Chapter 2
Chapter Two
OLIVIA
I look like some kind of demented doll.
Grimacing at my reflection, I carefully wipe away a layer of blush with a tissue, blot off some of the lipstick the makeup artist caked on, and finger comb the dark, springy curls that make me appear sixteen rather than twenty-seven.
After living on my own and on an entirely different continent for a year, I’d forgotten how degrading it is to be dressed up by my mother.
The unspoken message that I’m not good enough the way I am dulls my light brown eyes and has my full lips dipping into a frown on my heart-shaped face.
An ache blooms in my chest, and I rub at my sternum, careful not to wrinkle the pale pink satin sheath dress my mother chose for me. The sweetheart neckline dips lower than I’d like, but according to my mom, I might as well make use of the extra weight I put on in London.
Some alphas like big breasts, she’d said, as if to reassure me. As if I want a pack of men I don’t know staring at my chest.
I’m exhausted. Between the time change and the long flight, the last thing I want to do is go out to a fancy restaurant with a pack I’ve never met.
I want to curl up in my bed and sleep. Maybe do a bit more searching for an apartment close to the Chicago headquarters of McKinley Laboratories.
But agreeing to this date was strategic.
All I have to do is show up for an hour, paste on a smile, make some small talk, and then I’ll be able to rebuff my mother’s machinations for a while.
At least, I hope.
“Olivia, darling,” my mom calls from downstairs. “If you don’t leave now, you’ll be late. We don’t want Pack Johnson thinking you’re not interested.”
“No, we definitely wouldn’t want that,” I murmur as I slip into a pair of heels that are beautiful but incredibly uncomfortable.
“What was that?”
My heart skips. The last thing I want to do is piss her off. “Nothing,” I call back. With one last look in the mirror, I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and head down the stairs.
Time to get this over with.
“I’m so glad I made that salon appointment,” Mom says as she gives me a once-over. “You really had let yourself go in London.”
Her words slice through me. I suck in a deep breath, hold it for a count of five, then slowly exhale. “Right. Well, Nigel’s waiting for me.”
“Don’t be home too early,” she calls in a singsong voice. ”You’re not getting any younger, dear. It’s okay to let them sample the goods, if you know what I mean.”
Oh. My. God.
Her tittering laughter follows me out of the house, where Nigel stands with the passenger side door already open for me. His gray eyes soften as they take me in, but there’s a wry smile on his face that lets me know he’s likely aware of how I’m feeling about the style I’m rocking tonight.
“You look lovely, Livvy,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes.
“I look ridiculous,” I reply, smiling now.
I hum my appreciation when I slide into the warm seat.
“Thanks for turning the seat warmers on. It’s a little chilly for this outfit.
” I’d chosen to wear a cardigan over my dress instead of a coat because my mom didn’t approve of my puffer, but it doesn’t do anything to warm my bare legs.
The ride to Savour isn’t a long one, and sooner than I’d like, Nigel drops me off at the entrance.
He makes me promise to call him when I’m ready to come home, even if that means in half an hour and he has to turn right back around.
After he wishes me good luck, I walk into the posh, atmospheric restaurant with a silent prayer that Pack Johnson is different from the other packs my mother has tried to set me up with.
“Good evening.” The statuesque hostess with wavy blonde hair gives me a polite smile as I approach. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Hi, yes, I’m actually meeting someone. Pack Johnson.
Do you know if they’ve arrived?” I scan the dimly lit space.
For what, I couldn’t say. I’ve never met this pack before.
They’re a few years older than me, so we didn’t go to school together, and their father only started working with mine in the past year while I was in London. I’ve never even seen a photo.
“Of course.” The hostess waves for me to follow her, walking like she’s on a runway. Her hips sway seductively and her long hair bounces as she flips it over her shoulder. I feel absolutely ridiculous compared to her. Like a hobbit scrambling after an elegant elf.
It’s fine. We all have different strengths.
What does it really matter if she can command the attention of every man in the room?
I can explain how hormones secreted by the pituitary gland can impact everything from the thyroid to the ways sex hormones are expressed in alphas, betas, and omegas, and how those hormones can impact behavior, influence pack hierarchy, and potentially explain why some omegas go feral and others don’t.
I may not be akin to a goddess, but I’m smart. That counts for something, right? Besides, hobbits can be cute too.
The old-world styling of the restaurant, with its cranberry-colored tablecloths and flickering candle centerpieces, is beautiful.
The high ceilings and crystal chandeliers, and the long, mahogany bar that stretches across the far wall, all scream elegance and money.
I’m too stuck in my head to really appreciate it, though, as I calculate the distance between the door with every step we take and the velocity with which I’d have to move to escape before I have to face the pack.
The hostess comes to an abrupt stop in front of a table with six men, and I nearly run her over.
The blonde woman doesn’t manage to completely hide her surprise when she turns around and finds me inches away from her. She takes a step away. “Here you are. A server will be with you shortly to take your drink order.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, tucking a dark curl behind my ear before I take in the Johnson pack.
All six of them. I hope I can remember their names, let alone who is who, because they all vaguely resemble one another.
Like someone was in a hurry and copy-pasted the same generic frat boy six times with only minor changes.
The man closest to me on the left is large, with sandy blond hair, a square jaw, and a slight cleft to his chin.
His hazel eyes hood as they blatantly run the length of my body, lingering entirely too long on my cleavage to be called polite.
The man to his left is slightly shorter, with similar coloring, but a sharper jawline and blue eyes.
In fact, all of them have varying shades of blond and light brown hair, are clean-cut in suits, no tattoos or facial hair to be seen, and they’re all looking at me like they’re hungry lions and I’m a fresh kill.
Clearing my throat, I force my arms to remain at my sides.
I want to wrap them around my waist and hug myself, but that will only emphasize my cleavage, and that’s the last thing I want to do in front of this group of leering strangers.
With a fluttering heart and a twisting stomach, I lift one hand and offer an awkward wave. “Um, hi. I’m Liv.”
“Olivia,” the first man practically purrs, elongating each syllable of my name in a very uncomfortable way.
He stands and pulls out the seat to his right, extending his hand.
I don’t want to take it, but my parents' admonishments to always be polite reverberate through my mind, and reflexes take over.
The alpha’s hand is clammy, and I suppress a shudder as he leans in and sniffs me.
He doesn’t even attempt to be discreet about it, either, nor does he attempt to hide his frown when he gets nothing.
To his credit, he recovers quickly enough and flashes me a too-white smile.
“I’m Bradley. This is Tag, Preston, Thomas, Bryce, and Kyle.
” He indicates the men in turn, and I attempt to memorize each name and the corresponding face, but I fear it’s a losing battle.
My smile is weak as Bradley pushes my chair in, trapping me between himself and Kyle to my right. “So nice to meet you all.”
“Likewise,” one of the men says. Preston, I think? Or is he Thomas? “We’ve heard so much about you. I’m pleased to say that your mother didn’t exaggerate when she described you.” His eyes are glued to my tits.
This date is going to be torture.
The laugh I manage sounds slightly pained. “Oh, um, thank you?”
Kyle smiles before adding his contribution to the conversation. “Normally we date models and influencers, but with our dads working with yours, we figured it couldn’t hurt to branch out and date a nurse.”
There’s so much to unpack there, but all I say is, “I’m an endocrinologist.”
Kyle’s smile slips and his brow furrows. “That’s not a nurse?”
“No. I have a PhD and work as a researcher with a focus on how hormonal and chemical irregularities impact behavior, aggression, and emotional regulation.”
All that earns me is six blank stares.
“So, like, kind of a nurse?” one of them, Tag I think, asks.
Blowing out a deep breath, I tell myself it doesn’t matter if these men understand what I do. Clearly we have nothing in common, and I may have been generous with my plan to give them an hour before finding a reason to leave. “Sure. Kind of like a nurse.”
“Do you wear one of those sexy uniforms?” Bryce asks, his eyes on my chest.
“No. I don’t.” At my clipped tone, the alpha’s eyes meet mine. I’m about to ask them what they do when our server sidles up to the table, introduces himself, drops off a basket of bread, and takes my drink order.
Silence descends as we all read the menus, and I decide on the espresso-encrusted burger with blue cheese, arugula, and garlic aioli.
I should probably order something fancier, but after a year in London, I found myself missing the quintessential American dishes I took for granted in college and med school.
When our server returns with my drink and refills for the men around me, he asks if we’re ready to order.
“Yes, I’d like the bluefin tuna with a house salad.
Make sure it’s not overcooked. I’m very particular about my bluefin.
” Bradley levels the server with a condescending glare that makes my hackles rise, and an embarrassed heat floods my cheeks.
“And the omega will have the apple walnut salad with grilled chicken and light dressing.”
My back goes ramrod straight. The omega?
Not our date, not Liv, just the omega. And who does this alpha think he is to order for me?
We’ve never met, he has no idea what I like or whether I have any food allergies, and here he is presuming to order for me?
The server’s gaze flits to me, likely picking up on my rising ire and obvious discomfort.
The heat from my cheeks spreads across my chest and warms the tips of my ears.
If this had happened before I went to London, I would have sucked it up and forced myself to eat the salad.
I wouldn’t have spoken up or said anything at all, too worried about making a scene to assert myself.
But I’ve spent the last year figuring out who I am, what I want, and how to advocate for myself, no matter how hard it may feel in the moment.
Not to mention, I really want a burger.
“Actually,” I say, my voice cracking slightly, “I’d like the espresso burger with extra blue cheese.”
The server grins at me. “Of course, miss. And would you like truffle fries or mixed greens with that?”
Bradley starts to answer for me, but I cut in before he gets the chance.
“Truffle fries. Definitely truffle fries.”
Bradley shifts in his seat, turning to look at me while the server takes everyone else’s orders. “Are you sure you want to order something so fatty?”
Ex-squeeze-me?
“You’re absolutely right,” I say. I wish my voice didn’t waver, but it does. Turning to the server, I say, “Excuse me. Could I please get some extra aioli on the side? I like to have something to dip my fries in.”
The server’s smile grows. So does Bradley’s scowl.
Guess this pack and I just aren’t meant to be. Pity that.