Page 23 of Pack Plus One

“It’s not entirely a game,” I admit, the words escaping before I can stop them.

Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, followed by something warmer—before she looks away, focusing on the towering display of petit fours and chocolate fountains ahead of us.

As we pass the head table, I feel Eric’s gaze burning into us. Good. I’ve never been the petty type but, for some reason, forher, I feel the urge to do this.

Without looking directly at him, I allow my hand to drift from Leah’s elbow to the small of her back, my fingers meeting bare skin where her dress cuts low, exposing the dip of her spine. The contact jolts through me like electricity. Her breath hitches, skin pebbling under my touch, and I can’t stop myself from tracing a slow circle against that warm skin, feeling the ridge of her spine beneath my fingertips.

Even through the scent blockers, I catch something—just a hint of her breaking through. Raw. Real. Fuck. My cock hardensso fast it’s almost painful, straining against my pants. I have to shift my stance, grateful for the tuxedo jacket as I lean closer, my breath stirring the loose strands at her neck.

I wasn’t lying when I said this wasn’t entirely a game anymore.

“That wasn’t necessary,” she whispers once we’re safely at the dessert table.

“Wasn’t it?” I ask, watching as she selects a chocolate-dipped strawberry.

She meets my eyes, long lashes making her look like a siren, challenge and confusion mingling in her gaze. “This is all pretend, remember?”

“Is it?” The question hangs between us, heavier than it has any right to be.

Before she can answer, Jude appears at her other side, snagging a miniature éclair. “The bride’s aunt is telling everyone you two have ‘unmistakable chemistry,’” he informs us with obvious delight. “Apparently, you two are catching eyes.”

Leah clears her throat and averts her gaze from mine, but the redness that creeps up her neck is telling. “People at weddings are desperate for drama.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Jude agrees, way too cheerful. “And you’re giving them quite the show.” He winks at me over her head, earning a warning glare in response.

We make our way back to the table with our dessert plates, Leah’s step noticeably lighter now. The small victory over Eric seems to have restored something in her—a spark of confidence that makes her even more captivating.

“Mission accomplished?” Mason asks as we sit down.

“Spectacularly,” Jude confirms before either of us can answer. “The groom looked like he swallowed a lemon.”

Leah’s smile is small but satisfied. “Then my work is done.”

“Not quite,” Liam says, nodding toward the head table. “He’s still watching.”

“Let him,” she says with a shrug, then turns to Liam with a sparkle in her eye. “Now, about those beer and pastry pairings…”

The conversation flows from there. Leah describes her bakery with an infectious enthusiasm, her words painting a vivid picture of the cozy space she’s creating.

I imagine her there…and then I imagine us there, too. Which is bad. Isn’t it?

Mason catches my eye and shakes his head slowly with a sigh, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I shrug. I can’t help it.

We’ve built something good together, the four of us. Five years of turning a struggling microbrewery into one of the most respected craft operations in the region. We work well as a unit—Liam’s business acumen, Mason’s steady reliability, Jude’s creative flair, and my ability to pull it all together. We’ve always had each other’s backs.

We’ve even tried dating before—set up “interviews” with omegas who looked good on paper. Those evenings always started promising enough but inevitably fizzled out by dessert. Jude would flirt relentlessly but never follow through. Liam would mentally check out halfway through. Mason would be polite but distant. And I’d be left making excuses about early morning deliveries.

No one ever even remotely fit.

Until now.

Plus, I’m not the only one daydreaming. I’ve seen how Mason’s been watching Leah when she’s not looking.

Jude, too. Right now, as the other guests mingle and the event winds down, he’s regaling her with exaggerated tales of brewing mishaps and eccentric customers. But Liam steers the conversation away and begins talking collaboration with thatintense focus he usually reserves for perfecting a new brew. He’s sketching flavor combinations on a cocktail napkin, all animated about how we could make something to complement her dark chocolate tarts. I’ve never seen him this eager to blend his creations with someone else’s before.

“A stout with your chocolate cake,” he muses. “Or perhaps a lighter ale with those cinnamon rolls you mentioned.”

She has no idea he’s completely serious.

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