Page 135 of Roulette Rodeo
"It kind of reminds me of how I can't have my vanity be too cluttered despite the small space, you know? Because when there's too much stuff, I can't differentiate things and they allstart looking the same. Like my brain just... stops processing individual items and sees one big mess instead."
My voice drops, a fear creeping in.
"Maybe I'm unwell. Or maybe it's part of that genetic problem with my legs."
He shakes his head immediately, and there's something gentle in the gesture.
"You're not unwell, Red. Maybe you just thrive better with a more structured, organized space and environment. Some people's brains work better with clear categories and systems rather than chaos."
He looks at the island again, then back at me.
"Why don't we start by moving to a different environment? Get you out of the immediate overwhelm."
I nod, already feeling slightly better at the suggestion, but then I look at all the stuff again.
"But that doesn't tackle everything here."
"True," he agrees easily. "So let's prioritize. What's the most important thing for you right now?"
I think about it for maybe two seconds.
"I want to set up my phone so I can text Poppy."
"Perfect." His smile is warm, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Let's grab your phone and the accessories and move to the patio outdoors. Get some fresh air since it's not too chilly today."
The relief that washes through me is immediate. Having a plan, even a simple one, makes the mountain of stuff seem less insurmountable.
He gathers the phone box and the bag with the accessories—case, charger, those little sticky things Talon insisted I needed for the back—while I just stand there feeling useless but grateful.
We head toward the back door, and I'm already breathing easier at the thought of being outside.
"Actually," he says, pausing at the door, "wait here. I'll be right back."
He disappears back into the kitchen, and I hear cabinets opening, the espresso machine hissing to life. Five minutes later, he emerges with two steaming mugs that smell like autumn incarnate.
"Pumpkin spice lattes," he announces, handing me one. "Figured they'd go perfectly with the fall leaves out and about."
I take a sip and moan—actually moan—because it's perfect. Sweet and spicy and warm, with real whipped cream on top that's already starting to melt into the coffee. We settle onto the porch swing, and immediately I feel better. The fresh air clears my head, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of pine and distant wood smoke. Leaves drift down occasionally, gold and amber and red like nature's confetti.
But Corwin looks uncomfortable, shifting slightly, trying to find a position that works.
"Are you comfortable?" I ask, noticing how his knees are jutting out at an odd angle.
He chuckles, a self-deprecating sound.
"I have longer legs, so I usually need to spread them out more. It's a pain when you're flying business."
"Isn't business class bigger space though?"
"It is," he agrees, grinning. "Until you start trying private."
I whistle low.
"Luxury life."
"Something like that," he smirks, still looking cramped.
I look at him for a moment, then at the swing, then make a decision that three-years-ago-Red never would have made.
