Page 9 of Pack Rivals, Part One

Alicia shrugs. "Part and parcel. Now go lay these napkins out on the tables. Guests arrive in half an hour."

I spend the next thirty minutes helping the other waiting staff to prepare the tables, laying out countless knives, forks and spoons at each place setting as well as an array of different-shaped glasses.

"Jeez," I mutter, "how much food are these people planning on eating?"

"The depressing thing is," a girl my age answers, as she buffs a wine glass, "most of it gets wasted."

I think of the empty cupboards back in Courtney's apartment and wonder if Alicia might allow me to take home a doggy bag or two.

At seven o'clock, Alicia hurries into the ballroom and shoos us all out. The lights dim and I watch from the wings as the guests filter in, admiring the beautiful ballgowns floating into the cavernous space, all of which probably cost ten times as much as the white dress I dumped back home.

Alicia spots me lurking in the shadows and points to a tray of champagne glasses. I grab it and start circulating. It's a strange feeling weaving in and out of all the glamorous people, jewels dangling from their ears and littered around their necks. They reach for drinks, hardly noticing me, not one offering up a word of thanks.

I also understand what Alicia meant by the scents. It's like strolling through the perfume section of a department store. Flavors and aromas swirl in the air, tickling my nose. But it isn't offensive. I don't screw up my nose like the other waiters or collapse into sneezing fits as soon as I'm safely inside the kitchen.

No, although not every scent is pleasant, I find I like the majority. Plus, they seem to reveal how their owners are feeling. The older woman accompanying her daughter is nervous, while her daughter is excited. Two men heavy in conversation are hiding their anger and a couple strolling hand in hand clearly can't wait to ditch this party.

When I return to the kitchen with yet another empty tray, I find the girl from earlier perched on a stall, her eyes watering, her nose buried in a tissue.

"Are you all right?" I ask her.

She lifts up her hand before blowing into the tissue. "I just need a minute. Those scents are sending my sinuses haywire." She blinks away tears and peers up at me. "You seem fine though."

"I like the scents," I tell her with a shrug as she screws up her face. "It's helpful to know how people are feeling, don't you think? For instance, stay away from that tall dude in the corner. He looks all respectable, but his scent is giving me dirty vibes."

The other waitress stares at me blankly as if I'm speaking Russian. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Maybe it's because her sinuses are all blocked.

While the guests take their seats around the circular finely dressed tables, I manage to grab her name — Ellie. Then Alicia sends us out again. This time to pour wine.

I make my way around the first table without a problem. There's a mixture of older couples and a few younger people. One wrinkles her nose slightly at me as I lean down to pour wine into her glass, and I expect her to complain about the variety. But she seems to forget me in the next minute, and I move on.

The next table, however, is a different story altogether. As I approach, I can see it's mostly made up of men a few years older than me. All dressed smartly in expensive suits, all built in a way that has those suits straining. Alphas. I've barely seen one in my life and here there are at least six.

For some reason, I find them intimidating. I've served tables of men before, back at the diner. Oftentimes, they'd come in straight after a game and were drunk on beer. I could handle them fine. Even the ones whose mouths ran wild or whose hands strayed a little.

These men seem like a different kettle of fish. Am I intimidated by them? Yes, they're huge. More giants than men.

I take a steadying breath, their combined scents rushing down my throat, and step towards the table.

Ellie brushes past me as I do and leans in to whisper in my ear. "That's Pack York."

The words mean nothing to me, so I keep walking, tiptoeing around the men deep in conversation and pouring wine into their glasses.

I'm at the last man when it happens.

I lean around him and let the last of the blood-red wine trickle down the neck of the bottle and splash into the belly of the empty glass.

I'm concentrating on my job, not wanting to spill wine on the glistening white tablecloth or his expensive suit. I don't see his face. But I breathe. Of course I do. His scent winds up my nose and into my mouth and I freeze inadvertently.

It's that scent from the gas station. That same aroma. Spring rain.

I turn my head, just as he does the same and our eyes collide.

"You," he whispers.

Me? I snap up straight, almost knocking over his glass, and spin away. My cheeks are burning, and I don't know why.

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