Page 98 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

I like Cam. More than I should. More than I planned to.

I like Jace, too. That spark, that pull—it’s dangerous, addictive, impossible to ignore.

And Wes? Well. That’s where it gets messy. Because I hate him. At least, Iwantto hate him. But there’s too much fire still burning between us to know how I really feel. And I don’t know if it’s warmth I want from him—or if I just like standing too close to the edge.

I exhale shakily and scroll down, typing the last line:

Maybe it’s not about how to lose a pack at all.

Maybe it’s about deciding whether you ever really wanted to.

I sit with that for a second, then I hitsave. I flick over to the second document, the one full of sharper sentences and cleaner jokes and graphs titledEmotional Destabilization in Shared Living Situations: A Heat-Indexed Timeline.

It’s punchy, it’s smart, and it’s still me; but maybe—just maybe—it’s not the only version of me that matters.

One draft for me, one for the world.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Aimee

Ifire off the text without overthinking it:

Hey—just a heads up that I’m going to stay at my place tonight.I just… need a bit of space.

The typing bubble pops up instantly.

Cam:Of course. Whatever you need. Let us know if you want company or if we can send snacks xx

Jace:Take all the space you need, trouble. Just don’t forget us.

Wes doesn’t reply, but thereadnotification pops up about five minutes later, and that stings more than it should.

Still. I meant what I said. I just need to be alone for a night. Get my head straight, maybe cry dramatically into a chinese. Whatever.

I place my food order, pick the cheesiest rom-com I can find, and burrow under one of my thickest blankets. The female lead has just tripped and spilled coffee all over some grumpy alpha ina suit—god, I’m so easily targeted—when there’s a knock at the door.

I frown. It’s a little too quick for the takeaway, unless my delivery guy has started sprint training.

I shuffle to the door in my socks, not even checking the peephole, which, in hindsight, is rookie behavior. I open it, and there he is: tall, broad-shouldered, soaked in shadow and expensive cologne.

My stomach drops and my pulse jumps.

“Wes.”

He’s the last person I expected tonight, but I’ll be damned if I let that show on my face. Not after the way he got under my skin last night. Not after the things he said. I fold my arms tightly, holding the door half-closed like that might keep the worst of it out.

He tips his chin, all cool detachment and unbothered alpha bullshit. “You weren’t going to say goodbye?”

“Goodbye?” I repeat. “Goodbye to what?”

“To us.” His jaw ticks. “To this little… project of yours. You’re done now, right? Packed up your notes, written your dramatic exit monologue. Thought you’d just disappear back here and ghost the rest of it.”

“I would’ve done a better job of it if I was planning on ghosting anyone,” I retort as I arch a brow, heat flaring behind my ribs. “After all: I learned from the best.”

His eyes narrow, and I let the silence hang for a beat, then sigh, stepping back just enough for him to push past me.

“So what, you tracked me down to throw accusations around?”

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