Total pages in book: 202
Estimated words: 193561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 968(@200wpm)___ 774(@250wpm)___ 645(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 968(@200wpm)___ 774(@250wpm)___ 645(@300wpm)
“Oh my stars,” I whisper to Greyson because he’s watching me, taking in my reaction with what I think is happiness. “It’s like it’s out of a magazine.”
And then guilt settles because I’ve got so much to be concerned about right now. I shouldn’t be waxing on about this house.
“Yeah?” Greyson asks, smiling wide before turning his attention to the beeping announcement that the coffee is ready.
He pours coffee into two big, fabulous red ceramic mugs with a weaved knit-like pattern on them. “Glad you like it. I need to clean it, the whole place could use a cleaning, but I didn’t know I’d have company for the rest of my life starting yesterday or I’d have made sure it was perfect for you.”
Emotion clogs my throat. How sweet is he? I’m not used to this. I don’t quite know how to react to it. I resist the urge to offer to clean it. To ask if I can. Because I want to clean this house, do so while basking in fantasies about what could be. Yeah, that could certainly distract me from my problems.
“You like coffee?” he asks.
“Sure,” I manage, though it comes out sounding a little choked.
“Love seeing you in my shirt, babe,” he tells me and kisses me again.
“Thank you for letting me borrow it,” I reply, shyly.
“What’s mine is yours,” he responds. “I mean that.”
I force a swallow down. Because he seems like he means it. And it’s a pretty amazing thing to hear. Sadly, I bring absolutely nothing to the table with this mating. No. Wait. I do bring things to the table. Things no one wants. Problems. Bad genes. A psychotic and power-hungry brother who wants to take everything that’s his.
Greyson opens the fridge and freezer doors at the same time and asks, “What do you feel like eating?”
“I’m not fussy,” I reply softly, staring in with him.
I am pretty hungry. I didn’t eat anything yesterday.
“What’ve we got here?” He drums his fingers on the doors as he holds them open. “Half box of frozen waffles. Got some cereal in the pantry over there.” He gestures to a door I see leads to a small walk-in scullery or butler’s pantry. The door is open and the shelves are full of food.
I’ve never seen one of these in a home before. The walk-in pantry alone looks even nicer and larger than my kitchen back in Silver Hills. There’s a sink and a microwave in there and more counter space along with some kitchen appliance shelves that are mostly empty, but perfect for things like slow cookers, stand-up mixers, pressure cookers, and so on.
“Got some bread if you want toast. Wonder what time my family’s droppin’ off all the…”
He stops talking mid-sentence, his nostrils flaring. I take a whiff and catch the faint new scent in the air.
“Good timing. Meet some of the family just quickly.” He grabs my hand and moves us toward the door.
My heartrate jumps as I’m self-conscious about my appearance, among other things. I’m sure these people will know I shot their long-lost loved alpha yesterday.
“Gonna be okay, babe, trust me,” he assures, putting his arm around me comfortingly as he reaches for the doorknob. I want to believe that, but I can’t halt the rush of anxiety.
In addition to wondering what they think of me after what I’ve done, I’ve also got bedhead and I’m only wearing a light green on dark green checkerboard button-down shirt of Greyson’s that comes to my thighs, along with a pair of thick men’s wool work socks that go nearly to my knees.
My small wardrobe of clothes is quite abysmal, second-hand and ready for the trash pile, so I’ve always felt self-conscious around anyone outside the pack who, it felt like, looked at me like they could smell the stench of my poverty. I’m not unaccustomed to being nude in the company of other shifters, it has never bothered me as it was an equalizer of sorts, but wearing clothing has always felt like it put me at a disadvantage outside our pack where people were better dressed than me.
I liked my diner uniform. It served as a disguise for more than one purpose, and I felt safe in it. I knew what people would want and expect of me while in that uniform.
He opens the door to two women. One of them looks around my age. She has long, sandy brown hair and wears glasses. She’s in denim shorts and a pink t-shirt with frills around the neck, sleeves, and hem. Gladiator sandals. Her toenails are painted a glimmery peach as are her fingernails. Her smiling lips are full and glossy. She’s setting a plastic basket filled with groceries on the step. She’s fresh-faced, curvy, smiling. The top of her hair is pulled into a few twists held back by bejeweled hair pins. Oddly, she smells like a shifter and a human at the same time. The other woman looks a lot like her but probably twenty-odd years older, and she’s human but carrying the fragrance of an alpha on top of her own. An alpha that smells similar to Greyson – his family member? The older of the two carries a crate over from a white car. My eyes bounce between them, and it occurs to me that the younger is related to Greyson. And the scent of the older one? I’m confused.