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I wince, but Archer shrugs, and they all back away toward the bookshelves. Roman winks at us.
Dammit.
“I interrupted something, didn’t I?” Brinlee whispers, her cheeks pink. “I didn’t mean to… I was passing through the neighborhood and wanted to see if you had any new books… and have a coffee.”
“Don’t mind them,” I tell her. “They were also just passing through.”
“But you like them,” she says quietly, and I start.
Do I?
Fuck, I do. But right now, the main thing is…
“Can I invite you for a coffee and cake? I saved a book just for you.”
“You did?” Her eyes go comically round. “Really?”
“Really. Come on.” Yeah, I’ve found out what makes her tick and I’m taking advantage. Go on and sue me. “You’ll love it.”
“Are you sure about this?” She keeps glancing in the direction of the pack, who may have obeyed and gone back to their table by the shelves but remain standing, the big oafs, arms folded over their chests, looking at us. Like three harpies waiting to pounce, momentarily turned to stone.
“Yeah, I’m very sure.”
I’ve rarely been so sure about anything in my life, and at the same time, I’ve never been so torn. She draws me like a bright, burning flame.
And the men standing like statues over there have also put a strange hook in me.
But all this means nothing, should mean nothing. The McGraw Pack said they aren’t looking for an omega, despite Roman’s “maybe,” and as for Brinlee… she’s giving me such mixed signals, it’s damn confusing.
Meanwhile, tomorrow I’m meeting this other pack, because my parents pulled on the strings controlling me, and fuck, I have no choice.
What if… what if they turn out to be a match? Even a scent-match, like Eric said? I mean, you never know, right? Just because my parents chose this pack that doesn’t mean it’s terrible.
Not necessarily. Even if my parents only care whether a pack is loaded, nothing else, who knows?
Right now, though, she’s here, beside me, and I get a chance to gain her trust, make her like me. It shouldn’t matter as much as it does. I’ll be fucking crushed if she turns out not to care.
No pressure.
“You don’t have to reserve books for me,” she’s saying now, her voice soft. “I don’t even know when and if I can drop by, and besides…”
“Besides, what?”
She seems to be chewing on something. “Nothing. You’re so nice, that’s all.”
“Why does it sound like a bad thing?”
“It’s not bad.” She laughs. It’s not a giggle or snicker, but a light laugh, so light it’s almost a cloud. Like the white cloud of your breath when it’s cold outside? That’s how it feels.
I smile, the lightness slipping into my chest, shoving the stress away. “I hope you’ll keep dropping by. I like it. I like having you around.”
“You don’t know me,” she whispers.
“But I’d like to.” I take her hand in mine. It’s smaller, though not by much, and delicate. “Hi. I’m Sawyer. Nice to meet you.”
This time, I fully expect her to giggle, but she only frowns. “Sawyer, I…”
“You must be the famous Brinlee.” I clown about, giving a silly bow, hoping to chase that frown away. “Such a pleasure having you here. Drinks and books are on the house, Mademoiselle.”
