Page 173 of Pack Plus One

“Taste test emergency!” he announces, dumping his haul onto the nearest table. “The Lovewell wedding wants sample boxes of our wine paired with your pastries, and I promised them options that would blow their collective minds.”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “We discussed this yesterday. The sample boxes are already prepped in the cooler.”

“Those were yesterday’s samples,” he dismisses with a wave. “These are today’s inspiration! I stopped by that spice market Mason mentioned—the one run by the hot beta with the forearms—and they had cardamom pods the size of my thumb!”

“Your thumb is not an accurate unit of measurement,” Mason points out mildly.

“Tell that to my Instagram followers,” Jude retorts, already unpacking exotic ingredients. “They’ve voted my thumb pics ‘most aesthetically pleasing’ three months running.”

I shake my head, unable to contain my smile. When I agreed to let Jude handle Sweet Omega’s social media presence, I expected disaster. Instead, he’s built us a following of over fifty thousand devotees who tune in daily for his outrageous taste tests and behind-the-scenes shenanigans.

The “Will It Croissant?” series—where he attempts to incorporate unlikely ingredients into laminated dough—nearly broke the internet when he successfully created wasabi-ginger croissants that actually tasted incredible.

As I turn back to my meringue, a wave of nausea hits me without warning. The scent of cardamom, usually one of myfavorites, suddenly seems overwhelmingly strong. I grip the counter, willing the sensation to pass.

“Leah?” Mason is instantly at my side, his hand steady on my lower back. “You’ve gone pale.”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, though my stomach strongly disagrees. “Just a little queasy. Probably tried too many experimental fillings yesterday.”

He studies me with that penetrating gaze that misses nothing. “This is the third morning this week you’ve looked green around the gills.”

“Keeping track of my complexion now?” I tease, trying to deflect.

“Among other things,” he says cryptically.

Before I can question him further, the kitchen doors swing open as Liam backs through them, arms loaded with fresh produce from the farmers market.

“The early harvest strawberries are in,” he announces, setting his bounty on the prep table. “And I negotiated exclusive rights to the first pick for the next three weeks.”

His smile fades as he turns and sees me. “What’s wrong? You look?—”

“Green around the gills, apparently,” I finish for him. “I’m fine, just a little nauseous.”

Liam and Mason exchange a look I can’t quite interpret, some silent communication passing between them.

“What?” I demand, hands on my hips. “Why are you two making significant eye contact?”

Jude’s head pops up from behind his spice mountain. “Who’s making significant eye contact? Is it sexy significant eye contact or worried significant eye contact? Because there’s a difference.”

“Worried,” I say at the exact moment Mason says, “Speculative.”

The nausea intensifies suddenly, and I make a dash for the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before my breakfast makes a reappearance. I’m still retching when I sense a presence behind me, a gentle hand gathering my hair away from my face.

“Better out than in,” Liam says sympathetically, offering a damp paper towel once I’m finished.

I wipe my mouth, mortified. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize for bodily functions,” he says with typical Liam pragmatism. “They’re perfectly natural, especially when?—”

He stops abruptly, pressing his lips together like he’s said too much.

“When what?” I ask, suspicion blooming. “Liam?”

His expression is carefully neutral. “When one is feeling unwell.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

Before he can respond, my phone pings with a text from Caleb: Delivery arrived. Meet at home when you’re done?

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