Page 127 of Pack Plus One

“Speaking of asses,” Caleb mutters, finally sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face, “someone kicked me in their sleep last night.”

Three pairs of eyes turn automatically to Jude, who adopts an expression of exaggerated innocence. “Why does everyone always assume it’s me?”

“Because it’s always you,” Mason, Caleb, and I respond in perfect unison.

Leah’s laugh is bright and unexpected, her shoulders shaking with genuine mirth. “God, you four are ridiculous,” she says, but the fondness in her voice is unmistakable.

“Yet here you are,” I point out, unable to resist reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “Willingly surrounded by our collective ridiculousness.”

She catches my hand, her expression turning serious for a moment. “Here I am,” she agrees quietly. Her gaze travels around the room, taking in each of us in turn—Caleb, still rumpled and half-awake; Jude, animated even in theearly morning; Mason, methodically arranging the remaining muffins; me, watching her with probably embarrassing intensity.

“No more running?” Jude asks, attempting to sound casual but not quite hiding the vulnerability beneath the question.

Leah shakes her head. “No more running,” she confirms. “But no more assumptions either. If we’re going to make this work—whatever this is—I need…weneed to talk to each other. Actually talk, not just assume we know what the other person is thinking.”

“Agreed,” Mason says immediately. “Clear communication is essential for any functional relationship.”

“What he said, but with less management consultant vocabulary,” Jude adds, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “Also, I vote we install a suggestion box at the brewery for pack issues. My first suggestion: Caleb stops hogging the blankets.”

“My first suggestion: Jude stops talking before noon,” Caleb retorts. He reaches for Leah, his large hand gentle as it settles on her ankle beneath the sheets. “You’re sure about this? About us? It won’t be easy.”

Leah looks down at his hand, then back up to his face. “I’m not interested in easy,” she says. “I’m interested in worth it.”

Something in my chest expands at her words, a warmth that has everything to do with the certainty in her voice.

25

LEAH

I’m gazing at the four men in my little apartment, hardly believing they’re mine, when my phone emits an aggressive chime that has me bolting upright in bed, my knee connecting with what feels like Caleb’s ribcage as I scramble for it.

“Fuck—delivery!” I gasp, suddenly remembering. “The flour—specialty order—thirty minutes—fuck!”

“What?” Liam’s already alert, his eyes scanning his phone screen with that intense focus I’ve come to appreciate.

I almost fall on my face in my effort to get off the bed. “Specialty flour from Lyon. Non-refundable upon rejection.”

The pack moves immediately in a way that would be impressive if I wasn’t too busy panicking about potentially losing thousands of dollars in imported ingredients:

Caleb rolls out of bed, somehow already dressed. It’s alpha witchcraft how he manages to look put-together within seconds of consciousness while I probably resemble something dragged backward through a hedge.

Jude attempts to leap into action but faceplants spectacularly trying to put on pants backward, hopping on one foot whilecursing in what might be Italian but is more likely just creative gibberish. “Why does anyone need flour so early in the morning?” he wails. “Isn’t that against the Geneva Convention?”

Mason produces a mug of coffee from seemingly nowhere and offers it to me. I accept it gratefully, the warmth of the mug grounding me slightly as I frantically try to button my shirt, only to realize three buttons in that I’ve got it inside out and backward.

Liam calculates optimal routes while I struggle with my clothing. “Uber arriving in three minutes,” he announces, watching his phone screen. “There’s construction on Main Street so we should request rerouting via Cedar Avenue. We’ll get there in seventeen minutes if traffic remains constant.”

“Seventeen minutes?” My voice rises to a pitch that makes Caleb wince. “The delivery’s in thirty! I need to unlock, turn off the alarm system, make space for all those bags—” Oh god. This is terrible. I don’t have enough time!

“Breathe,” Caleb orders, his alpha command cutting through my spiral with startling effectiveness. He’s already gathering my jacket and bag, movements quick. “We’ve got this.”

Jude hops into view, one foot now correctly placed in pants, the other still searching for its proper home. “We’re like the A-Team but with better hair and more sexual tension,” he declares. “No flour left behind!”

I’m torn between strangling him with his own pants or kissing him for the absurd tension-breaker.

“I’ll help with moving the bags,” Liam offers calmly.

“We all will,” Mason adds.

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