Ember admitted it was because it was convenient to have a supernatural on two legs with opposable thumbs around to do things when everyone else was a wolf on four paws.
I’d never had Greyson come get me for those delightful “sessions,” but I wouldn’t put it past the wolves to try to catch me off guard.
Greyson stared at me for a moment, then tried to bump past me to get into the cottage. I wasn’t going to stop him—there wasn’t much you could stop an Alpha from doing—until I caught sight of the two wolves standing in the forest, wagging their tails as they watched him.
“Wait—no, no, no!” I linked my arms around his neck and tried to pull him back out. “I’m not getting involved in your romantic entanglements!”
Greyson’s ears twisted to the side, and he gave me an unimpressed look.
While I couldn’t communicate with him like a werewolf could, I’d spent enough time around werewolves to be able to decipher his body language, so I had a pretty good idea what he was thinking.
“Me telling others where you are doesn’t count as getting involved. It’s practically a public service so they don’t bother the whole Pack and all the residents of Timber Ridge,” I said. “I’m just giving them a sporting chance, then I’m hands off—may the best woman win!”
Greyson sat down—which was a little intimidating because he was so big compared to a regular dog but built so leanly. As he stared me down with golden eyes I was keenly aware that he was an apex predator.
Out in the rapidly dimming woods, one of the visiting female werewolves gave an inviting little yip. Her friend broke into a howl, then bowed her front end down in the universal wolf sign for “let’s play!”
Greyson sat with a regality that was a sharp contrast to their over-eager enthusiasm, and kept staring at me.
I sighed. “Fine. But this shouldn’t be my job—can’t you get Ember to do it? She’s way scarier than I am.”
I stepped outside and closed my door—no sense letting the bugs in—and marched up to the forest, leaving Greyson on the little wooden deck.
“Hey there.” I waved to the visiting werewolves as I stomped my way closer. “Sorry to tell you, but it’s a no-go. He’s not interested.”
The pretty wolves cocked their heads at me and looked from me to Greyson.
“His mate isn’t either of you. I’m sorry, I imagine you feel disappointed, but please let me assure you it’s a good thing because he’s pretty mean-spirited and likes to taunt people, and his white fur is high maintenance I imagine and—”
Behind me, Greyson growled.
“Right. So, thanks for visiting Timber Ridge. I’d recommend you visit the Sweets Shoppe candy store tomorrow for a souvenir or two—it has excellent freshly made fudge—and tell all your friends. I hope you had a nice time!”
I held my breath as I studied the two females.
Werewolves can be tricky.
If either of them were feeling territorial about Greyson, things could go south for me real quick. Of course, Greyson would reach us before they could hurt me too badly, but just the idea that I would get attacked because Greyson was so popular with females was enough to make me grind my teeth.
Sure enough, one of the wolves flattened her ears and curled up her lips, showing me her teeth.
“Stop that,” I said sharply, keeping my voice firm. “You’re better than this.” I shifted a little closer and used every trick I had to keep my heartbeat even and unafraid, selling my bluff.
Thankfully, it worked. She lowered her gaze and licked her chops, all apologies.
The two wolves turned on their paws and slunk into the darkening shadows of the forest, blending in with their grey swirled coats. I watched until they ducked around some trees and disappeared, then headed back to my cottage.
“You’re free.” I wrinkled my nose at Greyson. “Now goodnight.”
I opened my door, intending to leave Greyson outside, but he slipped past me, getting inside my home before me.
“Hey, I took care of the wolves,” I complained.
Greyson didn’t look back as he barged in. He slunk over to my one couch, climbed on it, then splayed out.
“Greyson,” I said, attempting to regain control of the situation. “What are you doing?”
Greyson ignored me and got comfortable.
He looked really out of place in my cozy home with his pointed muzzle, long legs, and thick white fur that was clearly meant for the wilderness.
But he rested his head on the blanket Mama Dulce had crocheted forever ago and settled in, tucking his tail over his legs as he closed his golden eyes.
With his eyes closed, it was safe to scowl at him and make a face—which I did.
“I swear,” I grumbled under my breath as I shut the front door. “It’s because of this Pack that I have entirely failed at romance. Packmates tell me I’m like their pet pooch, and then you use me as a romantic dispute settler—it’s not surprising the townies think I’m some weird handmaiden or something.”
I sat down at the table and dug into my nearly cooled pizza. “I’m never going to get a date, much less a relationship, as long as I live here.”
Greyson opened one gold eye to watch me for a moment, then shut it again as I ate.
When I finished and put away my dishes, Greyson wandered off to the bedroom—I assumed to sleep on the uncovered mattress.
Why is he here instead of hanging out at the lodge if he’s just going to sleep?
I shrugged it off as I did dishes, made some popcorn, then perused the single bookcase in the house, which was packed with Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie—those were Papa Santos’s favorites—and all the regency romances Mama Santos loved.
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.