Page 68 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

One Year Later

L eah

I dive behind the counter as the mixer sputters to life, but unlike last year’s flour apocalypse, this time the machine purrs with perfect precision. The meringue whips into glossy peaks, not a speck flying astray.

“False alarm,” I announce, straightening up to find Mason watching me with barely concealed amusement. “What? Better safe than sorry.”

“I did replace the gasket last week,” he reminds me, sliding a spreadsheet across the counter. “Also, quarterly profits are up eighteen percent, and your lemon-thyme shortbread has officially surpassed the cinnamon rolls as our top seller.”

I scan the numbers, still marveling at how smoothly Sweet Omega runs these days. What started as my scrappy little bakery has evolved into a neighborhood institution, with lines that sometimes stretch around the block despite our expanded hours and additional staff.

“Mrs. Finley will be devastated,” I say, referencing our most loyal customer’s notorious addiction to my cinnamon rolls. “She’ll blame the lack of sage green walls again.”

Mason’s lips quirk into that subtle smile I’ve come to treasure. The gold band on his left hand catches the light as he reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on the matching ring I wear alongside my engagement diamond.

“At least she’s loyal,” he notes. “Unlike the customers who abandoned Alpha Bites after just a few weeks.”

I chuckle at the memory. “Fastest restaurant closure I’ve ever witnessed.”

“Turns out flashy decor couldn’t hide mediocre pastries,” Mason adds with quiet satisfaction.

Eric’s grand venture had shuttered after barely a month in business, his pastry chef quitting in a spectacularly public meltdown that went viral thanks to Jude’s strategic social media coverage.

Last we heard, Eric had fled to Europe somewhere, licking his wounds and pretending the whole fiasco never happened.

The sweet taste of that victory had been just one highlight in a year full of them. My fingers absently twist the gold band on my left hand, still not quite used to its presence. Sometimes I catch myself staring at the rings, marveling at how far we’ve come.

The ceremony had been small but perfect—just our closest friends gathered in the brewery’s garden, which Liam and Jude had transformed into a fairytale setting with twinkling lights and flowers everywhere.

Zoe had been my maid of honor and Mrs. Finley had officiated.

I’d worn a simple cream dress, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers that matched the ones woven through my hair.

The four of them had stood together, waiting for me at the end of the aisle—my alphas, my beta, my pack, my husbands.

I will never forget the way they looked at me. As if I was the best thing that ever happened to them in their entire lives.

The bell above the door jingles, and Jude bursts in with his typical hurricane energy, three shopping bags dangling from each arm.

“Taste test emergency!” he announces, dumping his haul onto the nearest table. “The Lovewell wedding wants sample boxes of our wine paired with your pastries, and I promised them options that would blow their collective minds.”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “We discussed this yesterday. The sample boxes are already prepped in the cooler.”

“Those were yesterday’s samples,” he dismisses with a wave. “These are today’s inspiration! I stopped by that spice market Mason mentioned—the one run by the hot beta with the forearms—and they had cardamom pods the size of my thumb!”

“Your thumb is not an accurate unit of measurement,” Mason points out mildly.

“Tell that to my Instagram followers,” Jude retorts, already unpacking exotic ingredients. “They’ve voted my thumb pics ‘most aesthetically pleasing’ three months running.”

I shake my head, unable to contain my smile. When I agreed to let Jude handle Sweet Omega’s social media presence, I expected disaster. Instead, he’s built us a following of over fifty thousand devotees who tune in daily for his outrageous taste tests and behind-the-scenes shenanigans.

The “Will It Croissant?” series—where he attempts to incorporate unlikely ingredients into laminated dough—nearly broke the internet when he successfully created wasabi-ginger croissants that actually tasted incredible.

As I turn back to my meringue, a wave of nausea hits me without warning. The scent of cardamom, usually one of my favorites, suddenly seems overwhelmingly strong. I grip the counter, willing the sensation to pass.

“Leah?” Mason is instantly at my side, his hand steady on my lower back. “You’ve gone pale.”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, though my stomach strongly disagrees. “Just a little queasy. Probably tried too many experimental fillings yesterday.”

He studies me with that penetrating gaze that misses nothing. “This is the third morning this week you’ve looked green around the gills.”

“Keeping track of my complexion now?” I tease, trying to deflect.

“Among other things,” he says cryptically.

Before I can question him further, the kitchen doors swing open as Liam backs through them, arms loaded with fresh produce from the farmers market.

“The early harvest strawberries are in,” he announces, setting his bounty on the prep table. “And I negotiated exclusive rights to the first pick for the next three weeks.”

His smile fades as he turns and sees me. “What’s wrong? You look?—”

“Green around the gills, apparently,” I finish for him. “I’m fine, just a little nauseous.”

Liam and Mason exchange a look I can’t quite interpret, some silent communication passing between them.

“What?” I demand, hands on my hips. “Why are you two making significant eye contact?”

Jude’s head pops up from behind his spice mountain. “Who’s making significant eye contact? Is it sexy significant eye contact or worried significant eye contact? Because there’s a difference.”

“Worried,” I say at the exact moment Mason says, “Speculative.”

The nausea intensifies suddenly, and I make a dash for the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before my breakfast makes a reappearance. I’m still retching when I sense a presence behind me, a gentle hand gathering my hair away from my face.

“Better out than in,” Liam says sympathetically, offering a damp paper towel once I’m finished.

I wipe my mouth, mortified. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize for bodily functions,” he says with typical Liam pragmatism. “They’re perfectly natural, especially when?—”

He stops abruptly, pressing his lips together like he’s said too much.

“When what?” I ask, suspicion blooming. “Liam?”

His expression is carefully neutral. “When one is feeling unwell.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

Before he can respond, my phone pings with a text from Caleb: Delivery arrived. Meet at home when you’re done?

Home. Our home. The pack house where I’ve lived for the past ten months, ever since the lease on my apartment expired and I realized I was spending every night there anyway.

The transition had been surprisingly seamless, my fears about lost independence proving unfounded as the pack made space for me in their lives without trying to constrain mine.

My phone pings again. Zoe. Something about reminding me about that thing.

I frown at the cryptic message. What thing? Zoe and I had lunch three days ago, but I don’t remember her mentioning anything important enough to warrant a reminder.

Unless...

A sudden, wild suspicion takes root. I count backward in my head, trying to remember my last heat cycle. Six weeks? No, longer. Almost nine weeks.

Oh. Oh no.

Or...oh yes?

“I need to go,” I announce, pushing past Liam back into the kitchen. “Family emergency.”

“We’re your family,” Jude points out, looking confused. “And we’re all here.”

“Pack emergency,” I amend, already untying my apron. “Very urgent. Super critical. Can’t wait.”

Mason’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “Would this emergency happen to involve a certain pharmacy item Zoe mentioned purchasing for you yesterday?”

I freeze. “You knew?”

“Suspected,” he corrects gently. “Your scent has been... different. Sweeter.”

“And you’ve been avoiding coffee,” Liam adds. “You haven’t gone a morning without coffee since we met you.”

“And you cried when we ran out of raspberry jam last week,” Jude chimes in. “Like, actual tears. Over jam.”

“It was very good jam,” I mutter defensively.

“It was mediocre jam at best,” Jude counters. “Mason only bought it because it was on sale.”

I look between the three of them, these observant, irritating, wonderful men who apparently know my body better than I do. “So all of you suspected I might be...”

“Pregnant?” Liam supplies helpfully. “The probability…is rather high.”

“We were waiting for you to realize it yourself,” Mason explains. “Or to take the test Zoe bought you.”

“Which is currently burning a hole in your tote bag,” Jude adds, pointing to where my bag sits innocently by the door. “Unless you’ve already taken it?”

I shake my head, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “I haven’t. I wasn’t sure. I’m not sure. I’m still not sure.”

“Only one way to find out,” Jude says, retrieving my bag and holding it out to me. “Want company for the big reveal?”

I take a deep breath, considering. “I should tell Caleb first. If there’s anything to tell. Which there might not be.”

“Of course,” Liam nods, though I don’t miss the flash of excitement in his eyes. “We’ll hold down the fort here.”

“And not call or text Caleb with cryptic hints,” I add sternly, looking directly at Jude.

He places a hand over his heart. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would,” Mason contradicts. “But you won’t, because we’re going to respect Leah’s process.”

Jude sighs dramatically. “Fine. No cryptic hints. But the moment it’s confirmed, I’m ordering ‘World’s Hottest Papa’ mugs for all of us.”

“Goodbye, Jude,” I say firmly, but I can’t help smiling as I grab my bag and head for the door.