Page 34 of Pack Choice
“TheRiver Caspian?”
“The very one.”
“Oh my gosh …” she shuffles closer to me on the bed, “what’s he like in real life? Is he really that handsome?”
“More so!”
“Jeez.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Although I can kind of see why he isn’t in a pack.”
“You can?” I say, watching her face as she muses.
“Yes, he’s trouble, isn’t he? I can see that wouldn’t work out in a pack.”
“I think there are plenty of troublemakers in packs, Ava,” I say, thinking of two in my own brothers’ pack.
“Yeah, but you can’t be selfish. There are always reports of River Caspian ignoring orders, going against the wishes of his team, and dismissing the views of his mechanics. You can’t act like that in a pack.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” My heart sinks. Which is completely ridiculous. And utterly illogical.
I pick up the sheets again, reading the notes Ava’s made on a pack ringed in blue pen, Pack Winston. They sound perfectly pleasant. Perfectly respectable. A pack I’m sure my brothers would vote for. Problem is, they don’t set my heart pumping.
Not like River.
Not like my boss, Mr. Red Flag.
And not like the man stood guarding me outside the door.
I’m obviously more messed up than I thought.
* * *
I approveAva’s pack choices, reminding her she doesn’t need my approval or my opinion to make her decision, and agree to take home and consider the packs she’s picked out for me.
On the car journey home, I try to read them again, but my attention is much more occupied by the surly alpha in the driver’s seat. His honey-colored eyes fixed to the road, and his scent making my toes curl in a good way.
As I enter the house, I dump Ava’s notes in the first wastepaper basket I pass. Who am I kidding? Even if they did ignite a spark of interest in me, those respectable, pleasant packs are not going to want an omega like me.
I consider heading to my bedroom and scrolling for cats for sale on the internet. I might as well start my collection now. Maybe I could find a kitten. Something soft and cute to cuddle.
But then I hear the crash of crockery from the kitchen and decide the only way I’m going to calm my nerves is more baking. This household may have cookies coming out of their ears, but it’s the only thing I know that will make me feel better.
As expected I find Nate in the kitchen. I lift my apron off the peg and tie it around my waist.
“What you cooking?” I ask him as he battles to slot the parts of a blender together.
“Baby food.” He peers up at me and slides a note lying on the counter into his pocket.
“You know the baby’s not coming for another two months, right? And you also know babies don’t eat food until they’re about five months old.”
“Better to be prepared,” he says, jamming his fist down hard on the two parts and forcing them together.
“Prepared?” I shake my head. I’ve never known Nate to worry about being prepared. He’s usually a roll-with-it kind of guy.
Mating and bonding and babies really do change people.
“How about you, Moll?”
“Cookies.”
