Page 13 of Pack Choice
A few people mumble hi and then return to what they were doing, and Mack leads Ford and I across the space to a closed office door beyond.
Mack points to the brass placard screwed to the door.Mr. Turner.
“My nephew,” he explains. “He’s the new CEO. Moved to the city about six months ago to start running this show.”
He raps his knuckles on the door, then swings it open without waiting for a response.
He steps inside blocking my view, and I follow him inside.
“I have your new assistant here for you.”
“I told you I don’t need an assistant,” a voice mutters.
I tilt my head to one side. The voice is familiar and so is the scent. It niggles at me. But I can’t quite place it.
“Well, Molly here needed a job and she’s keen to learn about the industry, so do your old uncle a favor and be polite.” Mack turns and takes my wrist, tugging me forward. “Ignore him, Moll. He can be a tad grumpy, but really he’s very pleased to have an assistant, aren’t you–”
“You!” I squeak as I step forward and my gaze lands on the man frowning behind a very large desk.
Mr. Red Flag.
From the speed-dating event last week.
“You?” he says, frowning as he lumbers up to his feet, brushing down the front of his spotless shirt.
Mack’s gaze swings from me to his nephew, then back again.
“You know each other,” he says, clapping his hands in delight.
“Yes,” I say.
“No,” Mr. Red Flag says.
“Is there a problem?” Ford asks, stepping forward, his posture even more rigid.
“Who’s this?” Mr. Red Flag asks, his eyes narrowing into slits.
“Molly’s chaperone. She’s an omega–”
“I know.”
Ford takes a step towards the desk.
“–so her brothers sent her with a chaperone for her safety,” Mack continues. “I’m sure once they realize there’s nothing to worry about here, he won’t be necessary.”
“He isn’t necessary now,” Mr. Red Flag says, his hands forming fists on the surface of his desk.
“Oh, I think I am,” Ford responds, the pecs on his chest twitching.
“But maybe I’m not?” I say, appealing to Mack. “It doesn’t sound like …” I wave my hand towards Mr. Red Flag, scrabbling around for his name, “... Mr. Turner–”
“Colten,” he growls in a way that has me feeling even more flustered and my insides threatening to misbehave once again.
“It doesn’t seem like your nephew wants an assistant.”
“I want an assistant,” he snaps, making Ford’s pecs do that thing again.
“But you just said you didn’t.”
