Page 160 of Pack Plus One

I swat his chest, but there’s no heat behind it. “Cheater.”

“Effective,” he corrects, pressing a kiss to my forehead before rolling out of bed. “Now let’s go make your dreams come true.”

The others are already stirring, drawn awake by our muffled activities. Jude stretches with a dramatic yawn. “Do I smell coffee or just the scent of your early morning sins?”

“Both,” I mutter, face heating.

Mason checks his watch. “We’re on schedule. Leah, your doughs should be perfectly proofed by now.”

The pack has cleared their schedules for my big day. By the time we head out into the dawn, Caleb’s hand finds mine. His purr kicks up again, just for me. And for the first time all week, I believe today might actually be perfect.

31

LEAH

“Duck!” I yell, moments before the stand mixer sputters to life with apocalyptic force, sending a mushroom cloud of all-purpose skyward. Mason, ever vigilant, dives behind the counter while Liam, who clearly hasn’t developed proper baker reflexes, takes a direct hit to his perfectly pressed shirt.

“I told you the seal was loose,” Mason says, emerging from cover looking infuriatingly pristine while Liam resembles a very disappointed ghost.

I swipe flour from my eyebrows. “In my defense, we’re making triple batches because someone—” I glare pointedly at Jude, who’s filming the entire disaster for social media “—told the entire city we’d have endless croissants.”

“I said ‘while supplies last’!” Jude protests, zooming in on Liam’s flour-covered hair. “This is gold, by the way. Pure engagement fuel.”

Liam attempts to brush off his shirt with all the dignity of a duke who’s fallen into a pig pen. “We’ve been open for three hours and sold more pastry than we projected for the entire day.”

“Because we’re awesome,” Jude declares, panning his phone to capture the line that still stretches out the door and halfway down the block. My heart flutters in my chest at the sight. “Also, the mariachi band was clearly a stroke of genius.”

Jude’s doing. “For ambiance,” he said.

The band in question has relocated to the small stage area by the window, serenading the packed café with an unexpectedly lovely rendition of “Sweet Caroline.” Two elderly omegas at table six are doing enthusiastic shoulder wiggles to the music while demolishing maple pecan rolls.

“I still can’t believe you did that,” I mutter, my heart warming at the sight. Is this really my bakery? The mariachi band has been surprisingly perfect—their energy infectious, their music drawing curious passersby inside. “Though I think they’ve played the same six songs on rotation.”

“Limited repertoire, unlimited charm,” Jude winks, helping himself to a reject cookie. “Like me.”

The bell over the door jingles as Caleb shoulders his way back inside, carrying yet another crate of emergency supplies from the restaurant wholesaler across town. His expression is thunderous as usual, sending a young beta scrambling out of his path.

“Delivery,” he announces unnecessarily, setting the crate on the floor with enough force to make the register jump.

“My hero,” I say, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, leaving a perfect flour print of my lips. “Did you get the?—”

“Extra vanilla, industrial-sized parchment, emergency butter, and,” he produces a coffee cup from nowhere, “this.”

I take the cup with both hands, inhaling the rich scent. “You’re forgiven for terrifying the customers.”

“I didn’t terrify anyone,” he says defensively.

As if on cue, a toddler at the nearest table bursts into tears, pointing at Caleb with a sticky finger.

“The scary man has angry eyebrows, Mommy!”

The mother, a pretty beta with impressive eyebrows of her own, shoots us an apologetic smile. “Sorry! He says that about everyone these days.”

Caleb’s brow furrows further, which only makes the child wail louder.

“Angry eyebrows!” the toddler sobs.

Jude nearly drops his phone, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “He’s not wrong.”

---