Page 62 of Pack Plus One

She hops down from the counter and starts rearranging my silverware into what appears to be a pentagram. “For vibes,” she explains when I raise an eyebrow.

I spray another cloud of scent-neutralizer into the air, then immediately regret it. The chemical tang clings to my nose, mixing with the aroma of roasted garlic and anxiety.

“Now it smells like a crime scene,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose.

Zoe snorts. “Accurate, considering what you’re planning to do to these poor men.”

“I’m not planning to do anything! This is just a... discussion.”

“Uh-huh.” She adjusts a fork. “A ‘discussion’ that required you to wear that dress that makes your ass look like a Renaissance painting.”

I glance down at the little black dress—the same one I wore to Eric’s pre-wedding cocktail party, the one that started this whole mess. “It was the only clean thing I had,” I lie.

“Lies.” Zoe points her wine glass at me accusingly. “I saw you iron it. You never iron anything. Your cat wrinkles have become a signature style.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Your imaginary cat, then. The point is,” she continues, gesturing expansively, “you’re putting in effort. Which means you care.”

Before I can argue, the oven timer dings. I yank open the door.Oh no. My first batch of rolls has been charred beyond recognition.

Perfect.

“Nailed it,” Zoe observes cheerfully.

I toss the smoking tray into the sink with a clatter. “This is a disaster. I should cancel.”

“Absolutely not.” Zoe places her hands on my shoulders, her expression suddenly serious. “You invited them here to settle this mess, and that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

“By serving them burnt bread?”

“They’re not here for the food, sweetie.”

The truth of her statement settles uncomfortably in my stomach. They’re here for me. All four of them. Because somehow, in the cosmic joke that has become my life, I’ve managed to attract an entire pack’s attention.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “Fine. But you’re staying.”

Zoe winces. “About that...”

“Zoe, no.”

“I have a date,” she admits, at least having the decency to look guilty. “With that bartender from downtown? The one with the...” She makes a vague gesture that somehow conveys both impressive musculature and questionable moral character.

“You’re abandoning me?” I hiss, panic rising. “With a pack offour alphas?”

“Three alphas and a beta,” she corrects. “And yes. Because you’re a grown woman who needs to face her problems instead of hiding in dumpsters.”

I flinch. “Low blow.”

The doorbell rings, and my heart lurches into my throat.

“Oh look,” Zoe says brightly, grabbing her purse. “Right on time. Remember: no fire alarms, no climbing out windows, andfor the love of God, if you decide to sleep with them again, text me so I don’t come barging in tomorrow morning.”

“I’m not sleeping with them!” I hiss, my voice rising to a squeak.

“Not with that attitude, you’re not.” She kisses my cheek and slips past me to the door. “Break a leg, or whatever the saying is for confronting your potential pack-mates.”

“They’re not my?—”

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