Page 3 of A Pack of Mistletoe
He studies me for a long moment, the way only an older brother can. Quiet, assessing, infuriating. Then he sighs. “If you’re looking to fix your problem here, just know it’s a small town. My omega knows every eligible omega in Lakeside Point, which aren't many. You won’t get anything past her.”
I grit my teeth and count to ten. It doesn’t help. He sees it anyway—damn him.
“I’m just here for the restaurant,” I say, sharp enough to cut the air between us.
Another beat. He nods, stands, and heads inside. I brace myself with another slow ten count before following him. The porch creaks behind me as I go, rocking chairs swaying like ghosts of conversations I’ll never get right.
Rose
I’m on my phone, working on some edits for a client. Benito’s text a few days ago keeps looping through my head. Which is why it takes me a second to register that someone is shouting my name.
I turn—and my heart plummets straight through the frozen ground.
A man stands a few yards away, snow catching in his dark hair. It’s styled the same way I remember, swept back just enough to reveal sharp, hooded eyes that miss nothing. High cheekbones. That sun-warmed, copper-toned skin that glows even in the cold light.
“Kai.” I breathe his name so softly it fogs in the air, gone before it reaches him.
Then he smiles, wide and disbelieving, and before I can think, his arms are around me. The warmth of him slams into me like memory, like home. For a dizzy heartbeat, I almost fold into it. Almost let myself believe we could pick up where we left off. Like nothing broke. Like I didn’t break it.
He pulls back, eyes searching mine, full of that same concern that used to undo me. “Rosie, god, Rosie. I can’t believe—where have you—?”
I take a step back. Then another. My brain goes white with static. Every instinct screamsrun.My breath comes short and shallow. I start calculating—distance, crowd, exits. The safest route out.
When I left, I was seventy pounds lighter. My hair was short, flat-ironed straight. I wore heavy makeup like armor. It’s insane he recognized me at all. And terrifying.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, the words tight and strange in my mouth. “Do I know you?”
He stops dead. His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing, confusion shadowing that warmth I once lived for. “Rosie, what are you—?”
“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person.” My voice wavers, but I keep going. “That’s not my name.”
Not a lie. Rosie isn’t my name. Hell,Roseisn’t either. But it’s close. God, I knew it would be reckless to keep a name so close to my original but I just couldn’t give up the name he’d called me our whole lives. Not completely.
The air burns in my lungs as I turn away. I keep walking, forcing each step to stay steady, even though my legs tremble. The world blurs at the edges.
Kai calls my name again—my old nickname—as I reach my car. I don’t look back. I can’t.
My hands shake so hard it takes two tries to fit the key in the ignition. The moment the engine turns over, I press the gas. Snow spits up behind me as I drive away, heart hammering, eyes stinging.
I don’t cry until I’m sure he can’t see me.
Harlan
Logan’s brother knows luxury.
The boutique resort on Lake Michigan is understated, but elegant—rustic bones dressed in money. Fine linens. Handcrafted wood detailing. Everything polished to a sheen that whispers wealth without ever needing to say it. It blends into the lakeside landscape like it’s been here a century instead of a month.
Bunting and garland drape from every railing and beam, woven from fresh pine. The whole place smells like a winter forest—sharp and clean, undercut with the warmth of cinnamon and clove candles flickering in every corner. Twinkle lights wrap the banisters, casting a soft golden glow. It’s the kind of atmosphere meant to feel like home. It just makes me restless.
The presidential pack suite carries the same quiet opulence. I sit in a leather armchair, scotch in hand, pretending my focus is on the restaurant plans. But it’s not. My mind keeps circling back to the business and the damage done. The omega clause hangs over everything like smoke we can’t clear.
The door opens, and Logan steps in. His white-blond hair is slicked back, his tall, lean frame slightly hunched. I sigh through my nose. He usually carries himself like a man who owns every room he enters. Not tonight. The sight doesn’t erase my anger, but it softens the edges.
“Did you have a nice dinner with your brother’s pack?” I ask.
Logan’s steel-blue eyes flick toward me, wary, tired. My hand tightens on the arm of the chair. I want to reach up and thread my fingers into his hair. Pull until his head tilts back, a reminder of where he belongs. But not now. Not when I’m still this angry.
“It was fine,” he says. “Their omega seemed nice. Intense, but nice.” He hesitates, and I brace for it. "Cole knows. About the clause in the inheritance.”
