Humiliation burns through me, followed quickly by anger. How dare he stand in my family’s kitchen and speak to me this way? As if I’m some pathetic ex who can’t let go?
“I have moved on,” I snap, lifting my chin. “And you’ll see just how much when you meet my alphas at the wedding.”
His eyebrows shoot up, genuine surprise crossing his features. “You have a pack?”
“Yes,” I lie, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Three alphas, actually. Successful ones. And they’re all coming to Heat Island.”
“Interesting.” His eyes narrow, assessing. “Josephine never mentioned them.”
“Because, unlike some people, I don’t need to parade my relationships around for validation.” I reach for the wine bottle, brushing past him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my family is waiting.”
I walk out with my head held high.
And panic rises in my chest with every step.
What have I just done?
SEVEN
TRINITY
I slumpinto the heart-shaped chair, trying not to grimace at the aggressively cutesy decor of Elite Comfort Service’s meeting space. Walls painted pastel pink with purple trim remind me of a dessert shop, not a professional matchmaking agency.
Pictures of puppies and kittens stare at me from every wall—which I suppose is marginally better than hanging up Anne Geddes baby prints and stock photos of weddings. That would be too on the nose, even for this place.
I drum my fingers against the table, checking my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. I’ve already sat through multiple disastrous interviews today with both packs and individual alphas. One alpha actually picked his teeth with his business card after explaining that he expected even his pretend omega to cook dinner every night, regardless of whether she works full time.
An opinion that he refused to compromise on despite being between jobs himself.
One more like that, and I am officially giving up.
It’s not that I’m looking for my perfect scent-match, not that I’d ever even find them while swimming in suppressants. I stopped believing in fairy tales around the same time I realized Santa Claus wasn’t real. But is it too much to ask for an alpha who can string together a coherent sentence? Who doesn’t view women as walking incubators? Who might actually convince Egret and his cronies that I’ve moved on with someone worthwhile?
I know good alphas are out there, my step-fathers are a testament to that. But the chances of finding some for myself, even just for a week, seems less and less likely with each passing interview.
The door opens and a familiar face appears. Amara glides in with the effortless elegance that seems standard issue for professional matchmakers. Her silk blouse is tucked into a pencil skirt that highlights a figure I’d be proud to have at her age.
“Ms. Jones,” she says, her voice professional but also warm. “Just checking in. I assume that last pack wasn’t quite up to snuff, either. They seemed eager to leave when I passed in the hallway.”
The pack that hadn’t bothered to shower before coming here after working all day sweating under the sun and clearly stopped by a bar for happy hour beers before our appointment. Then loudly proclaimed that any omega who smells as good as I do should spend her whole life pregnant.
Not to be elitist, but drunk and rowdy isn’t going to be an acceptable vibe for a place like Heat Island. Plus, I need Egret and the others to be convinced I’ve moved on, not laughing at me behind my back because my supposed mates spent the entire week at the lobby bar watching SportsCenter.
“I want to apologize for the quality of today’s candidates,” Amara continues with an understanding smile. “I assure you, they’re not representative of our usual caliber. But this shortened timeline does represent a bit of a scramble.”
I swallow a snort. What she means is:take what you can get, sweetheart, just said with slightly more professionalism. The only minimally acceptable alphas I’ve met so far hadn’t been willing to consider a pack arrangement, even just to pretend.
“I understand,” I say, gathering my purse. Since I’ve already interviewed every alpha listed in the prospectus she emailed me yesterday, I assume that she’s here to tell me we’re done for the day. “I appreciate your time and effort. If there are any changes to your roster in the next week, please let me know?—”
“Wait,” Amara interrupts as I half-rise from the table. “We’ve actually had a last-minute addition. If you have the time to meet them, of course.”
“Them?” I pause, hand still on my bag. “A pack? As in multiple alphas?”
She nods, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Two alphas and a beta, to be exact. I’ll be honest and admit this is their first contact with the agency. But I’ve explained the details of the arrangement you need, and they seem quite motivated.”
Hope flutters in my chest before I ruthlessly squash it. “What’s wrong with them?”
Amara’s eyebrows rise slightly. “I beg your pardon?”
