Mom:P.S. Ricardo just knocked on the door with more fish tacos. Apparently I'm eating fish tacos every day now. This is my life. I'll call you tomorrow. Love you so much.
I drop my phone on the couch.
Stacey is wiping tears from her eyes. "Your mom is asking about protection with four alphas and eating fish tacos with strange men in Mexico. I'm obsessed with her.”
"She's in Mexico learning Spanish slang and making friends with retired men who bring her groceries," I say. "Aunt Linda ran off with a 32-year-old surf instructor."
"Your family is chaos."
"I'm aware."
Harmony looks up from her spot by the fire. "Your mom sounds amazing."
"She is." I pick up my phone and look at the photos. Mom laughing with Ricardo and Eduardo. Paulo looking distinguished. "She's figuring out how to be herself. And she's doing it by eating fish tacos and learning bad Spanish and making friends with everyone she meets."
"That's kind of beautiful," Harmony says quietly.
"It is." I set the phone down again. "And she's right. These men are right for me. That's all that matters."
Nacho's arm tightens around my shoulders. "Your mom sounds like a smart woman."
"She is." I lean into his warmth. "She'd like you. She'd interrogate you thoroughly first. But then she'd like you."
"Sounds like a good woman."
"The best." My voice is soft.
Stacey raises her wine glass. "To Jessica's badass mom eating fish tacos in Mexico. To Aunt Linda running away with a surf instructor. And to the four alphas who love her."
"To chaos," Carlos adds with a grin.
"To family," Nacho says quietly. "The ones we're born with and the ones we choose."
We raise our glasses and drink.
The fire crackles. The conversation flows. Harmony laughs at something Sergio says. Stacey challenges Carlos to another round of her card game.
And I sit in the middle of it all, surrounded by love and light and the future I'm building one day at a time.
Whatever comes next—my heat, Callum's threats, the town's judgment—I won't be facing it alone.
29
JESSICA
Iwake to the sound of Stacey murdering Whitney Houston in the shower.
"I'M EVERY WOMAN, IT'S ALL IN MEEEEE!"
I bury my face in the pillow and groan. The guest room smells like wine and girl talk and four different alpha scents from the men who keep finding excuses to walk past my door. My head pounds. The morning sun is too bright. And Stacey is entirely too loud.
Someone knocks.
"Come in," I croak.
Harmony slips inside, already dressed in leggings and an oversized sweater, strawberry blonde hair twisted into a neat bun. She looks impossibly put together for someone who drank as much wine as we did last night.
"Is she always like this?" She perches on the edge of the bed.
