Chapter 14 Beth
Beth
Maren's already nursing a glass of water at our usual spot by the window at Rosebirch, a tiny café near Main Street
"Rough week?" I ask, sliding into the chair across from her.
She glances up, locks her phone, drops it facedown on the table. "Remember when I said I had a meeting with my vanilla supplier last week? It was basically just an hour of him walking me through 'market fluctuations', which basically means he's jacking up prices."
“Shit,” I say. "That sucks."
"That's business." She pauses. "On the bright side, Elena from Elena's Creations reached out about some kind of cross-promotion thing for wedding season. Could help offset the supplier mess if it pans out."
"That sounds promising," I say, casually shrugging my jacket off my shoulders.
"Maybe." She shrugs, but there's a flicker of something hopeful under the exhaustion. "Anyway, how’ve you been?"
The question lands heavier than she probably means it to. Because the last seven days have been, objectively, a lot. Two kisses with two different alphas who I'm supposed to be fake-dating, neither of which has been discussed, processed, or even acknowledged since they happened.
"Fine," I say.
Maren looks at me for a beat, eyes narrowing just a fraction. Before she can say anything, a waitress appears, a young beta with a French braid and a pretty smile, and sets down two iced iced lattes with a cheerful "Here you go, ladies."
"Thanks," I say, wrapping my hands around the cup. "And thank you for ordering for me," I tell Maren, who's still watching me.
The waitress leaves. Maren takes a sip of her latte. Sets it down. Then she leans forward slightly, lowers her voice, and says, "Beth. I have to ask... Are you sleeping with your pack?"
I'd just brought my straw to my lips, and I inhale latte directly into my sinuses. I turn my head and cough into my elbow, eyes watering, while Maren sits there like she just asked me to pass the sugar.
"Maren."
"Sorry." She leans back, both palms raised slightly. "I didn't mean to rattle you. I'm asking as a friend."
"I'm not sleeping with anyone."
"Okay." She picks up her latte again, and I can tell she means it. Pushing's never been her style. She'd rather leave a door open and wait for me to walk through it on my own, which somehow always works.
I take another sip of my latte. Set it down.
"I kissed Mason," I say.
Maren blinks. Her lips part, just barely, but she catches herself and presses them back together. She doesn't interrupt.
"Last Saturday, after Harper's fitting session. He took me to this tea house he likes, and afterward we were in his truck, and his ex texted him, and I just—" I gesture vaguely. "I grabbed his face and kissed him. In his truck. For a while."
"Define 'a while.'"
"Five minutes. Maybe more. I wasn't timing it."
She nods slowly. "And how was it?"
"That's not the point," I say, my cheeks flushing.
"So it was good."
I lean in close, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It was… confusing. Because it shouldn't have happened. We're supposed to be faking this. The whole arrangement only works if nobody catches feelings, and I'm over here mauling the man in his F-150."
Maren picks up her drink. "Is that all?"
The way she says it tells me she already suspects it isn't.
"Knox took me out yesterday," I say. "Jet skiing. Then to a foot massage place. Then this hidden pond he found when he was sixteen." I stare into my latte for a beat. "And ended up basically scent-marking him... and then we kissed."
Maren had been doing an admirable job of keeping her face neutral through the Mason part, but this one breaks her. Her eyebrows shoot up before she can stop them, and I watch her physically try to rearrange her expression back into something composed. She doesn't quite get there.
"Both of them," she manages.
"Yep."
"In one week."
"Yep."
She exhales through her nose, slow and deliberate, and looks out the window like she needs a second. A woman walks by with a golden retriever that's trying to eat a fallen leaf. Maren watches the dog, and I can practically hear her choosing her next words.
She turns back to me. "What do you think that means?"
"It means I'm an idiot," I say.
"Come on, Beth."
I pull at the cardboard sleeve on my cup. "It means I'm making things complicated for no reason. The arrangement is working. The pack looks real enough from the outside. There's no reason to blow it up by actually—" I stop.
"Actually what?"
"Actually... maybe... wanting it?"
Shit. I didn't plan to say that.
This time, Maren manages to smooth her expression back to neutral, picks her drink up, and takes a careful sip. "So what are you going to do?"
"Nothing," I say. "Obviously. We haven't even talked about what happens after the wedding. We're already taking this pack a day at a time. I'm not about to make it more complicated than it already is."
"Hm," she says.
"What does 'hm' mean?"
"It means I'm thinking about what you just said." She tilts her head, watching me.
"Well, I have a feeling I know what you're going to say." I lean back and cross my arms, bracing myself.
"What am I going to say?" She asks.
"That I'm being avoidant. That I use logic to talk myself out of things I actually want. That I should just let myself feel it."
Maren tilts her head. "I wasn't going to say any of that."
Uh. Am I just projecting?
"I was actually going to ask about Arthur," she continues.
My stomach drops. Which is a stupid reaction, because Arthur and I haven't kissed. But even as she says his name, I'm picturing him next to me on that fallen oak by Lake Vienne, smelling so outrageously good I catch myself starting to salivate.
"What about Arthur?" I manage wiping my mouth with a napkin, and I must do a bad job of sounding casual because a knowing little spark lights up Maren's eyes.
"You kissed two out of three," she says simply. "I'm just curious where he fits."
"He doesn't fit anywhere. We haven't—nothing has happened with Arthur."
"Okay." She shrugs one shoulder. "You said nothing's happened. I believe you."
But the way she says it makes me feel like she's leaving a door wide open and waiting to see if I walk through it.
And I don't want to. Because if I start thinking about Arthur, then I might have to admit this whole pack thing is getting bigger than two kisses that "just happened. " And I am not ready for that.
"The point is," I say, pulling myself together and glancing sideways at the mostly empty café, still lowering my voice. "It's fake. A couple of smooches don't change the arrangement."
She stares at me for a long moment. I hold her gaze, willing myself to believe what I just said.
"Anyway," I suddenly say, a little too brightly. "Tell me more about Elena. What's she thinking for the cross-promotion?"
Maren blinks at the pivot, and I can see her decide to let me have it. "She's thinking a joint booth at a bridal expo."
And just like that, I'm off the hook. We spend the next twenty minutes talking about her business—the espresso machine at the bakery that keeps making a sound she describes as "demonic," her plan to debut a cardamom cake for the summer menu, whether she should finally cave and get an Instagram.
It's easy. It's normal. It's exactly what I needed.
But when we finally gather our things and step out into the late morning air, Maren puts her hand on my arm.
"Beth."
"Yeah?"
She just squeezes my arm once, gently, and says, "You know I'm always here if you need to talk."
***
I find Arthur in the living room, sprawled across the couch in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, scrolling through something on his phone. He looks up when I walk in, and his face breaks into that easy, unguarded smile he does so well.
"Hey," he says. "How was Maren?"
"Good." I drop my bag by the door and toe off my shoes. "Actually, she's dealing with supplier drama, but seems to be taking it quite well."
"Oh," he says. "That sucks."
"It's business, as she'd say." I settle into the opposite end of the couch. The leather is cool against my legs. "Where is everyone?"
"Mason's working for a client. Knox drove to Ridgeville to pick up some gadget." Arthur gestures vaguely with his phone. "So it's just us."
"Just us," I echo.
The apartment really is quiet.
Arthur sets his phone facedown on his chest. I pick at the edge of a throw pillow.
"So," he starts. "Do you have any plans?"
"I've got nothing," I say.
"Me neither. This is dire," he pauses, then sits up, one arm slung over the back of the couch. "Do you wanna watch a movie?"
"What are you into?" I ask.
He considers this with a seriousness I'm not sure the question deserves. "Horror. Slashers. Blood and teens making terrible decisions in the woods."
"That sounds perfectly healthy," I say.
"I'm a very healthy person."
"I'm sure you are, because actually love slashers," I say, and his eyebrows go up like I've just told him I can juggle. "What? I do. Good ones, bad ones, ones where you can tell the blood is literally just corn syrup—"
"Stop." He holds up a hand. "You're telling me you willingly watch camp slashers."
"I'm telling you I enthusiastically watch camp slashers," I clarify.
He tilts his head, studying me. "Okay, so, Sleepaway Camp. Obviously."
"Obviously."
"The original?" He asks.
"Is there any other version worth discussing?" I counter.
He stares at me for a beat, a slow, brilliant smile breaking across his face. "Want to watch it?"
"Absolutely I want to watch it," I reply.
He plugs his computer to the tv, searches for the movie and hits play. The opening credits roll with synth score, grainy footage, a lake that looks suspiciously like a municipal reservoir.
We settle in. I tuck myself into the far corner, my shoulder resting against the armrest. Arthur sits in the middle of the long sofa, stretching his legs out and slinging one arm casually along the back cushions.