Page 46 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

“Alright,” Rachel nods. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly as she looks over at me. “Just… be careful,” she warns.

“I’m not catching feelings, if that’s what you’re implying,” I insist, having already practiced this conversation with Zara and Lex. “I’m just… spending time with very attractive alphas who treat me suspiciously well and occasionally send voice notes that make me need to lie down.”

Rachel narrows her eyes further. “That soundsexactlylike how feelings start.”

“I’m immune,” I lie.

“And Wes?”

“Still a menace.”

She hums. “I get the feeling that you don’t hate him as much as you want to.”

“I do,” I insist. “I just also maybe fantasize about drop-kicking himandlicking his throat. Which is… normal.”

Rachel raises both brows. “Normal for an omega in deep denial.”

I sigh. “Just let me finish the article before you psychoanalyze me.”

“Fine,” she says, already walking away. “But when you finally knot one of them, I expect a debrief.”

I groan. “Rachel—”

“I’m serious! I wantdiagrams. Positions. Yelp ratings.”

“I’m atwork!”

“So am I!” she calls cheerfully over her shoulder. “Doesn’t mean I’m not living for this.”

I roll my eyes as she disappears into her office, but it’s fond. She keeps me on my toes, but I have to admit it: she’s a pretty cool boss.

I turn back to my laptop, stretch my fingers over the keyboard, and try to summon whatever brain cells survived that conversation. I’ve got a deadline. An article to finish. A plan to stick to.

And yet, instead of writing, my mind drifts—first to Jace’s hands on my waist, then to Cam’s stupidly sweet smile, and finally, maddeningly, to Wes.

His scent. His scowl. That vein in his neck that always pulses when he’s about to say something horrible in an attempt to further ruin my life.

I drag in a breath and crack my neck.

Focus.

No feelings. No attachments. Just good strategy, great content, and maybe one or two absolutely flawless orgasms.

Strictly professional.

…Mostly.

Chapter Thirteen

Jace

The gym’s been slammed.

August and September always hit different—back-to-school bulking season turns the place into a testosterone-fueled zoo. Every college kid with a protein shaker and something to prove is trying to pack on twenty pounds of muscle before syllabus week. Normally, I love it. I flirt with the regulars, hand out way too many referral discounts, and coast on the ego boost of being everyone’s favorite hot trainer with a tragic back tattoo.

But lately, I can’t be bothered.

“Jace, I was wondering if you could spot me—”

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