Page 162 of Pack Plus One

“Eric ordered it for himself,” Zoe confirms, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I spotted the box in their recycling when I went to ‘check out the competition.’”

“And youstoleit?” I ask, half horrified, half impressed.

“Liberated it,” she corrects. “For the good of society. Also, his face when he couldn’t find it was priceless. Like a constipated bulldog.”

The mariachi band, probably sensing dramatic potential, switches to a triumphant fanfare.

“Hold it up!” Jude urges, phone at the ready. “This is Instagram gold!”

I hesitate, torn between pettiness and professionalism. “I shouldn’t…”

“You absolutely should,” Caleb says, surprising me with a rare grin that transforms his entire face. “After everything he’s done.”

I glance around at my packed bakery—the happy customers, the flour-covered counters, the ridiculous mariachi band, andmost importantly, the pack that made it all possible—and make my decision.

I hoist the trophy overhead like I’ve just won the World Cup.

“To Sweet Omega!” I shout, embracing the moment’s absurdity. “Best bakery by default and by merit!”

The café erupts in cheers, the mariachi band launches into something that might be the Rocky theme song, and Jude captures the entire glorious mess for posterity.

“That’s going on a t-shirt,” he declares.

“Absolutely not,” I say, but I’m laughing too hard to be convincing.

The lunch rush hits like a tsunami. Mrs. Finley appoints herself unofficial greeter, telling every customer who enters about “that dreadful alpha bakery across the street” and how they’ve made “the superior choice for their patronage.”

“We don’t need to disparage the competition,“ I tell her gently after she describes Eric’s pastries as “probably made with tears and broken dreams.”

“Speak for yourself, dear,” she sniffs. “I’ve been waiting forty years to see an uppity alpha get his comeuppance.”

I’m about to respond when the bell jingles yet again. The mariachi band, now on their second wind after the coffee and pastries I provided, immediately launches into a cheerful welcome melody.

Eric stands in the doorway, his face a perfect mask of barely contained fury.

The music stops abruptly, the lead trumpet player hitting a sour note that hangs in the sudden silence.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Finley says with obvious delight. “The villain returns.”

Eric ignores her, marching straight to the counter where I’m frozen in place, still holding a serving tong full of lemon bars.

“You did this,” he seethes, voice low but vibrating with anger. “You deliberately sabotaged my opening.”

“I did what now?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“Don’t play innocent,” he hisses. “The mariachi band. The newspaper article. The... the trophy!”

I glance at the trophy, now sitting proudly beside the register. “That was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” He laughs, the sound bitter and sharp. “Just like it’s a misunderstanding that every supplier in the city suddenly won’t return my calls? Or that the health inspector showed up at 6 AM for a ‘routine inspection’?”

I blink, looking over his shoulder at the pack. Jude suddenly becomes very interested in a spot on the ceiling. Mason examines the display. Liam straightens an already-straight napkin dispenser.

Only Caleb meets my gaze directly, his expression unapologetic.

“I didn’t—” I start, but Eric cuts me off.

“Save it,” he snaps. “I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered. But this isn’t over. You may have won today, but I have resources you can’t imagine.”

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