I felt my face heat. “Having you here helps, Oscar. I never dreamed the fates would send me a familiar. Now, sometimes, I feel like I can actually do something.”
Oscar bowed his head. “It is an honor to serve.”
Papa squeezed my hands again. “I’d have killed for a family like that.”
“Don’t you have one?” I asked, brow furrowing. “You never talk about your parents.”
He shrugged, his face closing off a little. “They’re around. Oil business, lots of money, very little time for the actual work of raising wolves. My brother runs most of it now. I’m the family disappointment.”
Oscar sniffed. “From what I hear, sir, you are considered a model citizen in at least six counties.”
He grinned at that, but I saw the shadow in his eyes. “It’s different for wolves, I guess. There’s always a pack, a system.But it’s not always a family, not really. Not the way you and your mom had it.”
I wanted to ask more, to press my hand against his chest and see what memories I could dredge up, but the look on his face said it was enough for now. Instead, I put the dough in the fridge and shut the door.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “For the first time in a long time, I feel…safe.”
He looked at me, his gaze so intense I had to look away. “You are. Always.”
The light outside faded to gold, then to gray. The bakery’s lamps glowed against the deepening dark, casting long shadows across the counter. I wiped down the last tray, tossed the rag in the hamper, and switched off the ovens.
Oscar hopped onto my shoulder, whispering, “The sandwich revolution will not wait, Miss.”
I smiled and ruffled his fur. “We’ll get the recipe right tomorrow.”
Papa stepped behind the counter, wrapped me in a bear hug, and pressed his lips to the crown of my head. We stood like that for a while, the world outside fading to nothing, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon clinging to our skin.
Finally, he let go. “You ready for dinner?”
“Always,” I said. “But you’re driving. My hands are shot.”
He lifted my hands to his lips, kissed each knuckle, and said, “Deal.”
We locked up, Oscar double-checking every window. The last glow of the day lingered on the glass, but inside, everything was warm and good and just for us.
As I stepped out into the cold with Papa at my side and Oscar on my shoulder, I knew that this was what home felt like. Not a place, but a promise. A little magic, a little mess, and someone to hold you at the end of the day.
And maybe, just maybe, a loaf of sandwich bread waiting for you in the morning.
Pearl’s Bar & Grill was always busiest right after dark, when the last rays of sun fell through the high windows and turned the row of whiskey bottles into a stained-glass altar. The place pulsed with noise—old country on the jukebox, shifter kids running laps around the pool table, the thud and sizzle of someone in the kitchen tenderizing meat with a small mallet. The air was warm and crowded and tasted of fried onions, spilled beer, and something sweet and smoky I could never quite name.
Oscar had insisted on coming with us, though he’d have to pop out and pop in on his own. He’d popped in, sitting next to me the moment we sat at a corner booth, paws perched on the rim like a prairie dog at the edge of a foxhole. He made himself invisible to everyone but Papa, Pearl, and me.
“Evening, ma’am,” he said to Pearl as she floated by, white hair piled high and lipstick brighter than the neon sign outside.
Pearl didn’t even blink. “Good to see you again, Mr. Wild,” she said, setting down two waters and a thick menu. “You want the usual, Papa?”
He nodded. “Chicken fried steak, double mashed potatoes, extra gravy.”
Pearl grinned. “I figured. And for the lady?”
I tried to remember what was on the menu, but Oscar piped up, “Might I suggest the meatloaf? The tomato sauce is particularly delightful.”
Pearl cocked an eyebrow at me, waiting.
“I’ll go with the meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” I said, blushing.
She winked. “Your mate bite sparkles, Aspen. Congrats. You two are perfect together.”
