Page 54 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“Correct.”

Another hard pause blots out the hum of the fridge and the last songs of the blue jays through the window panes before they disappear for the winter.

She can give me shit all she wants, but we both know an unformed pack isn’t good enough. I need star power. I need unquestionable financial means.

And, yes, I want those things too. But that’s a bonus.

Vinson, Wyatt, and LaMille are amazing guys. A dream, really. Any omega would be lucky to have them. Hell, I’d be lucky to have them. But I’m not changing horses midstream, and they aren’t ready for an omega regardless.

“Well, you need to figure it out ASAP. What comes to mind first?” she finally asks.

With the groceries successfully stored away, I close the fridge door too forcefully and it slaps shut.

“I thought I’d be at the call center until Brad came to his senses. I guess I should be planning it out.”

“Better now than after they fire you.”

“Yeah. Hey, I gotta go.”

“Wait—you know you can come here?”

“I know.”

“We have sp—”

“I know, Jolie.”

Oop, not so harsh. Jolie’s only looking out. I know this. She’s worried. Instead of snapping at her again, I thank her for the offer.

“You’ll get through it,” she replies.

“Yup. Love you.”

“Love you, Iz.”

Life has certainly taken a turn for shit. A few weeks ago, I was living with my best friend and marching steadily toward my wife card while gainfully employed. Now I’m probably out of a job, totally off track with Brad, and living at the discretion of a group of guys still figuring shit out themselves.

Brilliant moves, every one.

Sighing, I set out my mise en place for the cookies. My phone’s camera is pathetic, but I snap off a few pics of the carefully placed bowls. When I’m done, I’ll take shots of the messy aftereffects and final result, juxtapose the images, then post them with a snarky recipe to my Cl!ck and Ch@er pages.

I’ve managed a small social media following, but it’s mostly the circle of remaindered friends I’ve collected between school and jobs. I’ve no delusions of grandeur and don’t want them while avoiding too much attention.

Besides, most of my feed is anti-lifestyle posts. It’s really only funny to people who know me.

The boys should be home soon. I was hoping to have the cookies baked before they arrived but spent too long shopping.

I suppose that’s what I get for yet more failure to plan out my time and actions accordingly.

As if Vin knows this is the worst possible moment, the garage door rolls open. I haven’t mixed a single ingredient when the Wyatt Pack beta comes in the house. His equipment bag thumps on the tile in the mud-slash-laundry room.

“Izzy?” he hollers.

Oop. I can’t read whether that’s a good thing or bad. I suppose any strong emotion is better than the last week.

“I’m in the kitchen.”

“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t expecting you home at all. Don’t you work until three?”

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