Page 35 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Iam, in a word, wrecked.

After five full days of trying to convince thirteen-year-olds that World War I didn’t start because someone “caught hands in a sandwich shop,” followed by this morning’s soccer practice—where at least three kids cried and one peed on the midfield—I’m running on fumes and iced coffee.

My feet hurt, my back’s making creaking noises I’m too young for, and I’ve changed shirts four times because apparently, nothing in my wardrobe saysAlpha who respects women and also flosses.

None of that matters, of course.

Because I’ve got a date.

WithAimee.

My reflection blinks back at me from the mirror—button-down, fresh shave, and a faint dab of scent balm. I smooth a hand through my hair just as Wes walks by my bedroom door, pauses, then steps in.

“Damn,” he says, surveying me with a vaguely judgmental tilt of the head. “You look like you’re about to give a TED Talk on monogamy.”

I glance down at my shirt. “Too much?”

He frowns. “Not if you’re trying to win a seat in local government. Maybe lose the cufflinks before she thinks you brought a prenup.”

“I just want to look nice. She’s always so—cool, you know? Even when she’s being sarcastic or dramatic or pretending she doesn’t care, she’s still got this… vibe.”

Wes doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, he leans against the doorframe and watches me fuss with my watch. I know that face, though.

He’s trying to decide whether or not to interfere.

“You’ve been less growly lately,” I comment. “Since the Jace date.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I’m doing cartwheels about it.”

“No, but…” I trail off. “You’ve always looked out for me, you know? I trust you.”

Thatgets a flicker of something behind his eyes. He shifts his stance, then pushes off the door and walks over, brushing a speck of lint off my shoulder.

“She likes Thai food,” he says casually, adjusting the hem of my shirt. “Hates coriander. Doesn’t trust clowns, slow walkers, or people who say ‘no offense’ before saying something offensive.”

I blink. “How do you—”

“She got stuck in a wetsuit at a children’s aquarium party when she was twelve. I’m pretty sure that’s her villain origin story. You wanna make her laugh? Bring that up.”

He straightens my sleeve, very seriously, as though he’s preparing me for a duel.

“Wes. What—how do you even know all this?”

“I listen,” he says, infuriatingly calm. “Also, she talks. A lot. Especially when she thinks no one’s paying attention.”

He heads for the door, then pauses—classic Wes. A pause for effect. A final, soul-crushing flourish.

“Oh—and if you want her to light up? Mention cult documentaries, novelty cheese shops with hedgehog shaped offerings, and her fake childhood chinchilla named Pickle.”

“Pickle?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Yeah. Just drop it into conversation. Like it’s normal.”

“…You’re messing with me.”

He shrugs, halfway into the hall. “Am I?”

“Wait—am I supposed to say ‘Pickle’ like it’s a noun or a pet or just—what even is thetone?”

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