Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Mia
Life moves fast.
Our realtor, Rufus, moves faster.
Only a couple of days after he signed on to be our realtor, he manages to line up a promising showing for us.
The house is further out of town than the house the guys already own, but the perks are obvious.
The neighborhood seems quiet, lined with older trees, with front yards occasionally dotted with swings.
From the road, the house looks perfect.
"Wow," I breathe a sigh.
The house is painted a soft off-white with dark brown wood shutters. The wide front porch spans the whole width of the front of the house. The two-story structure looks to have enough square footage for as many kids as we could ever realistically want.
Which is at least a dozen. With Zak around, I have zero doubts about our ability to raise an indefinite number of children together.
He's primed to be a doting father figure, and Spencer is bound to pass on all kinds of great qualities to our children: patience, organization, commitment, goal-setting, and hard work.
And then there's Freddie, who will help ensure they're constantly entertained and grow up with a great sense of humor.
Rufus is all smiles as we walk up to the house.
We met yesterday to sign a contract for Rufus to be our realtor, so introductions have already been done.
I meet Rufus on the front walkway and clutch his arm immediately.
"This looks like a home," I tell him joyously, already feeling the early signs of falling in complete love with the place.
He preens like I pinned a gold star to his chest.
"I knew you'd take one look at this place and feel right at home," Rufus nods. His 90s boy band hair flips everywhere when his head moves.
I grin and walk toward the porch, my excitement building with every step.
Spencer puts his hand on the small of my back, walking on one side of me as Rufus walks on the other.
Freddie and Zak bring up the rear, with Zak carrying a small backpack filled with water bottles and snacks.
Apparently, he believes a house showing requires the same level of preparation as a weekend-long hiking trip.
I'm hopeful.
"This place seems to have good energy," I murmur as we walk up the stairs to the porch.
Rufus nods enthusiastically. Under his breath, he says, "Hopefully the house doesn't say anything weird to change your mind."
I laugh until I realize he isn't laughing with me.
We pause at the front door, and I eye him with newfound concern. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing," he says far too quickly, reaching out to open the front door and wave us in.
"Welcome home, prospective residents," we're greeted by a semi-robotic voice, the sound echoing throughout the house.
All four of us turn to stare at Rufus, who sheepishly gestures to a screen built into the wall next to the front door. The panel lights up with cheerful text:
NEW CLIENTS DETECTED.
WOULD YOU LIKE THE FULL INTERACTIVE TOUR EXPERIENCE?
"No," Spencer says immediately.
"Yes!" Freddie says at the exact same time, his excitement making his voice the louder one.
The panel makes a chirping sound.
"Interactive tour mode activated," the house says. Its robotic voice has a slightly monotone, feminine quality to it that I hate instantly.
Something made very apparent by the scowl I don’t bother to hide.
Rufus winces.
"This place has great reviews," he says weakly. "And the yard is fenced. Great for pets or kids!"
The house initiates its tour, completely unaware of the growing tension in the foyer.
"The outgoing owners have enjoyed seven years at this residence with its built-in intelligence system.
With automatic updates and expansive sensory systems in each room, I can ensure you years to come of adaptive comfort, predictive wellness support, and streamlined daily efficiency. "
Freddie puts a hand on his chest. "Does anyone else think 'predictive wellness support' sounds vaguely threatening?"
"I recommend daylight settings for the house for the best experience during your tour." Another chime sounds from the panel on the wall, and then the lights in the foyer subtly adjust.
I'm usually a fan of warm-colored lighting, but the auto-adjustment is off-putting. I didn't even like the motion-detected lights in the guys' existing house. Why on earth would I want a robot house picking my lighting for me?
"No," Spencer says again, more firmly this time. "Stop doing things."
"Command not recognized. Would you like me to add stop doing things to your custom commands settings?"
"Yes," Freddie says.
"No," Spencer and I say in unison.
Rufus ushers us further into the house before the foyer can start requesting information about our blood types.
The house is undeniably beautiful. The first room we enter is a large living room with built-in bookshelves framing a brick fireplace that looks original to the home.
The living room leads seamlessly to a beautiful kitchen with wood cabinets and a huge bay window overlooking the backyard full of trees.
For roughly two minutes, I can almost forget the house has a voice.
Then, the fridge says, "You appear to have brought your own beverages. Would you like me to chill them to individual preferences?"
Freddie whirls around with a gasp and points his finger at the fridge. "No, we would not like you to do anything to our beverages. Mind your business."
"My business is home management," the fridge says.
"This is why no one trusts technology," Freddie murmurs.
A screen next to the sink, just like the one by the front door, lights up. "Based on facial tension and elevated breathing, one or more visitors may be experiencing low-level discomfort. Would you like me to activate the hot beverage station and recommend a calming tea?"
Rufus rubs the wrinkles on his forehead that have formed as he becomes increasingly concerned. I'm sure he can tell that the talking house isn't winning any of us over.
"No more talking appliances." Spencer rubs the back of his neck and eyes the dishwasher suspiciously.
"I'm sorry," Rufus says. "The sensitivity settings can be turned down so that the smart house doesn't feel this intrusive all of the time."
That does little to ease my growing anxiety.
Freddie leans closer to the fridge and jams his finger against the metal handle. "Listen to me, you smug little ice box. You're not the alpha here."
“Relaying to the main system that you’re attempting to find an alpha. Would you like me to connect you with an agency for assistance?”
There’s a collective gasp from the pack. The house has some nerve threatening my possessive scent-matches like this. I glare at the offending fridge.
“Absolutely not!” Freddie bitch slaps the appliance, but recoils instantly with a quiet, “Ouch.”
"Would you like protein recommendations?" the fridge asks.
"What?" Freddie gasps and backs away a step.
"Why would you ask me that? I get plenty of protein.
" He lifts his arms and flexes his muscles.
He's not quite as athletically built as Spencer or Zak, but he's still impressive in his own right.
No amount of muscle would change the fact that slapping stainless steel is bound to hurt.
"Let's all take a deep breath and finish the rest of the tour," Spencer says, looking to Rufus uncertainly. He seems keen to finish the tour as quickly as possible, which I don't think any of us will argue with.
If anything, I'm wondering if the house will tattle on me if I sneak out early and skip the rest of the tour.
I know Spencer probably doesn't want Rufus to feel like we wasted his time driving all the way out here, but this house is no longer checking all the right boxes.
"Why don't we take a look upstairs before I show you the formal dining room and bonus rooms on this level?" Rufus suggests. We begrudgingly follow him upstairs, and he leads us to a room at the back of the house that he proudly announces has "great nest potential."
I might agree with him if a speaker in the ceiling didn't call out, "Privacy optimization activated," the moment I stepped inside. The windows automatically tint, and the lights in the room dim.
"Nope. Don't like that," I say.
The house doesn't respond to my displeasure, which somehow feels smug.
"We don't need to see anything else," Spencer tells Rufus, pressing himself against my back as if to reassure me he's capable of protecting me against the evils of the smart house.
I breathe a sigh of relief that we can end this charade. I'm obviously not living here.
This place even makes their current house seem more appealing.
"I completely understand, and I already have a few other places in mind for you all that might be a better fit." Rufus nervously fiddles with the sleeves of his sweater, tightening the knot at the base of his throat.
He leads us back into the hallway, but we stop short when yet another wall panel beeps to get our attention. Freddie curses the house out under his breath. The panel beeps again.
"What's it doing now?" I ask, looking at Rufus, who seems to be as clueless as the rest of us.
The panel lights up with white text against a blue screen.
THERMAL SCAN COMPLETE.
OMEGA WITH SLIGHT TEMPERATURE ELEVATION DETECTED.
IRRITABILITY MAY CORRELATE WITH EARLY HEAT ONSET.
RECOMMENDED COMFORT ACTIONS AVAILABLE.
My eyes skim the text in horrified silence that gives way to rage. This house is really threatening my bodily autonomy by impersonating a gynecologist with absolutely no bedside manners.
"Would you like support protocols initiated for omega pre-heat wellness?" the house asks in its overly pleasant voice that I find more grating than soothing.
Absolutely hell to the no.
I push past the others to hurry toward the stairs. I'm getting the hell out of here before the psycho house finds a way to follow us home. I'm already shivering imagining that voice coming out of the car's speakers on the way back to my apartment.
I'm halfway down the steps when I hear Freddie tell Rufus, "We're gonna need a much dumber house."
We’re nearly home when Spencer glances at me in the rearview mirror.
"I wanted to wait to mention this until after we did today's tour," he says in a casual tone that sounds forced. "The team would like to meet you."
I blink. "The team?"
He nods. "One of the guys on the team is part-owner of an Italian restaurant downtown. He's shutting the restaurant down for a private dinner party this weekend, and most of our teammates are planning to be there." He glances at me in the mirror again, checking my reaction. "Would you come?"
Before I can answer, Zak says, “Maybe we should wait.”
“Wait for what?” Spencer’s frown shows in the rearview mirror. Questioning the other alpha’s decision is dangerously close to Zak stepping on Spencer’s toes as the head of the pack.
Zak must realize it too because he sinks down in his seat a few inches before mumbling, “Wait until she has her bite marks.”
“I know that it’s not ideal introducing our unmarked omega to a bunch of other alphas, but we’re close enough to the guys on the team that I trust them not to try anything stupid.
” Spencer shakes his head with a small smile, like the very idea is laughable.
“And if we go ahead and get the introduction done now, while we’re in the middle of our season, maybe we can get away with taking an extended break from everyone when the season ends.
That way, we get to bond as a pack in peace without everyone trying to be so nosy. ”
Zak nods once, wisely choosing not to argue the point any further.
I shouldn't rush to agree. I should ask questions. Determine whether their teammates are likely to give me a hard time about my pajama-pants photos still making the rounds on social media.
But I love a good social event.
"Of course I'll come," I answer.
His face softens with immediate relief. "Good."
Good?
No.
Internally, my panic is instantaneous.
The second the words leave my mouth agreeing to attend, I realize I've made a grave error in judgment.
I don't know anything about football.
Okay, I'm not completely clueless. I know there's a quarterback.
That's Spencer's position. Zak is a tight end, which definitely isn't as fake and sexual as it sounds.
There are touchdowns. Helmets. Tight pants.
Some amount of kicking. And a mascot, obviously, though based on recent experience, I'm not sure Simon the Sloth reflects the sport so much as he reflects unchecked whimsy.
That's it. That's the extent of my understanding.
Even after filming all those games for my brother in high school, I retained absolutely nothing about the game itself. Now, I've agreed to go to a dinner party with a bunch of professional football players who are undoubtedly going to ask me my thoughts about the sport.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I'm sure their teammates have heard by now all about how I've got the guys house hunting after less than a week of knowing each other.
I cannot show up also revealing my cluelessness about football.
I'm not a fan of feeling out of my element, and this dinner party will be way outside of my comfort zone if I don't study up on my football knowledge, stat.
Somewhere between now and this weekend, I need to learn enough about the sport not to embarrass myself in front of the whole team. Otherwise, the talking house calling out my impending heat won't end up being the most humiliating part of my week after all.