Page 122 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Sometimes, the best way to get over someone is not to get under someone; it’s getting comfortable alone in the bed.

Sometimes just existing is enough.

Part of my self-imposed therapy has been convincing myself that I can be enough for me.

My phone chimes an alert in my cotton cocoon. I have to stick my hand out of my haven and feel around for the device on the charger.

Groaning, I resist the demand to leave my tent for a solid ten minutes. I flip through my accounts to keep them active.

A text message comes through from Jolie.

The pic is a close-up of Livvy out at a club. It looks to be a pap’s shot, although no one else is in the frame with her.

The head bitch of the bunnies sports a recently healed scar bisecting her cheek. She’s scowling and sloshing a half-full drink.

Cackling, I kick my feet as much as the cramped space allows. Serves her right.

That shot of vindictive energy carries me through the day’s therapy session and into the evening. Jolie’s idea for a best friend date buoys my mood, and we blast our favorite playlist while we get ready together in her cramped bathroom. We’re also half of a bottle of moscato deep and decide to take a rideshare.

We’re both braced for a team to repel through a window when the alcohol first hits my system. None come, and we decide with absolutely no rational basis that the Admin have given me the night off.

When we give our name, the petite hostess lights up. She eagerly takes our coats and motions us to the back of the restaurant.

“The chef’s table is just this way,” she informs us.

“Oooh, fancy,” I murmur to Jolie as she walks behind me, and she smiles broadly in response.

“How did you win this again?” I ask.

“Something I’d signed up for a while ago. Turns out it took them a lot of time to track me down.”

“Kudos for commitment to the giveaway, I guess.”

“Here you are,” the hostess informs us. She holds a heavy curtain aside and motions for us to go through.

As I make my way in, I stop so abruptly that Jolie bumps into me.

Ornate, hand-painted wallpaper display idyllic scenes as if we’re inside a Tuscan home looking out through windows to the countryside.

Soft violin music plays.

Candles in glass jars litter the room and are spread across a curved table facing the door.

The white table cloth contrasts sharply with the deep navy of the suits of the three men waiting for us.

Chapter Eighteen

Trick

The curtain parts and the brighter light from the hallway casts rays into the room. When Isabelle comes through, it’s like the heavens have opened and sent a divine being.

The royal-blue dress flutters around her legs and cinches in at the waist, then molds around her breasts in a way that makes my mouth water. Long, alluring waves beg for my hands to wrench her head back and kiss her. Pouty lips and smoldering eyes demand my undivided attention.

And then her scent hits me.

It’s a tidal wave of spicy-sweet radiance. I know the guys are affected by it too. The bonds might be new, but they’re anything but weak. The strength of their grief, joy, and desire bleed into my senses. They insist they don’t get much through the connection, but maybe that’s because the pack is incomplete without our omega.

Without Izzy.

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