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“Thank you for letting me come over,” I blurt next, repressing a cringe.
Lord, I even sound like a middle schooler.
Always kind to a fault, Archer smiles wider. “Of course. Having you here makes Meg so happy; we love that.”
He shuffles the books tucked under his arm and sets one at the very end of my chair, careful not to touch me. He clears his throat before fibbing, “I found this extra copy in my collection upstairs. I don’t need it back.”
He truly is a nice man. When he discovered I love to read and noticed that all of the books I brought poolside were from the local library, he began casually offering me copies of things he’d “finished” with.
It wasn’t until I found a very recent price sticker on the inside of one of their dust jackets that I realized he’d specifically bought two copies so I could have one.
…And it wasn’t until I mentioned it to Meg that I realized she masterminded his charity.
She does that sort of thing now that she can. Slipping cash into my purse when she thinks I’m not looking, picking up checks for meals, buying me an absurd amount of Christmas gifts.
I know she only does it because she loves me. We’ve shared everything with each other since we met—she doesn’t see why her new family and their wealth should be any different.
There’s probably some way for me to explain how small it all makes me feel—but then she would feel bad. Plus, if the measly tips I made today are any indication, I’m not exactly in a position to turn down financial help.
Archer accepts my thanks for the “extra” book and pulls a nearby lounger to the pool’s edge. Meg and Theo chase each other around the shallow end, playing a ridiculously mushy version of Marco-Polo until Theo finally gets his arms back around her and lifts her up to his packmate.
Meg situates herself against Archer’s side, grinning when his lips graze her forehead. Their eyes meet in a pointed way that tells me they’re communicating internally. I don’t catch on to Theo’s involvement until he makes a nervous coughing sound.
My best friend shoots him a look. “Theo,” she calls, just a touch too shrill, “I’ve been meaning to tell Remi about that thing your sister is doing. What’s it called again?”
Despite the fact that this is clearly some rehearsed skit, the big alpha stammers for a second. “It, uh, um, it’s called Forever Matched?”
My stomach twists at the name. A whine bubbles at the base of my throat. I stab it as quickly as I can, hoping no one heard.
Archer is much better at playing along. His answering, “Hmm,” manages to sound genuinely ponderous. “I’ve heard of them. Very reputable scent-matching service. They have the highest global success rate—if I’m not mistaken.”
Archer is never mistaken.
Theo flips his dripping man bun off the top of his head, nodding too earnestly. “That’s what Emma said. Like, three of her sorority sisters have found packs through them.”
Meg fiddles with the drawstring on her doctor alpha’s swim trunks, very carefully not looking at me. “What do you think, Remi? Would you ever use a service like that?”
Feelings fly through me, too fast for any to sink in. There’s a stab of betrayal—because of course Meg knows that a professional scent-matching service is the last resort for omegas—and a flash of dismay.
I narrow my eyes at her. “You know how I feel about it,” I tell her, prim. “Besides, those services cost tens of thousands of dollars.”
She drags her gaze up to mine, flinching in a guilty wince. “Rrriiiight… but, just for the sake of argument, if cost wasn’t an issue—would you do it?”
I mean, if cost wasn’t an issue I’d be on a private jet to a spa on the Amalfi Coast.
But I’m a barista.
Last week, I ate microwave rice out of pouches four nights in a row.
It’s an effort not to glare. Meg, of all people, knows how hard it is to be omega without a pack. I may not have the same heat issues she did—yet—but it still isn’t fun to be in agonizing pain for days at a time and handle it all by myself.
Meg knows I just went through a terrible heat over the holidays. She knows I need a pack and have always wanted to find one the old-fashioned way. Am I really so pathetic that she feels like she needs to push this on me now?
“I don’t know,” I tell her, hiding my frown behind my drink. “I would have to think about it.”
But I know I won’t.
Because the fact is, what I want can’t be boiled down to numbers or lab samples.
