a regular dinner.”

Zoe looks at me like I’ve suggested wearing sweatpants to a royal coronation. “Honey, from what you’ve told me, this isn’t a ‘regular dinner.’ This is your pack taking you out to celebrate the most successful bakery opening in the history of carbohydrates.”

“You’re exaggerating,” I protest, but warmth blooms in my chest at the words “your pack.”

“Am I though?” She holds up her phone, displaying what appears to be a waitlist for Sweet Omega’s second day of operation. “Three hundred people signed up to be notified when you restock. For pastries. In a city where you can’t throw a rock without hitting an artisanal croissant.”

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “It was a good day, wasn’t it?”

“It was a triumphant day,” Zoe corrects, thrusting the dress into my hands. “Now go get ready. Your four horsemen of the alphacalypse will be here in an hour, and I refuse to let you greet them looking anything less than devastating.”

“Three horsemen of the alphacalypse and one of the betacalypse,” I correct automatically, but I’m already heading toward the shower, dress clutched to my chest.

An hour later, I’m scrutinizing my reflection with critical eyes.

The silk skims my curves exactly as advertised, the color making my skin glow and my eyes look more siren black than brown.

I’ve applied more makeup than usual, including the fancy lipstick Zoe insisted I needed “for emergencies and hot dates.”

My hair falls in soft waves around my face, and for once, I actually look like I’ve made an effort rather than just rolled out of a flour explosion.

“Damn,” Zoe whispers from behind me. “If I weren’t strictly into betas with daddy issues, I’d be seriously reconsidering my life choices right now.”

“That’s... a compliment?”

“The highest form,” she assures me, adjusting a stray curl. “Those alphas won’t know what hit them.”

The doorbell rings, and my stomach does a nervous little flip.

Which is ridiculous. I’ve seen these men covered in flour.

I’ve watched Jude eat cookies for breakfast while wearing unicorn pajamas.

I’ve seen Caleb with bedhead and morning grumpiness.

I’ve witnessed Liam’s failed attempt at making foam art in coffee, resulting in what looked disturbingly like anatomical drawings rather than hearts.

There’s no reason to be nervous.

Yet when I open the door, my breath catches in my throat.

They stand in the hallway like something out of a magazine spread—all four dressed in complementary shades of charcoal and navy, their usual chaotic energy temporarily contained in tailored suits and crisp shirts.

Even Jude looks polished, his strawberry-blond hair styled into artful waves instead of its usual “electrical socket” aesthetic.

When Caleb’s eyes meet mine, they darken visibly.

“You look...” he starts, then seems to lose his train of thought entirely.

“Edible,” Jude supplies helpfully, earning an elbow in the ribs from Liam.

“Beautiful,” Mason finishes, his steady gaze taking in every detail with obvious appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”

The heat in their collective gazes makes me fidget, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my dress. “You all clean up pretty well yourselves,” I manage, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

“Understatement of the century,” Zoe mutters behind me, apparently having appointed herself commentator for the evening.

Caleb extends his hand, formal in a way that makes my heart stutter in my chest. “Ready?”

I nod, accepting his palm against mine, the warmth of his skin sending a jolt of awareness up my arm.

“Don’t wait up,” I tell Zoe as I step into the hallway.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she calls after us. “Use protection! Or don’t, if you’re feeling adventurous!”

The door closes on her cackling laughter, leaving me alone with my pack in the suddenly too-small hallway.

“She’s... supportive,” Liam observes.

“That’s one word for it,” I agree, still hyperaware of Caleb’s hand in mine.

Mason steps forward, offering his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. “Shall we?”

The drive passes in a blur of warmth and anticipation. I find myself nestled between Caleb and Liam in the back seat of the SUV, with Jude and Mason up front, Jude providing running commentary on everything from passing pedestrians to the “suspiciously cheerful” weather.

“Where exactly are we going?” I ask as we leave the familiar streets of our neighborhood behind.

“It’s a surprise,” Jude calls over his shoulder. “But I promise it doesn’t involve mariachi bands.”

“That’s... oddly specific and not particularly reassuring.”

“What he means,” Liam explains, “is that we wanted to celebrate your success properly. Somewhere special.”

“The bakery opening was special enough,” I protest. “You all already did so much?—”

“Leah,” Caleb interrupts gently, his fingers finding mine in the darkness of the back seat. “Let us do this for you.”

Something in his tone silences any further objections. I squeeze his hand in silent acquiescence, earning a small smile that transforms his usually serious face.

When we finally arrive, Mason guides me from the car toward an unassuming door tucked between two larger buildings. The subtle gold lettering on frosted glass reads simply “Thrum.”

“I’ve heard of this place,” I say, recognition dawning. “Isn’t there like a six-month waiting list?”

“For most people,” Jude agrees cheerfully. “But Liam went to school with the head chef, and Mason may have helped them with some tax situation that was allegedly ‘completely above board but required creative interpretation of certain regulations.’”

Mason’s expression remains carefully neutral. “I provided accounting services.”

“Right,” Jude winks. “Accounting services that somehow got us a private dining room on two days’ notice.”

Before I can question this further, the door swings open to reveal a dimly lit interior of polished wood and gleaming brass. A host greets us with practiced elegance, his eyes widening slightly as he takes us in.

“Le Roux party,” he confirms, recovering quickly. “Your table is ready. Please, follow me.”

We’re led through the main dining room—a cathedral-like space with soaring ceilings and intimate tables scattered like islands in a sea of luxury—and into a smaller private room.

The space is illuminated by dozens of candles, their warm glow reflecting off the copper accents that adorn the walls.

A circular table draped in crisp white linen awaits us, already set with gleaming silverware and crystal glasses.

“This is...” I trail off, overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of it all.

“Too much?” Liam asks, suddenly concerned.

“No,” I quickly assure him, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “It’s beautiful. I’ve just never been anywhere like this before.”

Jude grins, pulling out my chair with an exaggerated flourish. “Then prepare to have your mind blown, doll. The tasting menu here has fourteen courses, and each one comes with its own wine pairing.”

“Fourteen courses?” I echo, slightly alarmed. “I hope you’re not expecting me to remain conscious through all of them.”

“We have contingency plans for that,” Mason assures me with such seriousness that I can’t tell if he’s joking.

What follows is nothing short of impressive.

Each dish arrives with dramatic presentation and detailed explanation from servers who materialize and vanish as if choreographed.

They probably have. There are oysters topped with pearls of liquid nitrogen that dissolve on the tongue, wagyu beef aged for precisely 42 days, vegetables transformed into foams and gels that taste more intensely of themselves than should be possible.

Between courses, conversation flows as easily as the wine.

Jude regales us with increasingly outlandish plans for Sweet Omega’s social media presence.

Liam discusses potential flavor collaborations between the bakery and brewery (“The stout has chocolate notes that would complement your dark chocolate ganache perfectly”).

Mason quietly ensures our glasses are never empty.

And Caleb... Caleb watches me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle, his gaze rarely leaving my face.

By the tenth course—some sort of deconstructed cheesecake that involves liquid nitrogen and edible flowers—a pleasant warmth has spread through my body. The room feels almost too warm, and I find myself absently fanning my face with the small menu card.

“Are you alright?” Mason asks, ever attentive.

“Just warm,” I whisper. “The wine, probably.”

He nods, but his expression suggests he’s not entirely convinced.

As the final course is cleared away, a server appears with four small boxes, placing one in front of each of my pack members. They exchange glances before their focus shifts to me. Jude gives me a sheepish grin.

“What’s this?” My gaze shifts to the boxes.

“Something we’ve been planning,” Liam says, his fingers drumming nervously on the table.

“Before the bakery opening,” Mason adds.

“Before Eric showed his punchable face,” Jude contributes.