Page 7 of Ready or Knot

Logan takes another step towards me, rounding the table without pulling his hands from his pockets. Was that a good sign?

“It’d be a shame if you had to make the first move with all these Alphas around naturally hardwired to give Omegas what they want.”

His words make butterflies swim in my stomach, but I don’t hesitate away from the unspoken proposition.

“Are you offering?” I ask, and he takes one last step towards me, eating up the last bit of space before our distance officially crosses into improper.

Violet leans over until she can whisper in my ear. “Have a good time,” she says. “Make sure your clutch stays on your wrist and text me if you leave, ok?”

I work the strap of it onto my wrist again before I can forget, holding it up as proof as I promise to text her, and then she grabs her half-empty Old Fashioned and disappears into the growing crowd around the dance floor. Logan doesn’t move his gaze away from me.

“So, Faedra,” he says, and goosebumps race down my arms at the way his voice curls around my name. “Where are you from?”

“Do you want the honest answer, or my attempt at impressing an Alpha?” I ask, giving a small half-smile. His attention grows more intense.

“How about both? What would you tell me if you’re trying to impress me?”

My breath catches. “I’d say that we just flew in from Los Angeles.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that where you’re from?” I shake my head, gripping the mug tighter. “Then why did you fly out from the other side of the country?”

“School. I’m almost finished with my bachelors,” I say.

He hums, a small tilt to his lips that makes me think he’s amused.

When did it get so hot in here? I hope this isn’t my heat breaking through the suppressants.

“Which school?” Logan asks.

“UCLA.”

He leans into me, eating away the bit of distance between us, his voice dropping until it’s practically a purr. “So where are you from, then, Faedra?”

“I grew up in Iowa,” I breathe.

“The Midwest?” When I offer a shrug, he grins and says, “I grew up in Madison.”

“Oh, it’s gorgeous up there,” I say, smiling, the tension building between us suddenly gone. Was that a bad sign? “My family’d go up there every summer. My mom is from Green Bay, and she loved taking us up and down the coast any chance she could.”

“It is beautiful,” he agrees, setting a hand on the table. “Some days I miss it. But I enjoy where my pack is more, so I don’t find myself overly homesick.”

The soft notes of the quartet fade out, replaced by a recently released pop hit pulsing through the speakers as the DJ takes over. I drop my hand from my drink, letting it rest on the table between us, and turn towards him. He mirrors me before leaning in the rest of the way, his face inches from mine as he taps the table a few times.

“In all actuality, Faedra, the other guys in my pack are hiding on the other side of the room, waiting to see if you want to meet them,” he whispers, pointing towards the back wall. My eyes sweep over the crowd, but no one in particular jumps out at me—not the way the Alpha did earlier. It’s hard to focus on trying to find them when Logan is so enigmatic in front of me. “I’d love to meet them,” I tell him, taking a long drink of my cocktail.

If I don’t enjoy the other members of his pack, I can always excuse myself and go looking for the man that had caught my attention.

Logan says, “Have to be honest, Jude’s been in a shit mood most of the day. He hates these parties, and it’s just about finals season, which makes it worse.”

“Finals season is awful,” I admit on a whisper, laughing, and Logan smiles, a mischievous look lighting his eyes a moment before a heavy presence settles behind me.

“Come on now, Logan. Don’t turn her off from Jude before he has a chance to put his own foot in his mouth. At least that way he can’t complain to us later.”

A man steps up across from me, one hand in a pocket, the other resting on the table top, gripping a tumbler full of amber liquid with a relaxed hold. The tux he wears is well-tailored, draping across his body like a glove, giving a subtle highlight to what seems to be significant athleticism. His golden skin glows against the black fabric, and his gaze conveys a level of self-confidence that has me clutching my mug tighter. Short waves of black hair combine with a narrow chin and high cheekbones, reminding me of—

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like a bulkier John Mayer?” The question falls from me before I can pull it back.

He tilts his head back and laughs, eyes closing as he grabs Logan’s bicep. Logan grins, looking me over like I did something surprising but exciting.

---