Page 18 of Wrong Number, Right Fox (Dial M For Mates #6)
JOSS
It was hard to believe that not long ago, I was just a consultant, and now I was moving in with the CEO. The sexy CEO who had won my heart.
And when I say moving in , I meant physically because everything was finally coming over from my place.
But emotionally? We’d already moved in together.
The two of us hadn’t spent a single night apart since he marked me.
We’d been alternating between my place and his, pretending like there was still some reason to keep both.
But the truth was, we were already living together, just in a split residency, and that got old quick.
This was just us catching up the logistics.
It had taken a while to get to this point.
Not for lack of desire, but life had been hectic.
I’d taken on another consulting gig after my contract with Redtail had concluded, and unfortunately, it was a beast. Labor-intensive.
High stakes. Long hours. All the things I craved when we first started and now… not so much.
When you only get a few hours a day with your mate, you’re not using that time to pack up boxes or haul furniture. At least I wasn’t. I spent it curled into his chest, or cooking together, or just watching crappy TV while our fingers stayed intertwined the entire time.
But finally I was in a lull between contracts. An intentional one.
Because it was time.
I wanted to fall asleep in his arms every night.
I wanted to wake up in them every morning.
I wanted the whole package—the scent of his soap in my towels, our books tangled together on the shelves, mismatched mugs in the cupboard because we couldn’t decide which set to keep.
I wanted a home that was ours . Not a his-and-his situation with overnight bags. Something real.
Something rooted.
It was time to embrace my position in the den, too.
If I were honest with myself, that was one of the reasons I dragged my feet.
I knew with no doubt that Garner was mine and I was his.
But knowing how I would fit in with a den full of shifters I didn’t know and were so very different. That terrified me.
It shouldn’t have. They had been nothing but wonderful to me.
I’d gotten invitations from other omegas to go to brunch, movies, walks.
I was included in more conversations. It was no longer a case of me walking in and feeling like I was interrupting.
And yesterday, for the first time, I felt like I was truly one of them when the den was having a big old picnic and group run.
The kids who were too young to take their fox forms were playing different games, and when they were picking teams for their favorite version of tag, the two “captains” fought over who could pick me. It was silly.
This wasn’t gym class and I wasn’t five, but in that moment, it clicked that in their eyes, I was den. And if they saw me that way, it was time for me to see myself that way as well.
“What are you smiling about?” Garner’s arms wrapped around me from behind.
“Just thinking about how happy I am and how much happier I will be when this is done. There is sooooo much stuff here.”
I stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by boxes. Half-labeled, half-unpacked, half-unnecessary. And I leaned back, exhaling, into the warmth of my mate’s arms. His chest against my back, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“It’s not that much,” he lied or underestimated. One of the two.
I let out a laugh. “Maybe not in square footage, but I’ve got enough books here to open a small-town library.”
And it was true. Box after box after box—novels, art books, old field guides, paperbacks so worn they barely held together, books from my childhood. Every one of them had meaning. Every one of them had followed me through a different chapter of my life.
But still. There were a lot .
We’d already sorted most of the big stuff—decided whose dishes were staying (his mostly), which small appliances were redundant (goodbye, extra stand mixer), and which furniture worked best in the shared space.
The truck for donations had already come and gone, leaving behind only the things that truly mattered.
Or at least hadn’t been completely discarded yet.
And the books. So many books. I’d accumulated them over a lifetime, and the size of the collection had grown slowly over time. But had it grown.
“I only brought the box truck,” he said. “Because I thought, maybe we won’t need it all.”
I tilted my head, brow raised.
“But now?” He sighed.
“Yeah. We’re gonna need it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I said. “Should’ve trusted me.”
Turns out, love makes you want to bring it all . Every part of you. Every worn book, every memory-stuffed mug, every soft blanket that’s ever made you feel safe. You want your person to know it all. To live in it with you. Gods, I was turning into such a sap.
It took two trips, but we finally had everything at my new home. Then came the fun part. Or the not fun but necessary part, to be more exact.
I looked around the room again, the floor a mix of clutter, piles, and broken-down boxes.
And yet it already felt like home.
“I’m organizing,” I said, more for my own benefit than his. “I have a plan.” Not really. I was attempting to manifest. “We just need to?—”
“Breathe.” He took my hand and held it tightly.
And I did.
“We don’t need to do this all tonight,” he reassured me.
“I know, but I…”
“No buts. The important thing is that you are here… with me… and this is now our home.”
We stayed there like that for another minute.
Maybe two. Long enough for the noise in my head to quiet down, long enough for the dust in the sunlight to settle.
When he finally let go, it was only so he could pull me gently toward the couch, nudging aside a box labeled KITCHEN—MAYBE? ? with his foot.
“Sit,” he said. “You look like you’re about to pass out in a pile of hardcover biographies.” He seemed to have a connection to my extensive collection of biographies. I guessed they reminded him of one of the elders he spent a lot of time with growing up.
“I might,” I admitted, flopping down. “If I disappear under a stack of novels, tell my story with better pacing.”
He snorted. “Absolutely not. I’ll tell it exactly as chaotic and wordy as it really was.”
I stretched my legs out, the hem of my jeans catching on one of the cardboard corners. “Okay, maybe we take a break. Five minutes.”
He was already disappearing into the kitchen. “I’ll make tea.”
It was so stupidly domestic , I could’ve cried.
And I might’ve, just a little.
When he came back, he had two mugs and a small plate with some of the good chocolate from the back of the cabinet—the one we both swore we were saving for special occasions.
Why? Because my grandmother had one of those and it seemed like a nice tradition for us to adopt.
And just like with her, special occasion sounded like it was going to mean, “when we want one.”
He handed me the mug first and then dropped a kiss onto the top of my head before settling beside me. We sipped in silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder, our thighs pressed together. The warmth of the tea seeped into my fingers.
“Want to open a box?” he asked, nudging one with his socked foot.
“Sure,” I said. “Dealer’s choice.”
He reached for one near the coffee table. It was one I hadn’t labeled well—just “STUFF” written in Sharpie.
Dangerous territory. At the time I’d labeled the boxes, I swore I’d remember what they all meant. I’d been a liar face. I remembered none of them.
He opened the flaps slowly, like it might bite. Inside were the contents of not one, not two, but three junk drawers.
And at the bottom of the box, a shoebox. Slightly dented. Taped shut.
He looked at me. “This one important?”
“Yeah. Open it.” Inside were photographs.
I always planned to put them in an actual album, but never did.
Some were from when I was small, others from generations before me.
Each one telling a story, most of which I understood.
There was one picture of my grandfather with a man I had no recognition of and another of a couple that looked as familiar as a random stranger at the grocery store.
“Tell me about this one.” He held out a picture of my great-grandfather next to a tomato plant that had somehow grown taller than his over six feet.
“I’ll tell you about them all.” I snuggled into him, and we traveled down memory lane together, the clutter forgotten until another time.