Page 87 of Pack Rivals, Part One

"But I do want to eat you."

"Oh jeez," she says, wilting against the elevator wall. "You have really dirty eyes."

"I have an even dirtier mouth," I say, flicking my tongue against my lip ring.

The elevator doors swing open. Lucky. A moment later and I'd have her pushed up against the wall.

Slow be damned.

We step out into the shiny foyer. It's crowded with people on the way to lunch.

"Look," I say, swinging her around to face me. "It's not me buying the dress. It's the company. You need to look the part."

The corners of her mouth fall down and her eyes dim.

Never been any good at words. Always been better with my hands.

Hopefully, I'll get a chance to show her that soon enough.

"Mrs. Finch knows you're doing this to save our asses. She won't mind you taking a few hours off to find the right dress."

She chews on her lip and I pinch her chin and force her to look up into my eyes. "Okay?"

"Yes," she says, "as long as I get a say on the dress."

"Of course, little one, your dress, your choice." That surprises her. Ex-boyfriend was a control freak, that's my guess.

I take her hand in mine and she doesn't pull it away. Bingo.

It's small and warm but as I stroke the pad of my thumb over her fingers, I feel a scar. My heart pounds. Ex-boyfriend again?

"What's this?" I ask.

"Oh that?" She lifts our joined hands to look at the dark mark on her skin. "I burned it on the pan at the diner."

"You worked in a diner?"

"Yep, my parents own a diner back home. I used to do a few shifts."

I squeeze her hand and pull her along the sun-soaked sidewalk.

Never met an omega with burns on her hands.

"Does that mean you can cook?" I ask. Omegas can cook. But they never do.

"Depends what you want. Scrambled eggs, french fries or apple pie? Yes. Gourmet meal? No."

"Scrambled eggs, french fries and apple pie sounds like my kind of meal."

She laughs. "I didn't mean all together. Anyway, don't you have a chef?"

"Why'd you say that?"

She leans in closer. "Rumor has it you boys are kind of wealthy and I thought all wealthy people had private chefs and personal maids."

"Only the dickwads. I cook mostly."

"You cook?"

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