Page 30 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

I hate that when she smiled at Jace, I watched for too long. I hate that when she sat herself down in his car, I wanted to stop her.

And I hate—god, Ihate—that Ididn’t. That I just stood there in the doorway and watched them go.

I don’t buy it that she’s here to bond, or connect, or whatever bullshit it is that she’s feeding them. I know for a fact that she’s here to play whatever manipulative, calculated little game she’s got lined up, and I’m the only one with enough sense to see through it, to protect Cam and Jace from it, fromher.

But now I’m pacing the kitchen, jaw clenched, fists tight, thinking about her lips, her legs, and that stupid, smug little smile she gave me as Jace backed out of the driveway.

The front door clicks, and I stiffen.

Don’t look. Don’t react.

Just breathe. Sip. Pretend you’re not one muscle twitch away from driving this glass into the backsplash.

Then, I smell it. Muted by blockers, distorted by distance, but still unmistakable.

Aimee.

She's not even in the house, and already, she’s crawling under my skin like she never left it.

Jace strolls into the kitchen a few beats later; hair wind-tossed, t-shirt wrinkled, neck flushed, mouth—

No.

I grip the glass harder.

He opens the fridge, humming something tuneless, apparently completely oblivious to me standing right here. He pulls out the orange juice, and my eyes widen as he starts whistling.

Whistling.

As though he didn’t just spend the last however many hours buried insidemyproblem.

I don’t say anything at first. Not because I’m calm—because I’m trying not to detonate. Meanwhile, he doesn’t even look at me when he finally speaks.

“Hey, man.”

That’s it. That’s what breaks me. The pressure and possessiveness spikes hot and irrational and stupid in my chest before spilling out of my mouth.

“I thought you were just going to the farmers market.”

He glances over, annoyingly casual. “We did.”

“Right.”

My eyes drag over him: over the faint shimmer of glitter on his bicep, the red mark near his collarbone, the smear of lip balm that’snothis shade.

The way he’s still flushed, still buzzing.

“That before or after you fucked her?”

The bottle stops halfway to his lips, then he lowers it slowly, eyebrows raised.

“Wow. Subtle.”

He takes a long, obnoxious sip, green eyes locked on mine, a faint smile tugging at his mouth like he’s enjoying this; but I see it—the flicker. The second of hesitation.

“You jealous,” he says, wiping his mouth, “or just keeping a scent scorecard?”

“As if,” I bite out. “She’s blocked, and I canstillsmell her on you.”

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