The regencies were secretly my favorite—which might account for my bitterness at being compared to a dog by any of the guys I was interested in—but tonight I plucked a battered copy of Sherlock Holmes and settled down on the sofa with my bowl of popcorn, switching on a lamp for extra light.
I was only about a page into the book when Greyson emerged from the spare bedroom, padded his way across the tiny cottage, and started to ease himself onto the sofa.
“Hey—what are you doing?” I peered at him over the top of my book. “Seriously, Greyson. There’s not room for both of us on here—you’re too big.”
Greyson gave me a disgusted look as he hefted his body all the way onto the sofa.
I was scrunched up, pressed into the arm of the couch while Greyson took up two of the three cushions, and was still pretty cramped.
“I’m not moving,” I said. “This is my home, and this is my spot.”
Greyson’s eyes glowed alarmingly with mischief, and he abruptly stretched out, then plopped down, his head and part of his chest resting on top of my legs.
His fur was soft and warm, and I could feel his breath on my knees as he got comfy.
“Hey—what is this?” I demanded.
Greyson shifted until he was on his side, then yawned, showing his massive teeth.
“I’m not a couch,” I declared.
He ignored me and sighed, closing his eyes as he stretched out his back legs.
For a moment, I debated what to do.
Is this a new method of teasing me—invading my cottage to show that nowhere is safe? But he’s not really doing anything.
Slowly I lowered my arms so my hands and my book rested on his neck.
Greyson didn’t even move.
I have no idea what any of this means, I concluded. And that’s really irritating. Possibly dangerous, but mostly irritating.
I stared at him for a moment or two, but no matter how I tried to remember, there was nothing about werewolves that said curling up with a person reading a book was a thing.
But werewolves will pile together when in their wolf form as a sort of bonding experience. Maybe that’s what he’s attempting to do?
I glanced down at Greyson, who appeared to be snoozing.
No. No way. Greyson likes to torture me, and he’s not a cuddler. Maybe it has something to do with the visiting hunters. That seems more likely.
Disgruntled, I returned to my book—where I could at least count on Sherlock to reveal the mystery to Watson and myself, rather than just act mysterious and annoying.
About thirty minutes passed before I realized I’d been absentmindedly petting Greyson’s shoulder, sinking my fingers into his soft undercoat.
I froze.
All the other wolves like getting their bellies scratched or a good pet. But Greyson isn’t really affectionate with anyone…
I guiltily glanced at Prince and Princess, who were sitting in their cat bed on the armchair, watching me with judgy eyes.
I started to raise my hand up when Greyson opened his gold eyes and peeled his head off my lap to stare up at me.
“Sorry?” I tried.
He kept staring, the quirk of his ears communicating a slight irritation.
Hesitantly, I lowered my hand back into his fur.
Greyson set his head back down and once again closed his eyes.
I looked at Prince and Princess. They had their eyes closed and were purring up a storm together, leaving all furry bodies in the house content.
I frowned down at my book, slightly disturbed by the realization I’d just had.
I am such a sucker when Greyson is in his gorgeous wolf form, I concluded. And I think he might have figured that out.
Chapter 10
Pip
A week after the hunters rolled into town, I had a rare weekday off.
I was enjoying myself, sitting on the wicker furniture outside Howl-In Café, tapping away on my laptop as I researched job opportunities away from Timber Ridge.
I’d finished my degree online after I realized the college scene wasn’t my thing and had gotten a liberal arts degree about a year ago. I’d taken a lot of courses on technical writing, business statistics, economics, legal research and writing—stuff that hopefully meant I could easily get hired as some kind of online editor/content creation job.
I was contemplating a content writer position in Minnesota—hours away from Northern Lakes territory, when Teresa—Hector and Ember’s eldest child—zipped up to my table so fast she nearly skidded out and slammed into a wicker chair.
“We need your help.” Her corkscrew curls bounced as she finally rocked to a stop, and her dark eyes were dangerously serious.