Page 8 of Ready or Knot

“Holy shit, Logan. You actually found someone who knows our era of pop culture.” The man chuckles before wiping his eyes. After a deep breath, he looks at me again.

“Can’t make any more promises on that front,” I say, letting my voice dry out a bit. “I only really know him because of Taylor Swift.”

Logan grimaces. “Does that mean it’s a strike against us that he looks like John Mayer?”

I shrug, adjusting how I’m standing on my short heels, cocking my hip a bit. “As long as he isn’t taking advantage of nineteen year olds, it should be fine.”

“Definitely not doing that,” the man says, taking a drink before stretching his hand across the table. “I’m Carter.”

I take his hand in a light hold even as Logan rolls his eyes.

“Good grief, man. It’s a meet cute, not a board meeting. What the hell are you doing?” Logan gripes, and I laugh, tightening my grip on Carter’s fingers. He raises an eyebrow, eyes growing more intense, the brown seeming to darken.

“Does it matter as long as she likes it?” he asks, voice turning husky, and I clench my thighs instinctually. An eyebrow raises before he drops his hand, his eyes flicking just behind me. He tips his chin towards the man stepping up next to me. “And this is Jude.”

I turn and smile to the new man, trying to be polite, but my breath catches in my throat as I take him in, my hand tightening on the drink in front of me.

He’s the man I’d noticed across the room.

Up close, I can see there’s more silver flecking his beard than I’d originally thought, leaning almost silver fox instead of salt and pepper. His eyes are sharp, his lips set in a deep frown. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders held more stiff than his pack mates.

“You would dread finals season, too, if you were stuck with an introductory class full of non-majors, Logan,” he says, bypassing any greeting towards me. His voice reminds me of caramel, flowing over my skin and leaving me breathless despite the social faux pas.

“Correction: I would dread finals if I had to do them all on shit I don’t really care about. Nothing sounds more dreadful than having to write a timed paper about Mesopotamia,” Logan snarks, leaning forward, resting an elbow on the table while keeping his body angled toward me.

“I can think of at least three finals that were worse than my Ancient Western Asia paper,” I argue, frowning.

Why was I coming to the defense of a man who hadn’t even acknowledged me?

Carter raises an eyebrow. “Like what?” he asks before I can answer my own question.

“Statistics.” The shudder is automatic, and all three men laugh.

Something deep within me sits up and takes notice, enjoying the combined attention.

Logan nods, tucking a hand back into his locket, the exact image of suave gentleman. He could have been in a shoot for some luxury yacht brand.

“That’s true,” he says. “That’s way worse. At least I can fake my way through a paper that doesn’t have a right answer.”

Jude rests his elbow on the table, his hands still tucked away. “Which final was your favorite?”

Logan relaxes. I’m not entirely sure how I can tell since he’s been the picture of comfortable from the beginning, but there’s something in the way he looks at me that has me realizing Jude was the pack mate he was nervous about me meeting.

I frown, looking down at my drink, sorting through various answers that will win me interest points. I’m not really the one for bullshitting, though, so I give the men the truth.

“I’m not sure any final is really all that great, especially when the professors make it more than half the overall grade. Who wants one day to be representative of their entire outcome?” I pause, glancing around the room once, taking in the overstated opulence of the entire place. “Which I realize is pretty ironic considering I’m an Omega at my Matching Gala.”

I shrug once, running my finger around the rim of the copper mug, and then glance back at Jude. His eyebrows are furrowed, head tilted just a bit to the side, his gaze intense on me—like I’m a problem he needs to solve. For some reason, it feels like he’s stripping me bare. The nervous swallow is instinct.

“But, um, I enjoyed my class about Dante’s Divine Comedy. It’s tied with my Tolstoy focused Russian literature class,” I manage to say, only a little breathless.

“What was your major?” Jude asks after a moment.

“European studies,” I admit, looking back down at my drink. “Completely useless degree since, as an Omega, there’s no way I could end up being a delegate for any Embassy. But it’s what struck my interest the most at the time.”

When the men don’t immediately respond, I chance a glance up at Logan. His eyes are wide, shoulders dropped in what I’m pretty sure is surprise. I feel the blush creep down my throat before I can drop my head again.

Carter chuckles a bit under his breath.

---