Page 28 of A Pack of Mistletoe
The sound of the pack car crunching up the driveway jolts through me. I open the front door just as Harlan steps out, probably planning to make a show of helping me to the car.
But when he turns and sees me, he stops.
His expression is unreadable. My confidence wavers. I shift from foot to foot, suddenly aware of every choice I’ve made—jeans, sweater, hair. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
Then, like an echo, I hear my mother’s voice—sharp, perfect, impossible.You have to be perfect. Perfection’s the only way. You’re not enough otherwise.
My throat tightens.
I smooth my palms over the silver sweater. Harlan’s eyes follow the movement, dark and deliberate, before he starts walking toward me—each stride confident, purposeful, a little predatory.
He stops close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him and am reminded of the first time we met. That time in the garden plays through my mind more often then I want to admit. My breath stutters. His hand lifts, fingers brushing one of the curls I coaxed into bouncy ringlets. He follows the spiral down until his knuckles skim my chin.
“You look like starlight,” he murmurs.
There’s a reporter across the street, camera poised, but Harlan’s voice is low—this isn’t for them..
My smile feels shaky. “Thank you. You look nice too.”
That’s an understatement of the century. He’s still in the gray suit from this morning, the one that fits him like sin wrapped in discipline.
He opens the passenger door and offers his hand. His palm is warm, his grip steady, and for one wild second I wish I could just crawl into it and stay there.
Inside the car, Kai sits directly behind me, sharp as a blade in a navy suit and black shoes. Logan and Evander are in the third row—Logan’s arm draped over Evander’s shoulders, Evander curled lazily against his chest. Both of them in black, both too beautiful for my peace of mind.
Wyatt’s behind Harlan, hat tipped low, the brim shadowing his smile. A suit jacket, a button-up, jeans—of course he pulls it off effortlessly.
“Hey, Sugarplum,” he drawls, reaching between his boots. “Broughtyou something.”
He hands me a small to-go box. His rich brown eyes track every movement as I open it. Inside is a single, golden pancake, about the size of a half-dollar, topped with sliced meat and a pecan.
I look at him skeptically.
“Trust,” he says, that deep, Southern cadence sending a shiver straight to my toes.
So I trust. I pop the whole thing into my mouth.
It’s divine. Sweet cornbread instead of pancake, tender duck, and cherry glaze—probably from a local orchard. The sound that escapes me isn’t entirely human. A low, involuntary moan of pleasure fills the car.
Every alpha goes still.
Wyatt’s crooked grin appears, dimples cutting deep.
“Jesus, Candy, give us a fighting chance not to embarrass ourselves,” Evander teases from the back seat.
I roll my eyes, pretending none of this matters, that it’s all part of the act. Except when I glance up, Kai’s gaze is fixed on my mouth. Hooded. Hungry. He startles when he realizes I’m looking, but doesn’t look away.
“Just some flavors I’m experimenting with for the restaurant,” Wyatt says casually, but his tone is rougher than before.
“This is a winner,” I manage, pointing to the empty box. “You need more of this.”
“Rose should not be the taste tester,” Logan drawls. “She’s far too easily impressed.”
I can’t tell if he’s teasing or testing me, so I let it slide and turn forward.
Harlan’s hand shifts on the wheel, knuckles white for just a second before he relaxes. Then he pulls smoothly out of the driveway.
The car fills with a thick quiet
