I lean over.
Press my lips to her forehead—light, brief, the same easy contact from the dress shop that turned her cheeks pink and turned mine a shade I'd prefer Declan didn't witness—and say, very close to her ear: "As your temporary lucky leprechaun, on behalf of this pack, this is a gift from the generous pot of Rowan's bank account. Accept it. He gets actual joy from spending money. It's his emotional support activity."
She pulls back far enough to look at me.
"Rowan would genuinely hate you for that description."
"I love that you already know that."
"What the fuck does that mean."
We both turn.
Rowan is in the doorway.
Declan is behind him with his phone now pocketed, which means the security situation has been resolved to his satisfaction and he is now available for this one.
"He was explaining your Uber Black pastry service," Mila says.
"I was explaining the pot of gold theory," I say.
"They're the same thing," Rowan says, in the tone of a man who has decided not to be insulted because the person saying it is finding it genuine rather than malicious, and moves past us toward the display wall with the particular efficiency of someone who has arrived somewhere and is now assessing what needsto happen. He reads the display card on the Titan Pocket Pro. Reads the combo package pricing.
"She found something she likes?" Declan asks me.
"Phone and laptop. Same ecosystem. Good deal on the combination."
He looks at Mila, who has the expression of someone preparing to make the case for why this isn't necessary.
"Before you—" she starts.
"She wants to open her own bar," I say.
The room goes slightly still.
Mila looks at me with the specific expression of someone who has been both betrayed and encouraged simultaneously and hasn't decided which is the dominant feeling.
"Her own bar," Declan says.
"For Omegas specifically," I continue, because I'm already here and she's already blushing and the information should be in the room. "A proper bar with good drinks—which she can absolutely make, as demonstrated—and an Omega-safe design. Protected sections, dedicated nights, the kind of environment where an Omega can come in alone and not be managing anyone's perception of her being there. She's had the concept for two years. The laptop would let her actually work on it."
The blush is deep now.
She looks between me and Declan and then at Rowan, who has stopped reading the display card and is watching her instead with the focused, evaluating attention that I've seen him direct at business propositions he finds worth his time.
"That's a solid concept," Declan says. Not encouragingly—analytically, which is more useful. "The market gap for Omega-accessible hospitality is documented. And the security structure for dedicated evenings is manageable with the right design."
"The business plan is workable," Rowan says. Which from Rowan is the financial equivalent of a standing ovation.
Mila's face does something that takes a moment to identify: it's the expression of a person who has said a private dream aloud and had it received as a real thing rather than an indulgence. The relief of it happening at the same time as the vulnerability of it having happened.
The assistant returns from the back with a fresh boxed set—the teal phone and its matching laptop, sleek packaging that has the kind of design restraint that signals quality without announcing it.
Rowan moves.
He steps in front of me, in the direction of the counter, and says: "I'll handle it." He looks over his shoulder with the specific expression he reserves for when I've used his card without prior authorization. "You. Go outside."
"My feelings are genuinely hurt," I tell him.
