Putting another box of books into Nadine’s frunk, I straighten up and bang my head on the underside of the hood. Luckily, it wasn’t hard enough to knock the support pole loose and risk my own decapitation. That was one of the excuses my mother gave to try to keep me from buying this “death trap of a car.” I don’t think it’s actually possible—unless I lie down on the ground and flop my head over the edge of the bumper, but I wasn’t going to argue with that woman. She is tiny, but she’s fierce when she wants to be. Even then, I think decapitation would be a stretch. Human heads are attached pretty well.
Where was I going with that train of thought?
Almost half of my books are loaded in now, as well as Spence’s new-in-box rice cooker and some of the dishes from the pantry. It would be better if I could load the passenger and backseats upas well, but then where would the guys sit? Spence comes down the stairs, carrying another box that he’s probably going to have to hold in his lap, while Paul has several clean towels folded in a stack. We might be able to squeeze them in around the dishes, to keep things from rattling—and hope like hell we don’t get hit on the way over. Killed by Pyrex shrapnel isn’t a way I want to go out.
Spence comes around and looks under the hood, trying to figure out if he can wedge anything else in, while Paul begins stacking towels as padding around the kitchen stuff. We’ll need to rent a truck or something to move the bigger furniture, but several trips across town to the new place with Nadine means we can start living there now if we’re willing to sleep on the floor. I am not overly happy about the situation, but Spence is so excited—and considering he’s been sleeping on the couch for so long, I can’t really deny him such a simple happiness.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling up in front of the home we now own. The water, gas, and electricity will need to be changed over to my name once the offices open up again after New Year’s, but for now we can start to move things in while Paul changes the door locks and passes out new keys. Not that I think we have anything to worry about, but he says it’s always best to do before you move in.
It would have been nice if he’d mentioned that four car loads ago, before all of my books were here. Now I feel like an idiot for not thinking of it myself. Then again, who would want to steal worn-out books on the history of…? I open the box I’ve just set down and peel back the flaps to see what’s inside.The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empirestares back at me from the top of the stack.
Dear god, Iama nerd.
Why am I even still carting these around?
Chapter 23
John sneers over my shoulder at Greg, who just smiles back from his ever-present post. “I’ve told you, honey bunny, even if it weren’t for this…beta that you insist on dragging around, you wouldn’t be able to stay with us over spring break. My pack has plans, and we can’t just cancel everything, even for my scent match.”
I hate the little whine that builds in my throat at his rejection. And his stupid pheromones push me to smooth everything over, despite feeling like he just tore out my heart. “No, I…I understand. I mean, we’ve only known each other for a couple of months, and you have an important job. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Nonsense, my dear, it would be lovely to see you more. My pack just keeps mesobusy. But it’s still a couple of months away. We can try to fit in a few more visits between now and then. Possibly without the chaperone.”
He stares pointedly past me, and I hear Greg mumble, “Not a chance in hell, asshole.” My beta’s strong hand smooths down my back as he shuffles closer. But when I peer over my shoulder at him, he has a big, fake grin on his face.
John looks annoyed but pointedly ignores Greg’s snark. “Now, tell me, how was your holiday? You said you were going to see your family? Oh, but first let me tell you about the tripwetook…” His voice has taken on that low droning quality that I’ve come to associate with another story about him, and while my omega perks up a bit that her alpha is paying us attention, the rational part of my brain wonders again how the hell any part of me is attracted to someone so self-centered. We’ve been back from Christmas break for almost three weeks, and this is the first time he’s shown up or contacted me at all.
Part of me wants to question whatever batshit crazy gods decided this guy was my scent match. Other than his pheromones, there’s just nothing to like about him. But logic and my inner omega don’t always work well together. Still, I think even she may be getting tired of his shit. The previous excitement I’ve felt when he stopped by is nearly non-existent today. Hell, my first thought when the front desk called me to the visitor center was to wonder if he doesn’t think I have anything going on. Why should I have to drop everything just for his stupid scent?
Still, something compels me to want to be around him, even though I don’t particularly like him. Would I even be able to bond with him and his pack? Do I want to? I don’t know…theyhaven’t spent any real time with me, and from what little there has been, I don’t think I like him very much.
“Sorry about having to make up that extra hour at work, Sarah. If I’d known he was stopping by in advance, I could have asked for time off. Or at least not had to call in a favor to cover my shift.” Greg has dark bags under his eyes—he hasn’t been sleeping well since we got back from Christmas, but I don’t want to put him on the spot by asking him what’s wrong. Instead, I step into him and wrap my arms tight around his waist.
He rests his cheek on top of my head and starts singing quietly, but I don’t recognize the tune. One hand slides lower around his hips as his shoulders slump against the door he just walked through. My hand comes up to rest against the wood so I don’t put all my weight against his slouched form, my face turning to nuzzle against his chest, taking a deep hit of his subtle beta scent, which sends a happy little shiver down my spine.
“Want me to fix something, or just order in so we can crash early? You look worn out, Pretty Boy.” His low song tapers into a thoughtful hum and his arms tighten around me, pulling me closer so he can shift and kiss my hair.
“I…You haven’t been eating much lately. I’m worried about you. I would love to order a pizza and then snuggle to sleep in your nest, but will you be ok with that? Ever since we got back, you’ve just been picking at everything. And don’t think I missed the extra hours you’ve been spending at the gym. Your mom was too harsh on you. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
My whole body freezes at that thought, because it’s really hard not to gain weight with PMOS. Before Greg, I wasn’t exactly on a strict diet; I just rarely remembered to eat other than after a gym session. Then he comes in, feeding me, making me comfortable and cozy and…yeah, I gained a few pounds before we visited my family. Leave it to Mamá to notice and say something.
Of course, if he thinks I’m perfect now, I’ll need to work extra hard to stay that way. I bite down on my lips to stop the whimper that wants to slide free at the thought of always having to go for the salad and turning down food he brings me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like a salad as much as Shaggy, but I’m not averse to them like some people. Still, if he wants me to stay the size I am now, there is gonna be a lot of lettuce and baby spinach in my future. Ugh.
I’m only aware of how much I’ve stiffened up when he pulls back to look down at me. “I love you, Sarah. No matter your shape or size, you are my perfect, beautiful girl. And you’re stuck with me for as long as you’ll have me. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, so don’t stress about me, ok? You’re it for me. Ride or die. Hell or high-water. Till death do we part…or you get tired of my singing…whichever comes first.”
A huge yawn makes his jaw crack loudly, causing him to wince. I step back and take the decision out of his hands. “Ok, Pretty Boy, you go sit down. I’m going to check the fridge. If the bread isn’t furry or a lovely shade of green, we’re just going to go with peanut butter and jelly…or honey…or whatever the hell we have on hand. Then you, my good sir, need sleep and I need snuggles.”
He nods numbly at me, stumbling away towards my couch, veering at the last minute to sit on the floor next to Shaggy’s run. He undoes the latch, letting my fuzzy little roommate out before he stretches out on the floor and closes his eyes. Shaggy hops out of the gate and flails his way up onto Greg’s chest, butting himin the chin and demanding attention. He thumps his back leg against my beta’s chest a couple of times before a hand comes up and starts scratching gently behind his ears. Shaggy makes a soft bruxing sound, settling down and spreading out across Greg’s chest, soaking up the attention as I turn towards the kitchenette in search of something edible.
A short time later, armed with two peanut butter and honey sandwiches, a half-empty bag of tortilla chips, plus an apple slice for Shaggy to entice him back into his pen so we can eat without his demands for attention, I return. Greg is snoring lightly, still on his back on the floor, hand lying across Shaggy’s back. I can’t be sure, but I think my bun is asleep too, and I suddenly wish I had my cell phone in hand so I could capture this moment for posterity…or future blackmail. Whichever the situation calls for.
Sadly, my phone is across the room, behind the couch, and plugged in. Frustratingly, it also chooses that moment to start ringing. Greg startles awake and sits up, causing Shaggy to slide down his chest as I attempt to clamber over the couch and silence my mother’s obnoxiously loud ringtone. I don’t want to talk to her. It feels like every interaction I’m waiting for her to say something shitty about my life. In a constant state of limbo, knowing that eventually something horrible is going to come out.
I had hoped, futilely, that after the first night at home she would have backed off. But no such luck. Every time I turned around, some kind of snarky comment was being made. Backhanded compliments, my abuela used to call them—gaslighting is a more accurate term.
Oh, it’s great that you’re working out so much, but guys don’t like muscles.
He only thinks you’re hot because you’ve got that huge muscular horse ass.
