Page 137 of Pack Plus One

When he checks the screen, his expression shifts to amused exasperation. “Mason, you psychic bastard,” he mutters, showing me the text:

Mason

Either you’re giving Leah a brewery tour (unlikely) or you’re about to violate at least three health codes. Move it along, Casanova.

I burst out laughing. “He knows you too well.”

Jude rolls his eyes and types back with exaggerated keystrokes:

We’re admiring the craftsmanship of your copper piping.

The reply is instant:

Liar. Get out before I send Caleb.

Jude pockets his phone with a dramatic sigh. “Our beta has zero respect for romance.”

I laugh, sliding off the table and straightening my clothes. “Rain check, then?”

He gives me a lopsided smile. “For now.”

The drive back is filled with Jude’s animated storytelling about the brewery’s early days. I laugh till my sides hurt. By the time we reach my apartment, I’m again reluctant for the date to end.

At my door, Jude brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch unexpectedly gentle. “Mason’s up next,” he murmurs. “Prepare for spreadsheets of your favorite coffee orders and whatever other data he’s been quietly collecting.”

“And Caleb?” I can’t help asking.

Jude’s grin turns wolfish. “Oh, you’ll know when it’s Caleb’s turn.” His goodnight kiss is surprisingly chaste. Just a brush of lips that lingers just long enough to promise more. As he walks backward toward the elevator, he calls out: “Sweet dreams, omega. Try not to miss me too much.”

He waves, leaving me standing there with the phantom press of his lips still tingling against mine.

Two days later, after spending much time with the final touches of the bakery, Mason turns up.

He arrives at my door precisely on time, dressed in a dark sweater that makes his eyes look like liquid amber. The rolled papers under his arm catch my attention.

“For later,” he says before I can ask, that subtle half-smile playing at his lips. “I thought you might enjoy seeing the stars without light pollution.”

The simple statement sends warmth through my chest. This is Mason. The kind of man who notices what you need before you do.

Our first stop surprises me—a hidden farmers market in a converted warehouse, bursting with colors and scents I’ve never encountered. Mason moves through the space with quiet confidence, his hand occasionally brushing the small of my back to guide me toward something special.

“Try this,” he murmurs, offering a slice of peach glistening with honey. “The vendor keeps bees in her orchard. Notice the floral notes?”

The fruit bursts on my tongue, sweetness layered with something deeper. “How did you find this place?”

He tilts his head slightly. “You’re a baker, Leah. When I heard about this vendor’s process, I knew you’d appreciate it.”

My heart swells. For the next few minutes, we gather treasures—vanilla beans still glistening with moisture, saffron threads like captured sunlight, a jar of honey so dark it’s nearly black. Each selection reveals how closely he’s been paying attention to my work, my passions.

Dinner is at an intimate chef’s counter where the courses seem tailored specifically to my tastes. When I raise an eyebrow at the perfect wine pairing, Mason simply says, “You said you liked Le Roux.”

That’s Mason’s magic. The way he observes without intruding, cares without crowding. His quiet attention feels like a warm cloak I don’t want to get rid of.

On the brewery roof later, he spreads a blanket before producing a thermos. The rich chocolate scent makes me smile before I even taste it.

“You added cinnamon,” I note.

“Of course.” As if there was never another option. He arranges himself behind me, his chest against my back, armsbracketing me securely. “The shower should start in twelve minutes. Look northeast.”

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