The three ex-NHL athletics sorely stick out. Zev is impossible to miss—broad-shouldered, and in a t-shirt tight enough to qualify as a compression garment. Fowler is next to him, his hair even redder under the neon lights, mouth already open as if the act of eating pizza is a competitive sport. And then Connor, as if my body could ever forget moving beside him earlier today: blond, too tall for the booth, blue eyes fixed on the phone in his hand, studiously avoiding the rest of the world.
To their credit, they don’t look up to meet my gaze—thank god—but I do watch each of them start to shift uncomfortably.
If I can scent them, they no doubt scent me, too. Suppressants of all kinds need to start coming with a warning label:Does not work on scent-matches and fated mates.
Charlotte must see them the same moment I do because she stops mid-stride, then shoots me a look. “Want to go somewhere else?”
I want to say, “Yes, let’s leave and never come back”, but I’m already vibrating with something that is probably anger and definitely not fear. I refuse to let these alphas win at the very first skirmish of the summer.
My jaw sets hard. “Nope, we’re staying.”
Charlotte grins. “Hell yes.”
The only available table is directly in their line of sight, so I pretend not to notice as we snake past their booth. The alphas’ scents flood the air in punchy, staccato waves. The part of me that wants to drop to my knees and find a way past their rejection and my cold shoulder is drowned out by the part that remembers howbadlyit hurt to be rejected by all three at once.
We sit. Charlotte grabs a menu and holds it up between us, a shield against their stares.
“I vote supreme,” she says, “Unless you hate olives.”
“I’ll survive olives.”
Behind us, Zev’s laugh booms, echoing across the restaurant. The hairs on my arms stand up.
I refuse to look over.
Charlotte, who clearly has never met a tense moment she couldn’t bulldoze through, keeps the conversation rolling. “So, what’s your take on our odds? Do you think the show will actually pull off a full cast before someone gets stress-fractured?”
“Not if Connor keeps ‘accidentally’ body-checking everyone.” It’s petty, but I need the jab.
Charlotte snorts. “Seriously. He looks like he’s trying out for the Bruins.”
I risk a glance at the booth. All three are now fully tuned in to our conversation. Zev’s expression is unreadable and Fowler’s eyes dart from me to the pizza and back. And Connor—well, Connor is looking straight at me.
Our eyes lock. I can’t breathe for a second. It’s not longing or regret I see, but something more complicated: guilt… and a certain kind of primal hunger. I understand because part of that combination rings through me no matter how much I wish I could shut it out.
Blissfully, our server appears and breaks the tension. We order a large supreme, a pitcher of Diet Coke, and mozzarella sticks because Charlotte claims it’s “physically impossible to be sad with fried cheese in your mouth.”
When the food comes, I eat mechanically. The pizza is actually delicious. I try to focus that and nothing else, but the conversation at theothertable keeps leaking into my head.
After a while, Charlotte looks between me and the pack, and asks, “Want me to body block you on the way out, just in case? The tension between these two tables is ridiculous.”
I shake my head. “I’m not running from them, Charlotte.”
She nods, approving. “Good. They should be the ones running from you.”
Then she glances at her phone, frowns, and says, “Back in a sec. I need to wash my hands. These olives are, like, turbo-brined.” She slides out of the booth and disappears, leaving me alone in the direct line of sight of three alphas who once wanted me more than air and then decided I was suffocating them.
I concentrate on counting the pepperoni slices on the pizza and memorizing the words on my napkin. But I can feel them approaching before I even look up.
First is Zev. He stops at the end of my table, arms crossed and an uneasy expression on his face. Fowler stands close enough that their shoulders brush. Connor flanks them, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“Grace,” Zev says.
“Hey,” I reply, flat.
Fowler clears his throat. “How’s it going? Your first day at Reverie and all that.”
I stare at him. “It was fine.”
