Okay, before the Derek detour," she says. "Where were we?"
I give them the cliff-notes version of the rest. The panicked emergency summit before Harper's couples shower. Then, the living together. Syncing schedules, finding a balance so everyone pulls their weight around the apartment.
"We're getting there," I say. "Slowly, but we are."
"That all sounds incredibly hot, if you ask me," Luna says, swirling her glass.
"And I think someone's had a few too many," Maren teases, nudging Luna's elbow.
Then the conversation wanders. Maren talks about her bakery. A custom cake order that's slowly consuming her sanity, the fact she might do a pastry collab with the most famous bakery in Lakeview, Elena's Creations. Luna catches Derek's eye across the room every few minutes, a volley neither of them seems interested in ending. I finish my drink, accept another, and somewhere in the middle of the third round, Derek materializes at the edge of our table and asks Luna if she wants some air. She looks at us, eyebrows raised.
"Go," I say. "We're fine."
She goes. Her hand finds his arm as they move toward the door, and Maren and I track their exit like two wildlife documentarians observing a mating ritual.
"Ten bucks she comes back with a date planned," Maren says.
"Twenty this is already one."
We both laugh, and Maren reaches for the last scone, breaking it in half and pushing one piece toward me. The bar has gotten louder around us, the playlist leaning harder into classic rock now.
Maren's gaze seems to track something behind my shoulder, then does a double take. "Wait—is that…?"
I half-turn, following her gaze, and for a second my brain doesn't catch up with my eyes.
Behind the counter, half-lit by the amber glow of the string lights, is a cute bartender who definitely wasn't there when we arrived. He's pulling a draft for someone at the far end of the bar, sleeves pushed to his elbows.
Arthur?
He catches our stare mid-pour, and a grin breaks across his face. He says something to the bartender beside him, sets the pint on the counter, and makes his way to our table, slinging a bar towel over his shoulder.
"Well, well," he says, bracing both hands on the edge of our table. "Didn't expect to see myhoneygracing my workplace with her presence tonight."
His grin sharpens. Then his eyes search my face a beat longer, and the grin tilts into something between disbelief and amusement. "You had no idea I picked up extra shifts over here, did you?
I press my lips together and shake my head slowly.
He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. "Wow,honey."
"In my defense," I say, wincing slightly, "there are a lot of things I'm still learning about mypack."
He looks between us, amused. "You know what, I'm not even offended." He straightens, taps the table twice. "All right, what else are you drinking? And don't tell me whatever you've already got, because I can do better. As a matter of fact—"
He disappears and comes back two minutes minute later with two glasses and a confidence that suggests the drink isn't up for debate. He sets them down in front of us. It's something amber and slightly effervescent, with a sprig of rosemary laid across the rim.
"Rosemary-honey bourbon smash," he says. "House specialty. On me."
Maren lifts the glass and turns it in the light, admiring it. "This almost looks too pretty to drink."
I have to agree, except I still take a sip.
It's warm and smooth, the sweetness held in check by the rosemary, and it goes down far too easily. "Okay. That's dangerously good."
"That's the idea." Arthur leans against the side of the booth, looking pleased with himself. "By the way, I texted Knox and Mason."
I lower my glass. "What for?"
"So they know you're here of course," he says, winking. "A pack has a right to know where their omega is. For protection and all. Let's make tonight a thing."
