Chapter 5 #2
So swift. Lightning swift. The swiftest person who ever swifted. Is that a word? Who cares. I'll make it work.
We stand, shake hands again, and Charlotte walks me to the door.
"Thank you so much for coming in, Reverie.
I really hope we get to work together. You're special—your energy, your authenticity, the way you connect with people.
That's not something you can manufacture, and it's exactly what we need for this campaign. "
Don't cry. Do not cry in this professional office with the expensive chairs. Save the emotional breakdown for the car.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice only slightly wobbly. "I'll be in touch soon. Very soon."
The door closes behind me, and I stand in the hallway for a moment, just breathing.
The hallway is quiet, sterile, with that same generic professional building scent. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A motivational poster on the wall shows a mountain peak with the word "ACHIEVE" in bold letters.
Achieve. Right. I need to achieve finding a pack in less than two weeks or I lose the opportunity of a lifetime. Easy. Totally achievable. The poster said so.
My heart is pounding—hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, my wrists, my fingertips. The anxiety that's been simmering since Charlotte's phone call yesterday is now at a full rolling boil.
Other candidates. Timeline. Pack required. Two weeks. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Everything I've ever wanted. Everything that could disappear if I don't figure this out.
I make my way to the elevator on autopilot, my mind spinning through possibilities and panicking in equal measure. The contract folder is clutched to my chest like a lifeline. Or a ticking time bomb. Both metaphors work.
How do you find a pack? Is there an app for that? A dating site but for pack formation? Can I just post on Reddit like 'ISO pack, must be non-toxic, available immediately, please don't be Kael 2.0'?
The elevator dings, doors sliding open with that smooth mechanical sound. I step inside, still lost in my spiral of anxiety, and press the button for the ground floor.
Maybe I could ask Hazel for advice? She found her pack. Though knowing Hazel, she probably manifested them through sheer force of baking talent and accidentally seduced three Alphas with croissants.
Maybe Mrs. Chen knows someone? She's lived in Oakridge Hollow forever. She probably knows every available Alpha within a fifty-mile radius.
Maybe I could—
The elevator doors open on the second floor.
I'm so lost in my thoughts, staring at the contract folder, that I don't register someone stepping in until it's too late.
I walk forward.
They walk forward.
And we collide.
The contract folder goes flying. My purse slips off my shoulder. I lose my balance, stumbling forward with a very dignified squeak of surprise.
But I don't hit the ground.
An arm hooks around my waist, strong and sure, pulling me against a firm chest. The momentum carries us backward until we're both pressed against the elevator wall, and I'm forced to look up at whoever just saved me from face-planting.
And then the scent hits me.
Motor oil. That's the first thing—rich and dark, the kind that clings to skin even after scrubbing.
But underneath it is leather, worn and soft like a vintage jacket that's been loved for years.
There's something metallic too, sharp and clean like steel, mixing with coffee grounds and a hint of amber.
It's masculine and rough around the edges, the kind of scent that makes you think of garages and motorcycles and hands that know how to fix broken things.
Alpha. Definitely Alpha. And familiar.
I blink, my brain catching up with my body, and focus on the face looking down at me.
Dark hair that's slightly too long, falling across his forehead in a way that's effortlessly attractive.
Sharp features—strong jaw, high cheekbones, a nose that looks like it's been broken at least once and healed slightly crooked.
Eyes that are somewhere between brown and amber, currently looking at me with a mixture of amusement and concern.
A small scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
And tattoos peeking out from under his collar—black ink that disappears beneath his shirt.
Oh no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
I know this Alpha.
"I'm so sorry!" I squeak, my face immediately flooding with heat. "I wasn't watching where I was going, I was having an existential crisis about life choices, and I just—wait."
I squint at him, recognition clicking into place.
"You're... Nash, wasn't it? The hot self-defense mechanic!"
Did I just say that out loud? Did I actually just call him hot to his face? Why am I like this? What is wrong with me?
His mouth curves into a smirk—slow and devastating and entirely too confident. "Glad to know my attractiveness is still ranking on the scale of hotness."
Oh god. He's never going to let me live this down.
I realize we're still standing way too close, his arm still around my waist, and I take a hasty step back. My face feels like it's on fire. I'm probably the color of a tomato. An embarrassed, rambling tomato who apparently has no filter.
"Right, yes, so—" I bend down quickly to grab my contract folder and purse, needing to do something with my hands that isn't gesturing wildly at my own mortification.
"What are you even doing here? Unless you're a plumber too and this place needs you for the leaking tap they were talking about in the elevator before I arrived here? "
A leaking tap. I'm asking if he's here to fix a leaking tap. This is going great. I'm nailing this interaction.
Nash chuckles, the sound low and warm. "I'm glad you think of me as handy, but no. I'm actually here for some lawyer business."
Oh. Right. Because he's a lawyer. I remember that from... somewhere. The self-defense class? Did someone mention it? Why can't I remember basic facts when I'm flustered?
My blush deepens, which I didn't think was possible but apparently I have untapped reserves of embarrassment. "Right! Yes! Lawyer! I knew that! I just—how many side hustles do you have?"
He leans against the elevator wall, completely relaxed, arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes his muscles shift under his shirt. Stop looking at his muscles, Reverie. Eyes up. Professional conversation. You can do this.
"A few," he says with that calm, easy confidence that probably comes from being ridiculously attractive and knowing it. "I guess we all have to do a bunch of jobs to survive in a small town. So much to do but also feels like there's so little to progress with, you know?"
I sigh, the truth of that statement hitting harder than it should. "Yeah. I know exactly what you mean."
Too well. Three part-time jobs just to make rent. Constantly hustling. Always one unexpected expense away from disaster. This town is wonderful and suffocating in equal measure.
That's when I notice we're still in the elevator. The doors closed at some point during our collision, and we haven't moved. We're just... standing here. Talking. In a stationary elevator.
I groan. "Oh my god, you probably need to leave. I'm so sorry—I'm holding you up."
Nash pushes off the wall with easy grace and reaches past me to press the ground floor button. His arm brushes mine, and I catch another whiff of that motor oil and leather scent. Why does he smell so good? Mechanics shouldn't smell that good. It's unfair.
"Ladies first," he says simply.
The elevator starts moving, and I feel a weird sense of relief wash over me. "Thanks. And thanks for, you know, catching me. Again. Even though we're basically strangers, you made things a bit easier. I really needed that today."
Why am I telling him this? Why am I being vulnerable with the hot mechanic-lawyer in an elevator? What is happening to my brain?
Nash tilts his head slightly, studying me with those amber-brown eyes. "And what do you have to figure out?"
The question catches me off guard. He actually sounds interested. Not just making polite elevator small talk, but genuinely curious.
And apparently when Nash looks at me like that—like I'm someone worth listening to—my mouth decides to just... tell him everything.
I laugh, slightly hysterical. "Well, I need to find a pack if I want to get a twenty-five-thousand-dollar brand deal that would set me up for success for the new year after my ex-pack screwed me over in every way—financially, emotionally, probably in the actual bedroom too if we're being honest—or it's going to be given to someone else.
Which would be incredibly shitty because opportunities like this don't just fall into your lap. "
I try to smile, to make it sound light and funny, but my voice cracks slightly on the last word. The anxiety that's been building all day is right there, bubbling under the surface, threatening to spill over.
Great. Now the hot mechanic-lawyer thinks I'm a disaster. Which, fair. I am a disaster. But he doesn't need to know that.
The elevator dings. Ground floor. The doors slide open smoothly, revealing the lobby with its judgmental receptionist and expensive carpet.
I turn back to Nash, forcing my smile to brighten. "Nice to see you again, Nash. Thanks for the quick chat and for catching me. I've been clumsy these last few days, jeez."
I step out of the elevator, but something makes me pause. I glance back at him over my shoulder, adding casually, "First the bookstore and now here, hmm. How odd."
Wait. Did I crash into him at the bookstore? No, that was the maple-honey Alpha. But I've been clumsy there too, and—why am I overthinking this? Just walk away, Reverie. Walk away with dignity.
I walk out into the lobby, feeling Nash's eyes on my back. I don't look back. I can't look back. If I look back, I'll see whatever expression he's making and my brain will spiral into seventeen different interpretations of what it means.
He probably thinks I'm weird. Rambling disaster Omega who crashes into people and overshares in elevators. Great impression, Rev. Really nailed the 'put together professional' vibe.
The cold November air hits me as soon as I step outside the building.
It's sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine from the trees lining the street and that particular metallic promise of snow that's been hanging in the air for days.
My breath comes out in visible puffs, and I realize I'm breathing too fast. Almost hyperventilating.
Okay. Breathe. Just breathe. You have a contract. You have an opportunity. You just need to solve one tiny problem: finding a pack in less than two weeks. Simple. Easy. Totally doable.
I make it to my car—a beat-up Honda Civic that's older than some of the high schoolers in town—and sink into the driver's seat.
The interior smells like the vanilla air freshener I hang from the rearview mirror and the faint coffee stain on the passenger seat that I've been meaning to clean for three months.
I set the contract folder on the passenger seat carefully, like it's something precious. Because it is. This folder represents everything I've been working toward. Everything I've been dreaming about.
And all I need to make it real is a pack.
A pack. The thing I swore I'd never need again. The thing that nearly destroyed me last time. The thing that requires vulnerability and trust and opening myself up to the possibility of being hurt again.
I pull out my phone, staring at the screen, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
What do I even do? Post on social media? 'Looking for pack, must be available immediately, serious inquiries only'? That sounds insane. Like a Craigslist ad but for life partners.
Maybe an anonymous forum? I could post on one of those omega support sites. 'ISO pack in Oakridge Hollow area, looking for non-toxic Alphas who won't use my trauma against me and actually respect boundaries.' That's not desperate at all.
The thought makes me cringe so hard I actually groan out loud.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter to my empty car.
"This is absolutely ridiculous. I'm going to post pack applications like I'm hiring for a job position.
'Wanted: Alpha pack members. Must be emotionally available, financially stable, and not a manipulative nightmare.
Previous toxic behavior is disqualifying. References required.'"
It's a mockery. The whole thing is a mockery. Finding a pack should be natural, organic, something that happens over time through genuine connection. Not something you scramble to arrange in two weeks because a brand deal requires it.
But what choice do I have?
I can't let this opportunity slip away. I can't go back to barely scraping by, three jobs, ramen noodles, anxiety about rent. I can't let Kael win by proving I'll never amount to anything on my own.
I need this.
And if finding a pack in two weeks sounds impossible, well, I've done impossible things before. I left Kael. I built a life from nothing. I turned my chaos into content that people actually enjoy. I can do this too.
I just need to figure out how.
My phone buzzes. A text from Hazel: "Can you pick up a shift tomorrow? Mila called out sick and we're slammed. Will pay you in cinnamon rolls and love."
I smile despite everything. Yes, obviously. I'll take any shifts you need. Also, hypothetically, how does one find a pack in less than two weeks? Asking for a friend.
Her response is immediate: "WHAT. Call me RIGHT NOW."
Right. I should probably tell my friends about this. They'll either have brilliant advice or equally panic with me, and both options sound better than spiraling alone in my car.
But first, I need to at least start researching. I open my browser and start typing search terms that make me cringe even as I write them.
"How to find a pack quickly"
"Omega pack matching services"
"Speed dating for pack formation"
Is that even a thing? That can't be a thing. Please don't let that be a thing.
My phone buzzes again. Multiple texts from Hazel, escalating in concern and capital letters.
I take a deep breath, looking between my phone, the contract folder, and my search results that are somehow both helpful and deeply depressing.
"Okay," I say out loud to myself, to the universe, to whatever force is listening. "Let's try to figure this out because my freedom and future is on the line!"