Page 7 of Holly Jolly Heat
"Professionally, yes. About content strategy and sponsorships and stream schedules." I stared into my mug. "He hasn't mentioned the market. Neither has Ro in the work emails. They're... respecting my boundaries."
"Which is good."
"Which is confusing." I looked up at her. "If they're my fated mates, shouldn't they be pushing? Shouldn't they be showing up here, demanding I acknowledge the bond?"
"Maybe they're smarter than that. Or maybe—" Mom's eyes were too knowing, "—they're proving they can respect what you need."
My chest ached. "I don't know what I need."
"Yes, you do. You're just scared to admit it."
Before I could respond, Maya's voice echoed up the stairs, "MICHELLE! You have PACKAGES!"
I nearly dropped my mug. "What?"
"Like, a lot of packages!" Josh added. "From Seattle!"
Mom and I exchanged glances. Her lips were twitching like she was trying not to smile.
"I didn't order anything," I said weakly.
"Well, someone sent you something. Several somethings." Mom stood, heading for the door. "Come on. Let's see what your very respectful, boundary-honoring alphas sent you."
"They're not my—" But she was already gone.
I set down my mug and followed her downstairs, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.
The front porch had been transformed into a delivery station. Three boxes sat neatly stacked on the porch swing, each wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. They looked rustic and intentional and absolutely terrifying.
Maya and Josh were hovering near them like Christmas had come early.
"They're addressed to you," Maya said, bouncing slightly. "From Seattle. No return address, but there are cards."
"Maya, did you open my mail?"
"The cards weren't sealed! They were just tucked under the twine!" But she looked slightly guilty.
I approached the boxes like they might explode. The first one was small, wrapped carefully. A sprig of fresh cedar was tucked under the twine.
Cedar and vanilla. Lucas.
My hands shook slightly as I pulled out the card.
For your office. - L
I unwrapped the box slowly, aware of my entire family watching. Inside was a beautiful desk plant—a small jade succulent in a hand-painted pot decorated with winter scenes. Nestled beside it was a bag of my favorite peppermint tea blend, the expensive kind I only bought as a rare treat.
The kind I'd mentioned exactly once, in passing, during our very first phone call six months ago.
He'd been paying attention.
"That's sweet," Bill said from the doorway, spatula in hand. "Practical and thoughtful."
I stared at the little succulent, my throat tight. The pot was hand-painted. Someone had taken time with this. Had thought about what I might need, what might make me smile.
The second box was larger, also wrapped carefully. The card read simply:Thought you might need these. - R
Inside were noise-canceling headphones, and not just any. These were top of the line, the kind I'd been eyeing for months but couldn't quite justify. Next to those sat a leather-bound planner embossed with my initials, and a handwritten note on heavy cardstock.
