Page 8 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

CALEB

T he cancellation confirmation glows on my phone screen.

Olivia from PackPlus, with her sensible shoes and even more sensible investment portfolio, is officially off the hook.

A strange pang of something—guilt, maybe?

—hits me, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the image of Leah, radiant in black, her laughter echoing in my ears.

Professionalism be damned. There’s no way I can bring another omega to this wedding, not after the way I reacted to her last night.

“Did you just cancel our actual date?” Mason asks, appearing at my shoulder with uncanny timing.

I pocket my phone. “She wasn’t going to show anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push further. “And our mystery baker?”

“She’ll be here.” I sound more confident than I feel.

“You sure about that?” Jude calls from the bathroom, where he’s been fussing with his hair for twenty minutes.

He and Liam know now, too. The omega we’d been enjoying the company of wasn’t the one we hired.

“Because if she ghosts us, I’m going to convince the catering staff to replace the wedding cake with a giant cinnamon roll. In Leah’s honor, of course.”

“She’ll be here,” I repeat, cutting him off. The alternative isn’t something I want to consider.

Liam emerges from his room, adjusting his cufflinks. “Either way, we need to be there in thirty minutes.”

The drive to the venue is quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

I catch Jude checking his reflection in his phone camera, Liam adjusting his cufflinks for what must be the twentieth time with the precision of a watchmaker, and Mason watching the passing scenery with his usual inscrutability.

My own mind keeps replaying fragments from last night—the way Leah’s eyes widened when I growled at her ex, the subtle shift in her scent when I stood close to her.

It was just a performance. A convenient fiction. Nothing more.

So why can’t I stop thinking about her?

The wedding venue is... a lot. White roses everywhere, enough tulle to suffocate a small army, and a faint, cloying scent of Eric’s pack clinging to the air since, out of respect and custom, everyone else wore scent blockers.

We find our seats—thankfully, normal chairs, not those ridiculous pew things—and I immediately feel Jude’s nervous energy buzzing beside me.

“Think she’ll actually show?” he mutters, adjusting his tie for the tenth time.

“She gave Caleb her number,” Liam reminds him, ever the voice of reason. But even he sounds a little strained.

Mason, quiet as always, scans the room, his gaze sharp and assessing. “She doesn’t owe us anything,” he says after a few moments.

I want to argue, but he’s right, of course. Last night was a performance, a mutually beneficial illusion. But still, the thought of her not showing up leaves a strange hollowness in my chest.

I check my phone again, debating whether to text her. We’ve already sent two messages—one confirming the time and location, and another letting her know where we’re seated.

She hasn’t responded to either.

The seats around us begin to fill with wedding guests in pastel dresses and tailored suits. The air grows thick despite the scent blockers—excitement, nervousness, expensive perfume. I fight the urge to wrinkle my nose.

And then, she arrives.

A vision in emerald green, her dress shimmering as she moves, her dark hair pulled back to reveal the elegant curve of her neck.

The room, which had been a blur of dainty omegas and overly-coiffed alphas, suddenly snaps into focus.

My breath hitches, and the possessive urge to shield her from the gazes of the other alphas in the room suddenly flares, hot and fierce.

Beside me, Jude makes a sound that’s half-sigh, half-groan. “Holy shit.”

For once, I agree with him completely.

Leah spots us and hesitates, uncertainty flashing across her face. Then she straightens her shoulders and makes her way toward our row, apologizing softly as she squeezes past other guests.

“You came,” I say, the words coming out more startled than I want.

“I said I would,” she replies, sliding into the seat beside me. I can almost catch a hint of her vanilla and cinnamon beneath the blockers, and I have to fight the urge to lean in closer.

“You look...” I begin, then falter when she meets my eyes. Beautiful seems inadequate. Stunning feels too obvious.

“Green,” Jude supplies helpfully from her other side. “Very green. Emerald. Verdant. Like a well-maintained hedge.”

Leah laughs, the tension breaking. “Thank you, I think? You clean up nice too.”

“We try,” Liam says with a smile, leaning forward to greet her. “Glad you made it.”

Mason nods from the end of our row, his expression unreadable. “Nice dress.”

She blushes slightly, smoothing the fabric over her knees. “Thanks. My friend Zoe convinced me to go for something more... noticeable.”

“Mission accomplished,” Jude murmurs, earning a subtle elbow from Liam.

Before we can continue, the music changes, signaling the start of the ceremony.

The guests quieten, turning toward the entrance.

I’m acutely aware of Leah beside me, of the slight tremor in her hands as she folds them in her lap.

Without thinking, I shift slightly closer, letting my shoulder brush against hers.

She doesn’t pull away.

The ceremony itself is a blur of flowery vows and overly-enthusiastic bridesmaids.

Eric, surprisingly, keeps his composure throughout, though his gaze keeps drifting toward our row.

It’s obvious, even to me, that he’s trying to gauge Leah’s reaction, searching for some sign of regret, some flicker of what might have been.

Leah, however, remains impassive, her expression bordering on boredom. She yawns discreetly behind her hand at one point, which, for some reason, makes my chest tighten with something like pride.

“If anyone can show just cause why this pack cannot lawfully be formed and joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace,” the officiant intones.

Jude leans forward slightly, a mischievous gleam in his eye. Liam immediately clamps a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back into his seat.

“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter under my breath.

Leah’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. “Would he really?”

“Without hesitation,” I confirm.

“I would never,” Jude whispers, looking wounded. “Not without a very elaborate plan involving at least two costume changes and possibly a trained parrot.”

Mason sighs heavily from the end of our row.

The ceremony concludes, mercifully, without Jude causing an incident. As the newlyweds proceed down the aisle, Eric’s gaze drifts over us again, lingering on Leah with an expression I can’t quite decipher. Beside me, Leah tenses almost imperceptibly.

“He’s not worth the energy,” I murmur close to her ear.

She turns to me, surprise flashing across her face. “How did you?—”

“Your scent changes when you see him,” I explain. “Even with the blockers.” I immediately regret the admission. It’s too intimate, too revealing of how closely I’ve been tracking her reactions.

But instead of pulling away, she gives me a small, grateful smile. “Good to know. I’ll work on my poker face.”

“Your poker face is excellent,” I assure her. “I’m just...”

“Observant?” she supplies.

“Something like that.”

The reception is held in a lavish ballroom, dripping with crystal chandeliers and more white roses.

We’re seated at Table 12, far enough from the head table to avoid constant interaction with the wedding party, but close enough that Eric can still see us clearly if he looks. Which he does. Frequently.

“Is it just me,” Jude says between bites of surprisingly decent salmon, “or is the groom spending more time staring at our table than at his new bride?”

“It’s not just you,” Mason confirms quietly.

Leah stabs at her salad. “He always did have a problem with attention span.”

The comment surprises a laugh out of me. There’s a bite beneath her sweet exterior that’s so damn intriguing. Even when the slight flush that colors her cheeks tells me she hadn’t meant to reveal quite so much of herself in that moment.

Jude grins, leaning closer. “So what else should we know about your ex? Any embarrassing allergies we could accidentally introduce to the wedding cake?”

“Jude,” Liam warns, though I catch the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Leah shakes her head, but there’s a reluctant smile playing on her lips. “Let’s just say there’s a reason I’m opening a bakery and he’s... well, not.”

“Creative differences?” Mason suggests.

“Creative inability,” she corrects. “The man once burned water.”

We all laugh at that, and her shoulders relax just slightly.

The conversation shifts to safer topics after that. I’m about to ask more about her bakery when a server approaches our table with a bottle of champagne.

“Compliments of the groom,” she announces, presenting the bottle with a flourish.

A heavy silence falls over our table. The label faces directly toward Leah. It’s a particular vintage I recognize immediately. Expensive, but more importantly, specific. The kind of specific that suggests a shared history.

Leah’s face drains of color. “Thank you,” she says stiffly. “But we’re fine with what we have.”

The server hesitates, clearly caught in an awkward position. “The groom insisted. He said to tell you it’s the ‘2019 vintage you enjoyed in Napa.’”

What. The fuck.

I have to bite back a snarl.

Jude’s eyebrows shoot up, and Mason straightens almost imperceptibly in his seat. Liam’s usual calm expression hardens just slightly at the edges.

“We’re fine,” I repeat firmly, meeting the server’s eyes. “Please thank the groom for his... thoughtfulness, but we’ll pass.”

After the server retreats, Leah stares at her plate, her scent spiking with a complex mix of embarrassment and anger.

“Sorry about that,” she finally says. “That was...”