The catering manager, a woman who looks like she's been through several wars and isn't impressed by drunk aunts, crosses her arms and stares Dolly down.
"Ma'am," the catering manager says with professional calm, "I'm not serving alcohol to guests when we're trapped in a blizzard with no medical facilities. That's how people die."
"It's medicinal!" Dolly protests, waving her flask like evidence in a court case. "Emergency situations require emergency measures! Besides, it's barely noon. This is practically breakfast."
"It's three in the afternoon," I point out, which makes Dolly look confused and slightly betrayed.
"Time is a social construct," she declares with the philosophical depth of someone who's been drinking since dawn. "And frankly, being trapped in a snowstorm seems like the perfect time to reassess our relationship with conventional scheduling."
The catering manager looks at me with the expression of someone requesting backup.
"Dolly," I say, using the voice I usually reserve for difficult clients, "how about you help me check on the fireplaces instead? Make sure everyone's staying warm?"
"Oh, that's a wonderful idea!" Dolly brightens immediately, apparently forgetting about her battle with the catering staff. "I can assess the romantic potential of fireside seating arrangements! Very important for proper winter courtship!"
I escort Dolly away from the kitchen before she can cause any more chaos, but I can already see her eyeing the couples gathered around the fireplaces with the intensity of someone planning military strategy.
32
GRIFF
The storm's getting worse. The wind's howling louder, and even with the fireplaces working, the temperature in the building is dropping. People are bundling closer together, and the romantic tension that Beverly mentioned is becoming impossible to ignore.
Near the largest fireplace, I can see Pack Sunrise huddled together in a pile that's definitely more intimate than typical pack behavior. The alpha's got his arms around two omegas, and they're all pressed together in a way that suggests their heat cycles are syncing up from stress.
Stonefen Pack has claimed the fireplace in the smaller sitting room, and they're doing that low-level purring thing that packs do when they're settling in for extended nesting. The sound is actually kind of soothing, until you realize it means they're planning to stay put for a long time.
And Redtooth Pack is still running their compatibility experiments, but now they've got a line of people waiting to participate. Rebecca's got a whole system going with numbered cards and what appears to be a timer.
"NEXT!" Rebecca calls out, consulting her clipboard. "We need a beta male, aged twenty-five to thirty-five, withpreference for mountain living and tolerance for aggressive pack hierarchies!"
A guy I don't recognize raises his hand tentatively. "I... I think that might be me?"
"Excellent! Please proceed to Station Beta for scent compatibility analysis with our omega Jennifer. She enjoys hiking, baking, and has a slight preference for possessive alphas!"
Jennifer waves enthusiastically from behind a table covered in what looks like scientific equipment. Or possibly just kitchen supplies repurposed for matchmaking. It's hard to tell the difference at this point.
That's when the pack politics really start getting out of hand.
"EXCUSE ME!" A voice booms across the main hall with the subtlety of a fog horn. "WE HAVE THE BIGGEST NESTING ROOM ON THE NORTH COAST!"
I turn to see Alpha Derek Thornmark standing on a chair like he's addressing troops before battle. He's a massive guy with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of presence that usually commands respect. Right now, he looks like he's lost his damn mind.
"Pack Thornmark offers premium accommodations!" he continues, gesturing toward the staircase like he's a real estate agent. "Our suite features panoramic mountain views, luxury bedding, and optimal temperature control!"
Within seconds, there's a stampede. Twenty omegas surge toward the stairs like it's Black Friday and Derek's offering the last discounted TV. I watch in horror as they push past startled alphas and betas, their survival instincts apparently overriding all social niceties.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, pushing through the crowd to get to the stairs before someone gets trampled.
"WAIT!" Another voice shouts from across the room. "Pack Blackridge has superior accommodations!"
Alpha Nico Moretti has positioned himself near the windows, surrounded by his pack members like they're a sales team. "We can smell compatibility from across the treeline!" he announces with the confidence of someone who's definitely lost touch with reality. "Scientific approach to pack formation! Guaranteed optimal matches!"
I watch in fascination as six confused omegas and what appears to be the UPS driver who got caught in the storm slowly gravitate toward the Blackridge group. The UPS driver looks particularly bewildered, clutching his delivery tablet like it might protect him from whatever's happening.
"Sir," the driver says hesitantly, "I just need to deliver this package and get back to my truck..."
"Nonsense!" Derek declares, throwing an arm around the guy's shoulders. "You have excellent scent compatibility with our omega Sarah! This is clearly fate!"
