Page 2 of Pin My Alpha
Declan hefts a crate of empties from under the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows. The dark Henley pulls across his shoulders, and my brain does that thing it’s been doing since freshman year—stops whatever it was thinking about and reroutes entirely. He moves with a quiet economy I could draw from memory. I’ve studied it against my will for three years now,the same three years my friends have dragged me here and I’ve pretended the reason I always agree has nothing to do with the owner.
The whole place smells like him. Cedar and woodsmoke and clean cotton, cutting right through the stale beer and lemon disinfectant. I can pick that scent out from the parking lot. My inner omega—the needy, idiotic part I keep muzzled—perks up every single time like a dog offered a walk. My skin gets tight. My pulse drops into a rhythm I don’t authorise. It’s humiliating. It’s biological. It’s been happening long enough that I’ve stopped waiting for it to stop.
Across from me, Callum’s hand rests on Milo’s shoulder, thumb moving in slow circles over his sweater. Knox has Benji tucked against his side, close enough they’re practically one person, even while Benji pretends he doesn’t notice. Rhys is draped over Jude’s back, chin hooked on his shoulder as Jude orchestrates this whole intervention with a half-eaten fry.
It’s a whole ecosystem of casual touches I am pointedly not a part of. The air is thick with mated-alpha scent and fried food. Which leaves me and Soren. And Soren, the little romantic, is just waiting for his invitation to join the club. So, just me. The idiot who got stood up by some faceless profile at the one bar I can’t avoid.
Declan sets the crate down with a solid thud and finally looks over. Green eyes find me instantly. Not a stare-down, just a quiet, steady regard that makes the back of my neck prickle with heat. I’ve been on the receiving end of that look for three years, and it still makes me feel like he’s reading something no one else can see.
“You’re gonna burn a hole in that glass, Thompson.” His voice is low, a familiar rumble under the sound of the register closing.
That voice lives somewhere in my chest. I could probably use it to regulate my heartbeat if I were the kind of person who admitted things like that, which I’m not.
“It was a questionable investment,” I say. “I’m assessing the damage.”
“It’s club soda.”
“Exactly. All risk, no reward.”
Tessa snorts from the end of the bar, counting out her tips. “He’s been staring at it for an hour, boss. Pretty sure it owes him rent.”
Declan ignores her, his gaze still on me. A slow smile tugs at one corner of his mouth—the customer-service version, mild and practiced. “Careful. You’ll come crying to me when you get dehydrated.”
“I will never cry to you.”
The words come out sharper than I meant. Beside me, Jude makes a choking sound into Rhys’s jacket.
Declan’s gaze doesn’t waver. The hint of a smile is still there, but his eyes are serious. “Good,” he says, voice even lower now. “That would be awkward for everyone.”
And there it is. Half a smile. The one that says he’s seen it all before. And the worst part, the part that makes my stomach clench with self-loathing, is how badly I want to earn a real one. I’ve wanted it for years, and I hate myself for it because it’s the exact trap I’ve been dodging since I was old enough to understand what my mother kept doing wrong.
I drag my attention back to the table.
“Anyway,” Benji says, dragging the word out. “The guy was trash.”
“You didn’t meet him.”
“I met the concept of him, and I hated it.”
Knox runs a hand over Benji’s stomach, casual as breathing. “You hate most concepts.”
“I hate bad concepts,” Benji corrects. “Like mayonnaise.”
I let them volley the world’s dumbest condiment back and forth. It’s easier than talking. My pulse is still jacked from the bar, and somewhere behind me Declan Byrne is moving crates and smelling like a problem I’ve been dodging since I was eighteen.
Milo sighs. “Mayonnaise is an ingredient.”
“That’s what it wants you to think.”
Rhys cuts through before the tangent grows legs. “The topic is that Shay got stood up, and we’re all supposed to pretend it didn’t sting.”
My gaze snaps to him. Rhys has a way of saying things that sounds perfectly reasonable right up until you realize he’s just locked every door out of the conversation. It’s probably why Jude is obsessed with him. Jude needs someone who can survive being hit with a verbal chair.
“It didn’t sting,” I say.
“Sure,” Jude says.
“It didn’t.”
