Page 74 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“Actually, can you help me with this?” he asks and hands me the phone.

“You seem to know what to do fine.”

“I mean posting it, beautiful. Can you edit it like you do your recipe posts and add it to my socials? I’m supposed to tag here.”

Of course I agree, although I carefully crop myself out of the photo so that it looks more like Vin is surrounded by several people and not merely me. A filter, the right hashtags, and off it goes. The guys are still bickering over which chicken dish when I’m done.

The post immediately registers over 100 likes and then builds at an overwhelming pace.

“You’re good at this,” Vin says. “You should do this for us. The posting, I mean. I’m awful at it. My agent chastises me about it like I’m a child.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I’ve already gotten plenty of unwanted attention for being a beta with you boys.”

“Then post whatever you think is best. That one of me in the kitchen was a nice shot.”

“Hell, Vin, I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t—”

“I’m not. It’s a great picture.”

“How’d you even find it?”

“I get notifications when you post.”

I open my mouth to roll off a response, but I have no idea what to say to that.

How does one react to learning Bobby Vinson’s not only actively following your posts, but also gets notifications about them?

Instead of elaborating on that tidbit, Vin charges forward with his idea.

“It wouldn’t have to include you if you don’t want it to. Throw up whatever content you think is best. I trust your judgment.”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll pay you,” Trick suggests. “My accounts are dead too. The team’s social media managers charge players $10,000 a month for daily posts. Would you accept that for the Wyatt Pack?”

Ten . . . thousand . . . what?

Is it hot in here? It feels hot in here.

“I... Yes, I can do that,” I stutter out.

The guys chuckle, but I am dead serious. That’s more than triple what I make at the call center in a good month. I plan to hold him to it.

After I’ve handed Trick and Vin my phone to log in to their accounts on my device, Mason adds his too.

Things must be progressing a lot more than I realized if he’s assuming, correctly, that the Wyatt Pack includes Mason in its needs and costs.

The waiter eyes us and raises an eyebrow at me draped between the three of them but doesn’t comment. I’m clearly not an omega—to him—but no one confronts us about it.

“Our” alphas order a mezze and an entree salad to share for starters, then two chicken dishes and three different steak options for main courses. Trick doesn’t delineate between the four of us while he repeats the requests to our waiter.

This is not a family-style restaurant, but apparently it is while we’re here.

The dinner runs smoothly and the evening slips away. The food is hearty and delicious, the low lighting gives the impression of privacy even in a room full of diners, and the boys banter and never move an inch to put space between us.

Against my own damn advice, I sink into the loam of the growing roots between them.

I know better than to get caught up in their relationships but allow myself the night anyway. We do need the practice, and this has certainly helped the guys’ dynamic solidify.

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