Cauley’s bright eyes move back on the three of us. “Now here are some rules. And these are important, so listen up. You’d do well to leave off on the direct eye contact—at least for the first few days. Submissive wolves have a real hard time with it, especially when they’re adjusting to new people and places.”
He pauses, smiles, waits for us to nod dutifully, and continues. “Next, give ol’ Deek here direct commands, and he’ll follow every one to the letter. But don’t send him off running errands. No shopping mall trips,” he pins Charlotte with a pointed look—misguided, because Charlotte is a bookworm, not a shopaholic, “no social stuff outside of this immediate family, at least at first.” Cauley holds up three fingers. “Three: he can go outside as much as he wants, but he’ll probably only want to be out in your backyard, where there’s a privacy fence. Like a good number of submissives, this one’s spent a donkey’s years in the pack dens, and so everything’s pretty much going to be new to him. Also, he gets carsick.” Cauley grimaces and mutters, “Real carsick. Especially around corners.” Then his expression melts into his usual grin, his eyes warming. “But he’ll be awful good to you. Just go slowly, eh?”
We all nod, and then Charlotte asks, “What’s a donkey’s years?”
A question I’d been pondering myself. And I’ve heard a lot of interesting Irishisms working at The Gargled Werewolf, where the owners and much of the staff are directly from the Emerald Isle.
“A long time,” Cauley replies, standing. He nudges Deek’s furry shoulder with his boot. “This one’s whole life, actually. Poor bast—” He glances at the girls and grins sheepishly. “Poor sod,” he finishes instead. Then his gaze shifts to me. “Walk me out, will you, a stór?”
My treasure. Which, if overheard by the casual observer, would lead them to believe that Cauley is really sweet on me.
But I’ve heard him use it on a thousand women.
Still. He did bring my family a babysitting werewolf. As gestures go, it means something. If our new babysitting werewolf turns out to be even halfway as good as Internet research says he’ll be, he’s a Godsend.
I lead the way to the front door, and Cauley places his hand at the small of my back as we step out. I stop though, resisting his guiding hand just outside of the doorway. “Should we really leave…” A werewolf alone with children, I want to say, but that’s just instinct trying to override what Google told me: werewolves are perfectly safe. You have absolutely nothing to be nervous about where werewolf childcare workers are concerned.
Of course we can believe everything Google says.
And my head warns, You already agreed to let him watch Maggie alone so shut your mouth before you offend your boss—an alpha wereshifter, I’ll remind you, Mouth.
Cauley’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Awf, they’ll be fine. They’re behaving like lambs with him.”
It strikes me that he genuinely thinks I was more worried about what my girls will do to the werewolf. He’s so confident that I find myself relaxing, blowing out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“There you go,” Cauley says in his pretty way, drawing me against his side playfully. “Come on. Leave the door of the gaff open if it pleases you. We just need to get his things out of the car.”
Not sure what to do with my hands or arms in this situation but clasp them in front of me, I lick my lips and try not to pull away. “Thank you again for this. For bringing Mr. Deek.”
Finn waves his hand, the one that was resting on my hip, dismissively. “No ‘mister.’ Just call him Deek. Nearly everybody does.”
We’ve reached the curb where nobody could miss Cauley’s car. It’s a Joker purple Chevrolet Chevelle SS with a nearly fluorescent green interior, and he’s fiercely proud of it.
It’s hideous.
He stops us, and his fingers take my chin, tipping my face up to look at him. “And think nothing of it, Sue. You’ve been working for the Pack for years. You’ve been good to us.” His eyes search mine, and he has to see I’m uncomfortable. He lets me go before I can finish pulling away. He turns, fishing into the trunk of his car until he hauls out a duffel and a leather case engraved with what looks like a Bible verse.
I watch him, pressing my lips together for a moment before I just say it. “Look, I really appreciate this. I do. But I’m also… I feel like you might…” I clear my throat, shaking my head, and meet his gaze, forcing myself to soldier on. “A lot of the girls at work need sitters for their kids. I’ve never heard of you offering to drop a werewolf off at their door before. Are you in the habit of loaning wolves?”
Cauley pauses. “No.”
I lick my lips, nerves tight. “Why haven’t you stepped in for them before? Why are you doing this for me?”
He pins me with a quick but very significant look, and very seriously says, “Well, I wasn’t hoping to eat crackers out of their knickers.”
I blink at him.
He grins.
“Cauley—”
“Finn,” he corrects, and he’s in front of me now, the Bible-like case under his arm, the duffel’s handle in one hand, the strong fingers of his other hand smoothing over my shoulder, kneading my muscles a little. “We do help the garls at work, just not with their own werewolf. But this isn’t a favor with strings. I’m a friend, not the mafia. I don’t expect a thing from you except to see you worrying less. And if I’m hoping for an outcome, it’s honestly that you’ll be back to smiling like sunshine at work. That’s all.” And he uses his gentle grip on my shoulder to jerk me close enough to plant a kiss on my forehead.
“Cau—” I start again, but the pad of his thumb inserts itself between us and gently presses over my lips.
I go very still.
With our faces close enough to taste each other’s breath (he drinks Folgers, by the way, and on him, it’s a very nice smell), I can feel him looking at me. I think he’s waiting for me to look up—but I won’t. “Finn,” he repeats softly.
I’ve read as recently as yesterday that werewolves can hear heartbeats, and I wonder if he can hear mine racing. I don’t tip my head back to meet his eyes because I’ve got the sense that if I do, he’ll see it as an invitation to kiss me somewhere other than that tingling spot on my forehead.
And although that could lead to the stuff fairytales are made of—the gorgeous Irish businessman sweeps a waitress off her feet kind—I don’t trust it.
Because I don’t trust any guy anymore.
After finally ditching my ex-husband and his endless affairs, I’ve told myself that not every man lets women treat his dick like it’s a Meijer pony ride—
(For those of you who aren’t familiar with Meijer, there’s a mechanical pony in front of every store, and for a penny, you can ride it. Shoppers frequently leave spare pennies on the machine, covering it with change so that everyone who wants a go can have as many free rides as they like. Apparently, my former husband had limitless pennies and a long line of ladies waiting for a turn.)
—but no matter what my head logically tries to assure me, inside, I’m not just gun-shy. I’m broken.