Page 134 of Roulette Rodeo
"Come on, Mr. Grumpy!" Red calls out. "We're going home!"
Home.
The word settles over us all, warming something in my chest. Not the compound, not the house, not the property.
Home. Because that's what it's becoming with her suddenly apart of it, warming our
I look at Red—dirt-smudged, victorious, absolutely radiant in her joy—and think about what Poppy said. About the new laws, about packs needing omegas, about legitimacy and bonds and bureaucracy.
None of that matters. Not really.
What matters is this: a woman who challenges us, makes us laugh, makes us run down Main Street like idiots just for the possibility of...fridge whipped cream. First dibs on a kiss? A date? The right to sit next to her on the ride home?
It doesn't matter what the prize was supposed to be.
The real prize is her—chaos, giggles, and food-worship and all.
Talk about first impressions on our little cherry omega.
OVERWHELMED BY CHOICES
~RED~
The kitchen island looks like a retail store exploded.
I stand there, frozen in indecision, staring at the chaos of my own making. Three days of trips into town have resulted in this—a mountain of bags, boxes, and items scattered across the marble surface like some sort of consumer archaeology site. There's the phone box (still sealed), various clothing items (tags still attached), books (at least twelve, maybe more), art supplies (why did I think I could paint?), candles (so many candles), fuzzy blankets (three different textures), pillows (did I really need seven?), bath products (because apparently I'm addicted to anything that smells like vanilla or cherries), notebooks (blank and judging me), pens (approximately forty-seven), and various other impulse purchases that seemed vitally important in the moment.
Now, standing here in the afternoon light streaming through the kitchen windows, I have no idea what to pick up first.
My fingers hover over the phone box, then drift to the books, then to the soft throw blanket that's the color of fresh cream. Each item feels equally important and completely irrelevant at the same time.
The paralysis is real and frustrating because this shouldn't be hard.
Normal people don't get overwhelmed by shopping bags.
But then again, normal people haven't spent three years with exactly four possessions to their name.
"What are you staring at?"
Corwin's voice makes me jump slightly.
I hadn't heard him come in—none of them make noise when they move unless they want to. It's both impressive and mildly terrifying.
I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, dressed casual for once in jeans and a henley that makes his hazel eyes look more gold than green. His hair is slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it, probably from whatever medical journals he's been reading in his study.
I pout, that automatic expression that seems to happen whenever I'm frustrated.
"I'm overwhelmed."
One eyebrow arches in that way that makes him look like a professor trying to understand why his student can't grasp basic calculus. He pushes off from the doorframe and walks over, his movements fluid despite his size. When he reaches me, he surveys the explosion of purchases with the same careful attention he probably gives patient charts.
"What's overwhelming about it?"
I gesture helplessly at everything.
"Seeing it all at once is making me feel a tad overwhelmed. Like, I want all of it but I don't know where to start and now it's all just... there. Staring at me."
I pause, trying to find the right words.
