More importantly, they’re not pretending to be perfect. They’re just being themselves. Loud, ridiculous, sometimes annoying, always fascinating.
And I’m starting to think that might be exactly what I need.
The thought is still echoing in my head a few days later, on a bright Saturday morning. The pack has a rare, unscheduled day off, and a restless energy is humming through the penthouse. Tristan is trying to teach Dane how to play a video game, an endeavor that is resulting in a lot of stoic silence from Dane and a string of creative curses from Tristan. Rett is on a conference call in his office, and I’m sitting at the kitchen island, nursing a coffee, when Diego comes in, a look ofprofound dissatisfaction on his face as he peers into the now-well-stocked refrigerator.
“It’s no good,” he says with a sigh.
“What’s no good?” I ask.
“The tomatoes,” he says, his tone deeply tragic. “They’re from the grocery store. They look like tomatoes, but they have no soul. No... sol.”
I can’t help but laugh. “No soul?”
“The sun,” he clarifies, a passionate fire lighting up his eyes. “You can’t get real, sun-ripened tomatoes from a chain supermarket. For that, you need to go to the source.” He turns to me, his eyes bright with a sudden, brilliant idea. “We should go. All of us. To the farmer’s market downtown.”
Before I can even answer, he calls out. “Tristan, Dane, get your shoes on!” He then marches to Rett’s office and knocks once before sticking his head inside. I can’t hear what he says, but a moment later, Rett emerges, already shrugging on a light jacket, a look of resigned amusement on his face.
And that’s how, twenty minutes later, I find myself in the middle of the crowded, chaotic Sweetwater Farmer’s Market, surrounded by my four alphas.
“No, absolutely not,” Diego says, holding up a perfectly ripe heirloom tomato and glaring at Tristan. “I am not putting pineapple on pizza.”
“It’s sweet and savory,” Tristan argues, already tossing the offending fruit into our shopping basket. “Tell him, Zoe.”
I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “I’m staying out of this one.”
They bicker like a very dysfunctional family.
Not that I’m complaining. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching my alphas?—
I stop mid-thought, my brain stumbling over the two words.My alphas. Where in the hell did that come from?
I force the thought away, my cheeks flushing with a sudden,unexpected heat. It’s just a slip of the tongue. A mental typo. It doesn’t mean anything.
I try to refocus, watching them navigate the crowded, chaotic market. Rett moves with purpose, checking items off a list on his phone as if this is a business meeting. Dane is on constant alert, his eyes scanning the crowd, his body positioned to shield me from the press of people. Tristan flirts shamelessly with every vendor, charming them into giving us samples and discounts.
And Diego... Diego is in his element. His hands move over produce with reverence, fingers testing firmness, bringing items to his nose to inhale their scent. His face lights up when he finds something perfect. A bunch of fresh basil, a wheel of artisan cheese, a loaf of crusty bread still warm from the oven.
“Here,” he says, breaking off a piece of the bread and holding it to my lips. “Try this.”
I take the offered morsel. The bread is perfect—crisp on the outside, soft and warm on the inside. But it’s the look on Diego’s face as he watches me taste it that makes heat pool in my belly. His eyes are warm, attentive, as if my enjoyment is the only thing that matters.
“Good?” he asks, his voice low.
I nod, swallowing. “Amazing.”
His smile is slow and satisfied. “I’ll make crostini with it tonight. With that goat cheese and those figs.”
It’s such a simple thing. Bread and cheese. But the easy way he says it. Like it’s a given. Like of course, he’s going to cook for me tonight. It makes my stomach do a slow, warm flip.
Rett appears at our side, glancing at his watch. “We should get the seafood last, so it stays fresh.”
Diego rolls his eyes but nods. “Yes, alpha,” he says, the teasing clear in his voice.
Rett’s eyes narrow, but there’s a slight smile on his lips.
We move through the market like a strange five-person organism.
I can feel the eyes on us. The fourSterling alphas are not exactly subtle, especially when they’re flanking a single, unmarked beta. I see the whispers, the nudges, the furtive glances from a pair of omegas at a flower stall, their eyebrows raised in silent, gossipy question. A month or two ago, it would have sent me into a spiral of mortification.
