His Curvy Rejected Mate

HIS CURVY REJECTED MATE THE FIVE PACKS: BOOK FOUR CATE C. WELLS This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Copyright 2023 by Cate C. Wells. All rights reserved. Cover art and design by Clarise Tan of CT Cover Creations Cover photography by Christopher Correia of CJC Photography Cover model Aaron Anderson Edited by Nevada Martinez Proofread by Kayla Davenport Special thanks to Jean McConnell of The Word Forager, Kara Meredith, Jennifer S., Elizabeth L., Kate K., and Hayle P. The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of authors’ ability to earn a livelihood is appreciated. Created with Vellum CONTENTS Author’s Note Chapter 1 Flora Chapter 2 Flora Chapter 3 Alec Chapter 4 Flora Chapter 5 Alec Chapter 6 Flora Chapter 7 Alec Chapter 8 Flora Chapter 9 Flora Chapter 10 Alec Chapter 11 Flora Chapter 12 Alec Chapter 13 Flora Chapter 14 Flora Epilogue Want more Alec and Flora? AUTHOR’S NOTE This novel contains incidences of fatphobia and fat shaming. 1 FLORA Alec catches my eye from across the clearing and jerks his chin toward the woods. It’s so quick and subtle that no one but me would notice. My heart takes off. My gaze drops to my sneakers, and my cheeks burst into flame. I shrink into my sweatshirt, glad the hood is up. But it’s not like anyone’s paying any attention to me. The unmated males are clustered on the river’s edge further upstream, drinking beers and arguing about the game they just finished. They play a mashup of human sports with the ball from soccer, the scrum from rugby, the tackling from football, and no firmly agreed upon rules. Then they spend the next couple of hours before the pack run fighting over how the plays should have been called. The dams are packing up the leftovers while their males are gathered by the big furnace, smoking pipes. Pups are everywhere—splashing in the shallows, climbing on the huge tires that serve as a playground, crawling under the picnic tables over in the pavilion, annoying the gossiping elders. The unmated females are posing on blankets on a grassy bank, sunning themselves in bikini tops despite the chill in the air as the afternoon fades. I’m alone on the smooth rocks jutting into the river. When the males are messing around in the water, the females sit here to watch, but it’s all mine now. I should stay right here. Pretend I didn’t see him. Or turn my back and face away so he knows I’m turning him down. That’s what a female with pride would do, right? But I’m already climbing to my feet, picking my way down the rocks to the sandy bank, licking my dry lips, and wiping my palms on my faded jeans. I wish I’d washed my hair this morning. I threw it back in my usual low ponytail, and—oh, no. What bra am I wearing? I can’t remember. I wriggle in my oversized top as if I can somehow tell by feel. Please be the black one. Alec doesn’t always ask me to take my shirt off, but with my luck, he will today, and I’ll be wearing the industrial strength nude contraption with four clasps that makes my boobs look like cones. I’m careful to keep my pace unhurried as I skirt around the clusters of laughing males wrestling on the pebbled beach and the shark-eyed females propped on their elbows, surveilling the scene. I think I’m going to make it, but when I pass by the tables where the food was laid out, Brenda Shaw, our alpha female, calls me over. “Here, girl.” She snaps her fingers, her long acrylic nails clicking. “Take this back with you to Nola.” I dutifully take the aluminum wrapped plate she’s thrust in my direction, bending my neck and averting my eyes. “Don’t you go and eat that yourself now, hear?” she tacks on. “That’s for Nola.” My shoulders shoot to my ears as I duck my head lower and erase my face. A ball of shame catches in my throat. I’d never eat Miss Nola’s food, but that doesn’t matter. The alpha female has spoken, and the shame is a reflex. After waiting a few seconds to make sure she’s done with me, I try to leave, but before I can take two steps, an age-spotted claw grips my forearm. “Hold up, Fluffa. Finish these eggs, won’t you? There aren’t enough left to waste the plastic wrap.” A nearby female gasps. Another snickers. Agnes Campbell squints up at me, oblivious to the reaction, as she holds a tray of devilled eggs in a shaky grip. There are three halves left. The other dams fussing around the table stop what they’re doing to gawp, their ears pricking. Brenda sighs as if she’s been inconvenienced. “Her name’s Flora,” she calls to Agnes. I freeze in place, staring at the trampled ground, praying that Agnes has the grace to just drop it and let me go, but I know better. “What?” Agnes barks like she couldn’t hear. “That’s Flora. Donal Ritchie’s get,” someone supplies from the far end of the table at top volume. Agnes’ thin lips screw into a scowl. I can’t fault her confusion. My father hasn’t acknowledged me since my dam died. He bailed when she caught the wasting sickness, and then he just stayed gone. “No, I’m sure her name is Fluffa.” Agnes isn’t giving up. “The others just call her that. Her name’s Flora Ritchie.” Brenda goes back to ladling macaroni