"Some things don't improve with age, Emma. Some things get worse and more complicated. Like milk. And cheese that's been left out. And romantic relationships that ended in mutual emotional destruction with a side of hurt feelings."
I walk back to my bedroom, where my half-packed suitcase sits like evidence of everything I'm risking by taking this job. My business. My sanity. My carefully reconstructed sense of self-worth that took actual years to build after leaving Pine Hollow like I was fleeing a natural disaster.
"Besides," I continue, because apparently I'm not done torturing myself, "they probably don't want to work with me any more than I want to work with them. Logan hated how I reorganized his firehouse supplies. Griff thought I was pushy for suggesting home improvements. Xavier made me feel like I was constantly disappointing him just by existing in his perfectly organized space."
"People change, Sav."
"Do they though? Because I'm still the same woman who tries to fix everything. I'm still the same woman who falls for alphas who don't actually want to be improved." I grab my toiletry bag and start throwing random items into it like I'm stocking for the apocalypse. Toothbrush, toothpaste, the expensive face cream I bought when I thought landing that celebrity wedding was guaranteed. "I'm still the same disaster with slightly better hair products and a business degree."
"Maybe that's not necessarily a bad thing."
"It's a terrible thing. It's why I'm alone at twenty-eight with a failing business." The words hang in my tiny apartment like smoke from a fire I can't put out.
I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror and wince. My hair is half-curled, half-flat. My makeup is smudged under one eye from my earlier mascara adventure. I look exactly like what I am: a woman having a complete breakdown while packing for a trip that might destroy what's left of her carefully reconstructed dignity.
"What's been happening with the cancellations?" Emma asks.
"Alphas are asking me if I do background checks on omegas before I plan their weddings." I grab my jewelry box and dump the contents into a travel pouch. "And omegas wanting to know if I provide security services to keep their other packs away from the reception."
"Other packs?"
"Apparently there are birth packs, mating packs, bonding packs, and emotional support packs now." I fold my black dress with the kind of precision that comes from years of packing for destination weddings. "I thought they were all the same thing."
"Wait, what? Since when do omegas have multiple packs?"
"That's what I said!" I throw my hands up, nearly knocking over my lamp. "This omega from Boulder wanted protection services in case four different packs showed up uninvited to her wedding. Four! How many packs does one person need?"
"That's insane."
"Tell me about it. I'm a wedding planner, not a security firm." I zip up my toiletry bag with more force than necessary. "But apparently I'm behind the times on modern pack dynamics."
"One wedding. You just need one really good wedding to turn everything around,” she says.
"What if I completely mess this up?" I ask quietly, my voice small in the morning light filtering through my apartment's cheap blinds.
"You won't."
"What if seeing them again proves I haven't grown at all? What if I'm still the same woman who thinks love means fixing people until they're perfect enough to want someone else?"
"What if you're not?"
"They live together now," Emma mutters suddenly, like she's ripping off a bandaid made of emotional dynamite.
"What?" I blink at my reflection, trying to process this information while holding lipstick with hands that are definitely shaking. "What do you mean they live together?"
"The three of them. They live together in a house on Maple Street. Griff built it himself."
My brain struggles to compute this information like it's trying to solve advanced calculus while drunk. "They live together."
"Pack house. They formed a pack last year.”
The lipstick slips from my fingers and rolls under the dresser like it's abandoning ship. Pack house. They formed a pack. The three men who couldn't handle my individual brand of loving attention created a collective life without me.
"Oh." The word comes out small and deflated, like a balloon that's given up on floating.
"I thought you should know before you get there and see their mailbox or something."
"A pack." I test the word, tasting its implications like medicine that might be poisonous. "They're bonded to each other?"
