Page 93 of Pack Choice
“We could have been followed,” he mumbles.
Molly stops and turns her head. “Were we?”
The wardrobe’s shoulders sag in defeat. “No.”
“Good.” She smiles awkwardly at him, and my eyes flick between the two of them. “Then, please will you wait here?”
The muscles in his pecs dance but he does as he’s told. I bet that’s damn hard for him, taking an order from an omega, but there’s something about the way she asked him, and something about the way he doesn’t argue that has me examining them both again.
“Do you bring him on all your dates?” I ask. It must be even harder standing and watching as some other alpha paws all over the omega. The omega the wardrobe clearly likes.
“It’s complicated,” she says, peering back at her chaperone with a wrinkle between her brow.
Any sympathy I felt for the dude blasts away like a Ferrari at full throttle. I don’t want her thinking of him when she’s with me.
I pull her along, down towards the water’s edge. The moon paints the ocean a clear silver, and she kicks off her sandals and dips in her toes.
“What did you do today?” I ask her, expecting her to tell me she’s been shopping or to the spa.
“Looking for a cat.”
“You lost your cat?”
“I don’t have one. But I’d like one. Unfortunately cats don’t seem to like me.”
“Cats are dumb. You should get a dog.”
“Hmmm,” she says, “I’m thinking about a hamster.”
I shudder. “I can’t stand rodents.”
She kicks her foot through the water, spraying me with droplets. “You don’t like rodents.”
“It’s the whiskers, and their tails, and the fact they defecate everywhere.”
I grimace. What the fuck is wrong with me?
What has happened to the charm? The play?
I’m trying to seduce a girl here and I’m literally talking about crap.
What the fuck is wrong? I like her. It’s making me jittery and, well, yeah, nervous. When the fuck was the last time I felt that?
“Eww,” she screws up her nose, “I didn’t consider that bit.”
“Come on,” I say, taking her hand and dragging her out of the water. “Let me show you the cove.”
“This is not what I expected a date with River Caspian to be like,” she says, with amusement.
“What were you expecting?”
“Champagne, flashy restaurant, that kind of thing.”
“Are you disappointed?” I say, noticing the little footprints she leaves in the sand, half the size of mine.
“No, I prefer this. I hate going to places where people stare.”
We stop at the edge of the cove and she peers into the abyss of the cave, its white ceiling far above our heads.
