Page 5
I type for another minute, reading bits aloud, Lucy making small noises of approval or gentle sounds of maybe not that until we have something that feels right. Fun. A little bold. Honest without being too personal.
"Okay," I say. "Preferences. What do I put for heat services?"
Lucy chokes on her wine a little.
"I'm serious," I say. "It's a legitimate field. Do I write open to discussing or do I go ahead and say yes, please? That is in fact the whole point of this."
"Maybe open to discussing," she manages.
"Diplomatic," I agree, typing it. "Open to discussing heat services with the right," I pause, “pack." I quirk my eyebrow. "Too forward?"
"It's a dating app for omegas. I think that's allowed."
"Valid." I type it. Then I review the full profile. Read it back silently. It's good. Very good, actually. It sounds like me.
"There's one more field," I say. I turn the phone so Lucy can see it.
Comfort level with knotting. The options are a sliding scale.
Lucy makes a sound that is half laugh half inhale.
"I'm selecting enthusiastic," I inform her, completely deadpan.
"Cammie."
"Lucy. I legitimately love a knot." I tap the screen with great dignity. "I am selecting enthusiastic."
Lucy puts her face in her hands. I select it.
She surfaces, eyes watering, and points at my phone. "You have to show me if you get matches tonight."
"When," I correct. "When I get matches."
five
Camelia
Ilet myself in through the front door, which tells you everything you need to know about our friendship, and follow the smell of coffee and sugar through the wide entryway, past the staircase with its beautifully restored banister, and into the kitchen.
Lark’s packhouse is objectively one of the most beautiful buildings I have ever been inside, and I have been inside a lot of beautiful buildings because I have excellent taste, a sense of adventure, and a company card that has occasionally taken me to places I probably didn't need to go for strictly professional reasons.
But this place. It's a Victorian with full historic bones, original millwork, and crown molding that makes you want to find whoever installed it a hundred and fifty years ago and kiss them. Tongue and everything.
And then Lark's pack went and renovated it with the kind of care that makes you understand these are not men who do things halfway. Modern kitchen, updated bathrooms. For god’s sake, her bathroom has four shower heads. Four!
The exterior is green and black. Dark, moody, a little severe. And somehow it's perfect. Lark told me Graham picked the colors. Spent actual time researching historic evidence that those shades were period accurate.
I didn't say anything out loud. But internally? Internally I thought that was the most adorable thing I'd ever heard, and I immediately buried it because Graham does not need to know that I find him adorable. Graham needs to continue believing that I am a woman of unpredictable energy who once told him, with complete eye contact and a pleasant smile, that I would castrate him. He's been a shaky mess around me ever since. It’s one of my favorite things about him.
Lark is already at the big island with her laptop open and a box of donuts sitting between two mugs of coffee. She's in an oversized plum-colored henley and her hair is up in a messy bun, strands escaping everywhere.
She looks a little pale.
"You look a little pale," I say, dropping my bag on the bench by the door and making for the donuts immediately. Wednesday means Data and Donuts, and Data and Donuts means I’m getting a maple glazed before I even say good morning. We started it when Lark lived three floors above me. When she moved in with her pack, we kept it because some things are non-negotiable.
"I'm fine," Lark says. "Good morning to you too."
"Good morning." I kiss the top of her head, take my maple donut, drop into the chair beside her. "You're still pale."
