Page 13 of Ronen
“Just fuck it out, get it out of your system, and move along with your lives,” Papa offered. “All your problems solved, and you’ll have gotten a good shagging out of it.”
Goddess, my family gave the worst advice. Ever.
It seems like solid advice to me, my badger chimed in.Fuck that man out of our system.
“No, thank you,” I said, indeed sounding every bit as fussy as my brother had said I was. “That won’t be happening. May we please not talk about me…having relations with anyone. Ever again, but especially with Mason Caldwell. Matty, how is teaching going?”
A change of subject was needed, and I needed to get the focus off of me.
And Sheriff Caldwell. Annoyingly hot Sheriff Caldwell.
Dad snorted, “Having relations? Who the fuck even says that?”
Matty rolled his eyes, “Told you. Fussy. Wound tight. No one would ever guess what you’re hiding under that tightly buttoned up shirt of yours, Ro, or what an absolute adrenaline junkie you are by the way you talk. And teaching is good. Interesting. I’m having fun with it.”
Matty had taken an adjunct professor position at our local college, teaching a class on fated mates. Our cousin Rory’s mate, Becca, was the assistant dean, and had begged him to teach for thespring semester when he had come back to the states. Since Matty hadn’t been able to say no to Rory since the first time they had met–which in turn meant he couldn’t say no to Becca–he had agreed to it.
“Becca has asked me to consider staying on for next year,” Matty told us. “We honestly weren’t sure how much interest there would be in this class, especially since it’s a filler elective, but apparently there were so many signups, they ended up with a waitlist.”
“Are you going to do it?” I asked. It would be really nice to have him home for a while, not that I was going to tell him that.
He nodded, “I think so, yeah. I know we’re only a few weeks into the semester, but I’m really enjoying teaching. Plus, it gives me time to work on my book.”
“So, you’re going to stay in Sweet Alps for a while then?” Dad asked, trying hard to not show his excitement at the prospect.
“If we can get it all worked out, yes,” Matty said. “Besides, Becca batted her eyes and said please, and I can’t resist her big, brown eyes and she knows it. Especially with her being pregnant. She knew I was going to say yes before she even asked.”
I snorted, “And she knows you can’t tell Rory no, either.”
“Well,” Papa set his empty mug down, “I, for one, am thrilled you’re planning to be home. And I know Rory will be thrilled to have you home also. I think with both you and Patrick gone, she was feeling a bit off kilter. Especially with the baby coming now.”
“She’s not exactly what I would call maternal,” Dad commented dryly. “I mean neither was Quinn and that worked out okay, so I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
Matty reached over and tried to ruffle my hair, but I ducked away from him. “Plus, I miss this dork.”
“I missed you a little, too,” I teased him, smoothing my hair down, after he had managed to get one swipe in. “Dad’s right though; Rory will be happy to have you home. I know she missed seeing Patrick at Christmas.”
Patrick and Rory were twins and were the second oldest of our cousins. Matty was the oldest and me the youngest, with four additional cousins sprinkled in between us.
Patrick had followed in our Uncle Quinn’s–his omega dad–footsteps and fallen in love with baking at a young age. He had spent the last several years in Paris, first studying at the famous Le Cordon Bleu, and most recently working as a pastry chef at the Ritz Paris.
“Speaking of Patrick,” Papa said, “your grandmother has planned to have a video call at dinner with both Patrick and Remy tonight.”
“It will be after midnight there,” I commented, easily converting the time difference.
Matty shrugged, “Eh, they’ll both be up, especially if Remy is dancing tonight. They are young omegas, in Paris, living their dreams. Trust me, those two run on very little sleep. They made me feel old when I saw them.”
Remy was another cousin, who was dancing as a prima ballerina in the Paris ballet.
Giving him a look, my voice serious, I told him, “That’s because you are old.”
“Fuck you,” he shot back, laughter in his voice.
“Thirty-five is super old.”
“Hey, I’m not thirty-five yet!”
“Closeenough,” I snickered.
