“Charade,” says Kellen, then glances at me. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
What I want is not to be a pawn in the world’s worst soap opera, but here we are. “Yes, this is what I want.”
We go down the list. No unsanctioned PDA, no one-on-one interviews, no bringing up family history. Social events to be scheduled weekly, minimum. All media requests to go through our handlers.
Nolan leans back. “Anything else?”
No one else has any more input. I set down the stationary pad and pen. “Good. That’s it, then.” I raise my glass. “To the world’s weirdest non-pack.”
Kellen clinks his glass to mine. “To the non-pack. Unless something natural happens.”
And to the continued fake-dating soap opera.
Elliot gives a nod, and even Nolan lifts his glass, though I think it’s more out of obligation than solidarity.
We sit in silence for a bit. The only sounds that break it are the ticking of the grandfather clock and the softest crackle from the fireplace.
Eventually, Kellen gets up and stretches. “I should get some rest. I have a call with the Palace lawyers at six a.m.”
Elliot stands, too. “I will make a sweep of the perimeter.”
“Because god forbid anyone assassinates me before the media does,” Kellen jokes.
I bark a sudden laugh. Kellen’s far funnier than I expected. “You’re not kidding.”
I think Kellen and I understand more about each other than either of us ever thought we could.
Nolan gestures at me. “Do you need anything, Piper?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m all set. But I’m tired, too. Think it’s time to go up.”
Everyone peels off, one by one. If I was the type to believe in fate, I’d say I was doomed from the first scent-match. But I don’t believe in fate.
I believe in disaster.
And if there’s one thing I am fully equipped for, it’s making the best out of a disaster.
Or at least making sure I get a few decent songs out of it.
CHAPTER 8
Kellen
If I could giveyou an example of the ridiculousness of my life, I’d show you my current predicament: I’m surrounded by a dozen security professionals who would die for me, and yet here I am, sitting cross-legged on a hand-quilted blanket that cost more than some mid-sized sedans, completely unguarded against the far more immediate threat.
Piper Sumner. Superstar and omega.Myomega, even if only by scent.
It’s been two weeks now, and despite our not-pack’s initial agreement to keep things platonic outside of what is required by PR contract, it’s becoming incredibly difficult tokeepdoing that.
As each day goes by, Piper and Nolan feel like more than just a contract.
Or maybe that’s me being overly dramatic.
My fingers play with the tassels on the edge of the blanket.
The blanket isn’t mine. It’s from the Hale family vault, a place that allegedly contains priceless artifacts, but is mostly filled with oddments from generations of people with entirely too much money and not enough hobbies.
The park is perfect. It’s a lake surrounded by a hundred species of wildflowers, plus two thousand more that weretrucked in by the city for exactly this sort of event. Birds are singing. Children are being corralled by over-caffeinated parents. The sun, which has done nothing but rain scorn on me for the past week, now shines like it’s auditioning for a tourism board. And somewhere, just out of sight, a dozen camera lenses are aimed at the two of us.
