Page 52 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

OVERWHELMED BY CHOICES

~RED~

T he kitchen island looks like a retail store exploded.

I stand there, frozen in indecision, staring at the chaos of my own making.

Three days of trips into town have resulted in this—a mountain of bags, boxes, and items scattered across the marble surface like some sort of consumer archaeology site.

There's the phone box ( still sealed ), various clothing items ( tags still attached ), books ( at least twelve, maybe more ), art supplies ( why did I think I could paint?

), candles ( so many candles ), fuzzy blankets ( three different textures ), pillows ( did I really need seven ?), bath products ( because apparently I'm addicted to anything that smells like vanilla or cherries ), notebooks ( blank and judging me ), pens ( approximately forty-seven ), and various other impulse purchases that seemed vitally important in the moment.

Now, standing here in the afternoon light streaming through the kitchen windows, I have no idea what to pick up first.

My fingers hover over the phone box, then drift to the books, then to the soft throw blanket that's the color of fresh cream. Each item feels equally important and completely irrelevant at the same time.

The paralysis is real and frustrating because this shouldn't be hard.

Normal people don't get overwhelmed by shopping bags.

But then again, normal people haven't spent three years with exactly four possessions to their name.

"What are you staring at?"

Corwin's voice makes me jump slightly.

I hadn't heard him come in—none of them make noise when they move unless they want to. It's both impressive and mildly terrifying.

I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, dressed casual for once in jeans and a henley that makes his hazel eyes look more gold than green. His hair is slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it, probably from whatever medical journals he's been reading in his study.

I pout, that automatic expression that seems to happen whenever I'm frustrated.

"I'm overwhelmed."

One eyebrow arches in that way that makes him look like a professor trying to understand why his student can't grasp basic calculus.

He pushes off from the doorframe and walks over, his movements fluid despite his size.

When he reaches me, he surveys the explosion of purchases with the same careful attention he probably gives patient charts.

"What's overwhelming about it?"

I gesture helplessly at everything.

"Seeing it all at once is making me feel a tad overwhelmed. Like, I want all of it but I don't know where to start and now it's all just... there. Staring at me."

I pause, trying to find the right words.

"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 all start 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.

Or more so, didn’t have the confidence or desire to do with someone else…

I stand up, set my mug carefully on the porch railing, then promptly sit myself down on his lap, settling sideways so I can still see his face.

"Is that better?"

He whistles low, his arm automatically coming around my waist to steady me, and the smirk on his face is different now—less amused, more interested.

"Totally better. But if I get a hard-on, you can't tease me."

I love a man who’s bold with his expression.

I giggle, the sound bubbling up naturally. There's something about Corwin that makes me feel safe enough to be silly, to be flirty without fear of consequences. It’s nice to be around someone without apprehension. Just exist and speak your mind, not caring of any consequences.

"Are you adjusting well so far?" he asks, his thumb rubbing absent circles on my hip through my jeans.

I think about it, really shimmer on it, not just giving the automatic 'fine' that I would have defaulted to before.

"It's been a bit overwhelming," I admit, "which is why I wanted to take today off to stay home and organize. It's so different from my lifestyle of schedules and knowing exactly what I have to do every single day, seven days a week."

I pause, trying to articulate the feeling.

"Here, I'm figuring out my goals and wants, learning the hobbies I want to try, but it feels like I'm swimming and, well... sometimes it's almost like I'm drowning."

It’s the best way to describe it without feeling sort of stupid.

He nods, and there's understanding in his eyes.

"It is tricky to go from structure to open chaos in what people would deem as peace.

" He shifts slightly, getting more comfortable with me on his lap.

"Think about lottery winners, for example.

They're used to the structure of having a job, bills to pay, routines to follow.

Suddenly they have all this money that's supposed to make their life effortless, but without structure, they often spend it all and end up right back where they started. Or worse."

"That makes sense," I say, sipping my latte thoughtfully. "I guess I never thought about how structure, even bad structure, gives you purpose."

"Exactly. So," he says, looking at me with those doctor eyes that see too much, "have you figured out if you want to work?"

"I do," I say without hesitation. "Even if it's just part-time. Poppy's gym friend is opening a place soon, and I could actually do a beginner kickboxing class for omegas, which would be pretty new of its kind."

I shrug, suddenly self-conscious.

"I'm obviously not a pro, but it would be empowering to help other omegas. Or at least stay active. Teach them basic self-defense, how to throw a proper punch, maybe even just give them a space to be strong instead of just soft."

"That sounds perfect for you," he says, and the approval in his voice warms me more than the latte.

"There's also the only bar in town," I add, watching his face.

The frown is immediate and adorable.

"No."

I giggle, unable to help myself.

"What? Don't want anyone watching your precious stuff?"

The shift in his demeanor is instant and electric. He leans in suddenly, close enough that I can smell his scent—cedar and amber with something medicinal underneath, like soft sanitizer. I freeze as he stares directly into my eyes, and his voice drops to something that makes my stomach flip.

"You're not precious stuff. You're our omega. You were before these stupid government-instilled rules, and I'd happily prove to this gossip town that we mean it."

He pauses, and something darker flashes in his eyes.

"But yes, it makes me a bit jealous to think of anyone looking at what's ours."

The blush that floods my face is instant and consuming. I can feel it spreading down my neck, across my chest, probably turning me the color of my namesake.

"I wasn't expecting you to be so...well, direct."

Which I’m becoming to really enjoy.