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Dinner with Ash Pack.
Smith comes strolling into the kitchen, dressed immaculately in a gray suit, with one of my pale pink panty sets neatly folded into his breast pocket. When he notices the way all three of us stare at him, he pauses, lifting his brow at us.
“Yes?”
Words fall out of me without permission. “You called Ronan.”
His nod is clipped, but his voice oozes self-assurance. “It’s customary for the alpha of the newer pack to contact the more established pack leader to arrange the first dinner party.”
It sounds like he’s reciting from an etiquette book. The sort of thing I enjoy that no one else seems to care about anymore. When his dark eyes land on mine, I can read them easily.
I care, too.
This has happened more and more, recently. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but Smith appears intent on making it clear just how much we have in common.
A lot of it is obvious, I suppose. We both like to dress up. Keep a nice house. Organize our agendas.
We’re both old-fashioned.
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t even tried to kiss me yet. Despite, you know, that whole rutting-my-throat thing.
He can probably sense that I don’t know what to make of him. I spent months shaking every time he walked into Proper Coffee. Rewiring that fear hasn’t been easy, but I don’t quiver every time he comes into a room anymore.
We share space more and more easily, it seems. He’s been much better about acknowledging me, pointing out every little change around the house, and thanking me sincerely for every single meal I make.
He still doesn’t mention the panties. Or come home at dinner time. But I suspect that has more to do with whatever “meeting” he goes to daily than it does avoiding me.
As if to prove my point, Smith approaches. The others naturally clear a path for their alpha, allowing him room to stand beside me and drop a gentlemanly kiss to my cheek.
“You may want to check Thursday night,” he murmurs, stepping back.
I blink down at the calendar, my eyes roaming over the upcoming weeks. Sure enough, there’s another line on there that I didn’t see before, written in red under the guys’ away game schedule.
Date Night—Remi and Smith.
chapter
fifty
According to Irene, there’s only one reason for an alpha to miss one of her illustrious classes.
Date night.
An idea so obvious, the fact that I missed it and had to be reminded that dates exist was almost as mortifying as having her question me about my plans in front of every other alpha in the room.
When I told her I wanted to take Remi to the most upscale, famous restaurant in town, Irene tutted, reaching up to adjust my tie the way a grandmother might mess with her grandson’s hair.
“Now, now,” she said. “Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the personality? She’s courting you, is she not? So show her you, Mr. Pierson.”
Well. Easier said than done.
I changed the plans half a dozen times before they felt right. Or, rather, felt like “me.”
A concept I am much less familiar with than I’d like to admit.
This morning, when I brought Remi her coffee, I also included a gift bag and instructions to open it when it was time for her to get ready. As soon as I get home from the office and finish changing, I find she’s followed my instructions.
My good fucking girl.
