Page 3 of Pin My Alpha
He holds up his hands. “Fine. You’re right. This is great, actually. The universe did you a solid. Got some random hookup alpha out of your system without you having to do the work.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No,” Jude says, pointing a fry at me. “You said it was fine. This is better.”
“Is it?” Soren asks.
His voice is so soft I almost miss it. He’s curled into the corner of the booth, watching me with those wide, dark eyes. Soren never goes for the throat. It’s why it works when he does.
I just stare at him.
He’s right, of course. I was excited. I hate that he noticed. I hate even more that he’s saying it out loud in front of everyone like my hope is a public exhibit.
He ducks his head a little. “Sorry. I just mean… you seemed excited.”
“I was not excited.”
“You changed your shirt twice,” Milo says gently.
Traitor.
“The first one had a wrinkle.”
“You ironed it,” Benji adds.
“It was a very visible wrinkle.”
“And you asked me if your shoes looked like you were trying too hard,” Jude finishes.
“Because you have the only full-length mirror that doesn’t make a person look like a haunted Victorian child.”
“That mirror is vintage.”
“That mirror is cursed.”
Callum lets out a low laugh. Milo turns toward the sound like a plant finding the sun, his whole body softening as Callum leans in and murmurs something against his hair.
I look away, focusing on a crack in the vinyl seat.
It’s just so easy for them. Benji’s combat boot is hooked between Knox’s ankles. Rhys has a hand resting on the back of Jude’s neck. Milo is tucked into Callum’s side like he was made to fit there. And I’m sitting here cataloguing it like a field researcher studying a species I don’t belong to.
Soren is watching them, too, with that careful little smile he gets when he’s happy for everyone else and trying not to look like he’s waiting for his turn.
And then there’s me, sitting bolt upright on the edge of the booth, not touching a single person.
“Okay, we’re done,” I say, pushing my glass away. “This focus group is officially adjourned.”
“Besides,” Jude adds, slinging an arm over Rhys’s shoulders, “now you’re free to appreciate the finer things. Like emotionally repressed grad students who pay their taxes on time.”
Rhys doesn’t even look at him. “I’m not emotionally repressed.”
“You alphabetize your spices.”
“That’s just efficient.”
“It’s hot,” Jude says, loud enough for the whole bar to hear.
Milo makes a pained sound and hides his face in Callum’s shoulder.
