Page 115 of Roulette Rodeo
Both remaining alphas grin, and there's fondness in it despite their teasing.
"Let's get some real food in you," Corwin says, already moving toward the stove. "Bacon? Eggs? Pancakes?"
I blink, overwhelmed by options.
"I've never had homemade anything. Not really."
Something passes between them—a look that might be sadness or anger or both—but it's gone before I can analyze it.
"Then we'll make you something you'll adore," Talon declares. "Just like those donuts, but those are from Molly's bakery in town. Can't beat her baking, so for sweets, that's on her. But we can handle the savory stuff."
I grin, feeling excitement bubble up despite the weirdness with Rafe.
The idea of homemade food, made just for me, by people who seem to actually care if I enjoy it... it's almost too much.
"I hope this is how mornings normally go," I say, kicking my feet again as Corwin starts cracking eggs and Talon pulls bacon from the fridge.
The sizzle of meat hitting hot pan fills the kitchen with warmth and promising smells, and I let myself imagine this being my life now. Lazy afternoons that feel like morning, magical donuts, kisses that stake claims, and enough food that I never have to hoard crackers under my pillow again.
"Well," I add, glancing toward the door Rafe escaped through, "aside from Rafe being a crabby pants."
Why do I have a feeling he’s going to be the hardest to crack?
OPERATION RODEO ROULETTE
~RED~
The living room feels impossibly large with just the four of us in it.
I'm tucked into the corner of one of the leather couches, legs curled under me in my ridiculous cowboy socks, still nursing the remnants of my pumpkin latte. Shiloh's sprawled next to me, close enough that our thighs touch through the fabric of my dress. Talon's claimed the armchair across from us, sitting in it backward like a teenager who never learned proper furniture etiquette. Corwin—I keep wanting to call him Crowne like the others do—has taken the other end of my couch, medical journal abandoned on the coffee table.
The afternoon sun slants through the windows, painting everything golden and warm, but there's an awkward energy in the air. Like we're all aware we need to have some sort of conversation but no one knows how to start.
"So," I finally say, setting down my empty mug, "where should we start with this?"
Talon immediately takes charge, and I can see why even though Rafe's technically the leader. There's something about Talon's energy that fills spaces, makes decisions happen whether they're good ones or not.
"Well, since our illustrious pack alpha is still off having his daily tantrum—" He waves dismissively toward the door Rafe escaped through, "—I say we start with formal introductions."
Shiloh's eyebrow arches skeptically.
"Formal introductions? We already know each other's names."
Talon's grin turns wicked.
"Including what we used to do and what we do now in Jack Ridge. You know, the stuff that actually matters instead of just 'Hi, I'm Shiloh, I chop wood and brood attractively.'"
I can't help but giggle at that, especially when Shiloh flips him off with casual efficiency.
"Fine," Talon says, straightening in his backward chair like he's about to give a presentation. "I'll start. Talon Reeves, thirty years old, former underground fighter turned legitimate businessman." He uses air quotes around 'legitimate' that make Corwin snort. "Used to break faces for money in warehouse basements from Detroit to Miami. Now I run the garage in town, fix cars, motorcycles, anything with an engine really. Also handle our... let's call them automotive special projects."
"He means he strips stolen vehicles and rebuilds them with clean VINs," Corwin translates helpfully.
"I prefer 'automotive liberation specialist,'" Talon counters without missing a beat. "Your turn, Doc."
Corwin shifts, suddenly looking uncomfortable with the attention.
"Corwin Ashford, thirty-one. Former Army medic, did three tours in Afghanistan before—" He pauses, jaw tightening. "Before I got out. Now I run the clinic in town. Real medical license, real patients, real boring small-town doctor stuff. Also patch up idiots who get into bar fights and can't go to the hospital without answering inconvenient questions."
