She escaped an abusive pack. Built a life for herself. And now she's going to lose this opportunity because she doesn't have what she ran away from.
Unless...
"Does she need to come back to sign the papers?" I ask, my voice carefully neutral. "If a pack decides they want her?"
Charlotte shakes her head. "No. You know the government rules—archaic as they are. As long as the pack signs the dotted line, it's all good. The Omega doesn't even need to be present for the initial agreement. Even if it's temporary or a trial period, as long as there's official pack documentation, it satisfies the requirement."
So theoretically, a pack could sign for her without her even knowing. Could make this happen without asking permission. Could give her this opportunity on a silver platter.
Is it ethical? Probably not. Is it the healthiest way to start a pack bond? Definitely not. But nothing about this situation is conventional anyway. She's desperate for a pack to save her opportunity. We're three Alphas who haven't found the right Omega. Maybe we're all exactly what we need.
I nod, lowering the photo back to the desk carefully. My fingers linger on the edge of the frame for a second longer than necessary. The decision crystallizes in my mind—reckless and impulsive and probably the dumbest thing I've done in years.
But the pieces fit too perfectly to ignore. Grayson talked about her. The Omega from the bookstore who recommended books and made him smile—actually smile, not that fake polite thing he does for strangers. Theo mentioned someone from his self-defense classes who worked harder than anyone else, who showed up with bruises and left with confidence.
And I've run into her three times now. Three separate occasions where the universe decided to throw us together. Each time leaving me wanting to know more. Each time her scent lingering in my mind long after she's gone.
Maybe this isn't as crazy as it sounds. Maybe it's fate or destiny or whatever romantic bullshit Grayson would writeabout in one of his books. Maybe three grumpy Alphas and one sunshine Omega could somehow balance each other out.
Or maybe we'll crash and burn spectacularly. But at least she'll have her twenty-five thousand dollars and her campaign. At least she'll get the opportunity she deserves.
"Well," I say, my mouth curving into a smirk, "I guess you'll need a new lawyer."
Charlotte frowns, confusion flickering across her face. She tilts her head, her perfectly styled hair not moving an inch. "Why is that?"
I stand up, sliding my hands into my pockets, my smirk widening into something that probably looks dangerous.
"Conflict of interest."
CHAPTER 7
Santa's Little Secret
~REVERIE~
"Thank you for coming through last minute," Walter says, his weathered face breaking into a relieved smile as he hands me another tray of pints.
His hands are scarred from years of bar work—small burns from hot glasses, cuts from broken bottles, the general wear and tear of someone who's been in the hospitality business for three decades.
"Seriously, Reverie. You're a lifesaver. I have no clue why it's so busy today—everyone and their uncle needs five pints."
I laugh, adjusting my Santa Claus hat so it sits at a jaunty angle on top of the long silver wig I'm wearing.
The wig is surprisingly high quality—I invested in a good one from a costume shop two towns over because if I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it right. The synthetic hair is soft and silky, falling in gentle waves that catch the bar lights.
"It's the holidays! People are either celebrating or drowning their sorrows. Sometimes both at the same time."
Walter—owner of The Mistletoe Tavern and probably the most patient man in Oakridge Hollow—shakes his head with amusement. His grey beard is decorated with tiny jingle bells tonight, and he's wearing a Santa suit that strains slightly at the belly. "Well, whatever it is, I'm grateful you picked up the phone. Half my staff called out sick. And by sick, I mean hungover from testing out the new cocktail menu last night."
He knows.
He absolutely knows they're not actually sick.
But Walter is too nice to fire anyone, even when they're clearly taking advantage of his kindness. It's one of the things I love about him—he sees the best in people even when they don't deserve it.
The Mistletoe Tavern is exactly what you'd picture for a small-town bar during the holidays—rustic wooden beams that have been here since the building was constructed in the 1800s, now strung with twinkling fairy lights that cast everything in a warm golden glow. A massive Christmas tree dominates the corner, easily ten feet tall, covered in mismatched ornaments that tell the story of the bar's history—vintage glass bulbs from the fifties, handmade felt decorations from local schoolchildren, tacky tourist ornaments from various road trips Walter has taken over the years.
Garlands of real pine are draped across every surface—the bar top, the rafters, the window sills—filling the air with that fresh evergreen scent that mingles with everything else. A massive stone fireplace crackles cheerfully against the far wall, real logs burning and popping, adding notes of wood smoke to the atmosphere.
