Chapter 19 #2
“Is there a junk drawer in this entire house?” I ask, genuinely curious. “You know, a drawer where you just throw random things? Pens, rubber bands, dead batteries?”
They all look at each other. The concept of a “junk drawer” is clearly completely foreign to them.
“I’ll go check the office,” Diego says.
“Wait,” Tristan says, snapping his fingers. He strides over to the sleek console table by the door, the one I remember leaving a certain... note... on a few days ago. He slides open the single, shallow drawer. “Aha!”
He returns, holding up a thick pad of cream-colored stationery and a heavy, silver fountain pen with a triumphant flourish. “Behold! The ancient artifacts of communication!”
I take the items from him, feeling the absurd weight of the pen in my hand. He’s so pleased with himself, and the memory of what I wrote on that pad is so at odds with his current cheerful energy, that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“It’s a start,” I say, my voice laced with an amusement they probably misinterpret. “Okay. New plan. We are going to the grocery store. And we are going to build a pantry fit for human consumption.”
Four sets of eyebrows rise in perfect unison.
“All of us?” Rett asks, sounding like I’ve just suggested we all go bungee jumping off the penthouse balcony.
“Yes, all of us,” I confirm, already scribbling on the paper. “If you want a functioning household, you need proper groceries. And since I’m temporarily living here, I refuse to survive on protein bars and kale.”
“I can have groceries delivered,” Rett offers, already reaching for his phone. “Whatever you want. Just make a list.”
I snatch the phone from his hand before he can unlock it. “No. That’s not how this works. Grocery shopping is an experience. You need to see the produce, smell the bread, judge other people’s carts.”
Tristan perks up at this. “We get to judge other people? I’m in.”
“That’s not the point,” I say, but I can’t help smiling. “The point is, this place needs actual food. And since I’m going to be here for... however long this takes, I refuse to live in a home without ice cream.”
“Ice cream,” Dane repeats thoughtfully, as if considering the strategic advantages of frozen dairy products.
“Yes, ice cream,” I say firmly. “And bagels. And coffee that doesn’t require an engineering degree to brew.”
Diego gestures at the shiny, complicated-looking coffee machine in the corner. “What’s wrong with our coffee?”
“Does it have more than three buttons?” I ask.
He glances at the machine, a gleaming chrome beast with a dozen glowing lights and a touchscreen. “It has a dedicated button for a ‘flat white’ and another one for a ‘ristretto.’ So, yes.”
“Then it’s too complicated for pre-caffeine mornings,” I declare.
Rett looks like he might argue, but then seems to think better of it. “Fine. A grocery store run. We can go to—”
“No,” I cut him off, waving my pen at him. “Not some fancy organic boutique market where everything costs triple and comes with a biography of the artisan who touched it. A regular grocery store. With regular prices. And coupons.”
“Coupons,” Rett repeats.
“I know you’re allergic to discounts, but the rest of us mortal folk use them.”
Tristan snorts, clearly enjoying Rett’s discomfort. “I haven’t used a coupon since... well, years.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day,” I say, continuing my list. “You’re going to experience how the other ninety-nine percent live.”
“I don’t think this is necessary,” Rett tries again. “We can just—”
“It’s either this or I starve,” I counter. “And if I starve, I get cranky. And trust me, none of you wants to see me cranky.”
The four of them exchange glances again, having one of those silent alpha conversations that I’m not privy to. Finally, Rett sighs.
“Fine,” he concedes. “But we take the SUV. And security.”
“It’s a grocery store,” I point out. “But fine. Whatever makes you feel better.”
Dane nods, already pulling out his phone, presumably to arrange said security. Diego looks genuinely excited, like a kid going to an amusement park. Tristan is still grinning, clearly enjoying this disruption to their routine.
And Rett... Rett is staring at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher. It’s part frustration, part fascination, and something else entirely that makes my stomach do a little flip.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Just... this isn’t how I expected this morning to go.”
“Well, life’s full of surprises,” I say lightly. “Like finding out your kitchen is a food desert, or waking up to a pancake that could be used as a weapon.”
Diego groans. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” I confirm, adding ‘pancake mix’ to my growing list. “Now, does anyone have any actual food allergies or dietary restrictions I should know about? Or can I just go wild in the cereal aisle?”
“No allergies,” Diego answers.
“Tristan refuses to eat mushrooms because he thinks they’re ‘too squishy,’” Rett offers, ignoring Tristan’s betrayed look.
“They’re fungus,” Tristan defends himself.
“Noted,” I say, adding ‘NO MUSHROOMS’ to the list. “Anyone else have any food quirks I should know about?”
“Dane only eats the red Skittles,” Tristan volunteers. “He separates them out like a serial killer.”
Dane shrugs, not denying it.
“And Rett doesn’t eat anything blue,” Diego adds.
I look up from my list, quirking one eyebrow. “Blue? Like... blueberries?”
“No, artificial blue,” Rett clarifies. “Blue candies, blue sports drinks, blue frosting. It’s—”
“It’s because when we were in college,” Tristan interrupts, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “and we were dead broke, the only thing left in the apartment was a bottle of cheap blue curacao and some stale bread. He tried to make ‘blue French toast.’ He spent the rest of the night throwing up a color not found in nature.”
Rett’s glare is so intense it could probably melt steel. “Thank you for that contribution.”
“You’re welcome,” Tristan grins. “I live to serve.”
I add ‘NO BLUE FOOD’ to the list, fighting a smile.
“Okay,” I say, tapping the pen against the fancy paper. “I think we’re ready for Operation: Feed the Almas.”
“Almas?” Diego asks, a soft smile playing on his lips.
“Souls,” I clarify with a shrug. “Seems more fitting than ‘alphas’ right now. You all look half-starved for a decent bagel.”
Tristan clutches his chest dramatically. “She sees into our very souls. I’m swooning.”
I just roll my eyes, but as we all start moving toward the door, a chaotic, disorganized team on a mission for carbs, I catch Diego staring at the blackened pancake remains. I slow my steps to fall in beside him, bumping his arm gently with my shoulder.
“Next time, I’ll help you make them properly,” I offer. “With a non-demonic stove.”
His face lights up with a smile so warm it could melt butter (if they had any). “I’d like that.”
Something warm settles in my chest. Maybe this arrangement won’t be a complete disaster after all. At the very least, we might avoid burning down the penthouse.
And honestly? After the events of last night, I’ll take any win I can get.