"Bad," Emma says, her voice carrying no trace of humor whatsoever, as if she's dead serious. "Like, really, really bad. They argue constantly. About everything. Logan thinks Griff is messy and irresponsible. Griff thinks Logan is controlling and inflexible. Xavier tries to mediate but ends up frustrated with both of them."
"That sounds like normal roommate stuff," I say. The kind of domestic disputes that happen when people share space without clear boundaries.
"Normal roommates don't share alpha bonds. Normal roommates can move out when things get uncomfortable," Emma says.
I push away from the counter and start pacing the length of Emma's kitchen, my bare feet slapping against the cold tile. Something about her tone is setting off every alarm bell I have.
"Emma. Why exactly did you ask me to come here?”
Her jasmine scent spikes with guilt so sharp it makes my nose wrinkle. "Because you're my best friend and I wanted you here."
"And?" I stop pacing and cross my arms, fixing her with my best intimidating stare.
“You’re a wedding planner!” She takes a shaky breath, staring down at her coffee like it holds the secrets of the universe. "And because they need an omega."
I blink at her. "They need what now?"
"An omega. To help balance things out. Dax thinks that's why they're so unstable." The words tumble out of her mouth in a rush. "Three alphas living together without omega influence is apparently a recipe for disaster, and since you used to date all of them…”
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." I spin around, fury rising in my chest like hot mercury. "You brought me back here to babysit my three ex-boyfriends?"
"Not babysit. Help stabilize…”
"Let me get this straight." I lean against the counter, voice dripping with false sweetness. “They all left or dumped me, and now you want me to move in with them, because they can't figure out whose turn it is to buy milk?"
Emma's face crumples. "It's not like that..”
"Isn't it though?" I push off the counter and head for the kitchen doorway. "Well congratulations, Emma. You've officially won the award for worst maid of honor duty ever assigned."
"Savannah, wait…”
"Nope. I'm going to shower. When I come back down, we're planning your wedding like civilized people. No more alpha pack therapy sessions."
I stalk out before she can guilt me into staying, leaving her alone with her coffee and her spectacularly terrible matchmaking schemes.
Thank you, universe, for bringing me back to my hometown after eight years and immediately dumping me into the middle of a pack dysfunction intervention. Because apparently my life wasn't complicated enough already.
7
SAVANNAH
I'm halfway to the kitchen doorway when I hear the voices getting closer, and I quickly step back toward the counter. No way I'm getting caught trying to escape like some kind of coward. I'll face this head-on, even if "this" turns out to be exactly what I think it is.
The voices reach the kitchen, and suddenly they're all here. Dax enters first, his clean pine scent carrying warmth and the kind of mild exasperation that says he's been playing referee since breakfast. His auburn hair looks like he's been running his hands through it, which, knowing this pack, he probably has.
Xavier follows, and my brain decides this is the perfect moment to short-circuit. Eight years, and he's still stupidly attractive in ways that should probably be regulated by some kind of public safety commission. Impeccably dressed despite the early hour because of course he is, his cool mint and expensive cologne scent mixing with something sharper that screams "I'm professionally frustrated."
His dark hair is perfectly styled with silver threading through it at the temples that somehow makes him look even more like the kind of man who could ruin my life with a single raised eyebrow. Behind those designer glasses, his intelligent hazeleyes find mine immediately, and my stomach does something embarrassing that I'm going to pretend didn't happen.
Griff comes next, and my heart does something stupid that I'm going to blame on caffeine withdrawal. His sandy hair is disheveled like he's been stress-running his hands through it, which honestly tracks with what Emma said about their domestic disaster situation. His sandalwood and sawdust scent carries notes of guilt and defensiveness, because apparently even his pheromones know he screwed up yesterday.
But it's his face that makes me want to throw something. Still boyishly handsome in that "aw shucks, I'm just a simple construction worker" way that used to make me forgive him for everything. Those warm brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles, that easy grin that made everything seem manageable even when it absolutely wasn't.
Don't stare, I command my traitorous eyeballs, but they're already busy cataloging all the ways eight years have been unfairly kind to him. Broader shoulders. Better-fitting jeans. Those skilled, calloused hands that I definitely did not spend way too much time thinking about during my self-imposed celibacy.
And then Logan enters last, because apparently the universe has a twisted sense of dramatic timing. The air leaves my lungs like I've been sucker-punched by my own terrible taste in men. Those storm-gray eyes sweep the kitchen like he's assessing threats and escape routes, his smoky cedar scent mixing with leather and rain in that combination that always made my omega instincts roll over and beg.
His dark hair shows more silver at the temples, and his rugged hands grip a coffee cup like it's the only thing keeping him from doing something drastic. Which, knowing Logan, it probably is.
