Page 24

I remind myself that French 75s are for sipping and let them keep talking. Nodding occasionally while I enjoy my very expensive drink. They’re on a roll now, painting a beautiful picture of my life as their barefoot, pregnant, possibly remote-working little homemaker. We’re not even ten minutes into this conversation.

At least the Dougs only had one pissant. This is a whole pack of them.

The Overstreet Pissant Pack.

I should start a blog. Cammie's Field Guide to Pissant Packs and Other Dating Catastrophes.

“… and weekends could be for pack time, obviously. No more late nights at the office stressing over campaigns—”

Sip.

“… you’d have time for all those omega hobbies you probably love—”

Sip.

“… omegas love nesting and decorating, right?”

This one does, but still. Sip.

“… we’d make sure you never had to worry about money or decisions again—”

I finish the last drink, set the glass down with a soft click, and smile sweetly at all three of them. “Thanks so much, guys. This has been… enlightening.” I slide out of the booth. “Enjoy the rest of your search. I hope you find exactly what you’re looking for.”

Dane’s mouth actually drops open. “Wait, what? You’re leaving?”

Greg is dumbfounded. “But we were just getting to know each other!”

I smile. It doesn’t reach my eyes. “Exactly. And now I know enough.”

Cade half-stands, reaching toward me like he’s trying to decide if he should physically stop me. “Cammie, come on, sit back down. You’re being unreasonable.”

I give them a little finger wave and start walking toward the door, my Louboutins clicking confidently against the floor.

Behind me, I hear Dane sputter, “Was it something we said?”

Cade hollers, “Wait, hold up!”

Of course the pissant pack follows me out onto the sidewalk. Three grown men who spent fifteen minutes explaining how my only purpose in life is to wear an apron and pop out babies can’t possibly let me walk away. I keep my smile sweet and my steps steady even though my Louboutins are not made for dramatic exits.

Dane catches up first, curly hair bouncing. “Cammie, come on. You totally misunderstood us.”

Greg flanks my other side, looking comically baffled. “We were just being honest. What pack in their right mind would want an independent omega? You should be thanking us for even considering you.”

Cade trails behind them, nodding like a bobblehead. “Yeah, we’re doing you a favor here.”

Internally I’m rethinking every life choice that led me to East Rock’s dating scene. Maybe I should skip the pack dates altogether. Nameless, faceless alphas who know how to knot and shut the fuck up are looking better and better. A heat clinic requires no conversation. No opinions about my career. Just service and then goodbye.

I could fuck around as I please until my heat hits, then let the clinic handle the rest. It’s a clean and simple solution. Zero risk of hearing the words “you’d look amazing in an apron” ever again.

I’m still smiling on the outside when they surround me on the sidewalk, blocking my path to the Uber pickup spot.

“Seriously,” Dane says, holding up his hands like he’s approaching a wild animal. “You’re overreacting. We were talking about traditional roles. That’s all. It’s better to be honest about expectations up front.”

“You misunderstood,” Greg adds, stepping closer. “We never said you had to quit your job. Just that you wouldn’t need to—”

A loud, angry female voice cuts through the bullshit. “That’s my beta! Step the fuck back, you omega bitch!”

At first it doesn’t even register. Who is she talking to? My brain does a full shut-down and reboot before I realize she’s yelling at me.