Just then, Killian—four trees stuffed under each of his arms—stumbled in and dropped them near us, collapsing against my side like a dying animal. “Water me! My arms are pudding.”
I grabbed a water bottle and poured it into his gaping mouth. A river flowed down his chin and over the number nineteen on his wereball jersey.
We were digging holes to plant new shrubs and young trees for one of Gran’s many causes. She had at least five on rotation. After we lost Pop, she’d gone on a solo trip to Alaska. I’d followed, keeping an eye on her from a distance. I wasn’t about to let my eighty-year-old grandmother roam polar bear territory alone. Bellatrix had stayed home to look after Dad. Life fucking sucked.
Whenwecame back, Gran had doubled down. New hobbies every week. We tried Tai Chi—easily the hardest thing I’d ever done. My toes still hurt when I stood on the tips. Yoga didn’tlast long, either. I got kicked out for snoring too loudly during savasana.
At the cat shelter she volunteered with most weeks—or was it the homeless center?—there were these two girls she was bent on introducing me to. A human, Teresa. Some humans knew about us—some were even mated to us—but I avoided sleeping with them. Too many variables. One wrong move, and I’d end up fracturing her hip. Months of rehab? No, thank you.
Then there was this otherstargirl. Gran often treated matchmaking like community service. Too bad I couldn’t think of anyone else but my Bunny Doc. Sorry, Gran.
And at least once a month, she dragged us here. Gardening. Manual labor. Today happened to be right after our wereball training, which made it especially brutal. Dirt under my nails, sweat dripping down my calves, and a hole in my stomach. I was starving. I plucked a handful of waffles from my pocket as I stared up at the white four-story building, the same yellow flowers on each window. I had no idea what its name was.
Rose Bush was vast, with so many residents that it made me wonder if there were any seniors left in the rest of Montana. The grounds were immaculate—flowers pruned, hedges groomed into wolf-like shapes, and nature tamed enough to be ready for a gallery. So immaculate, sometimes I felt the need to mess things up a little.
Callum snorted. “What did you get at the bakery?”
I popped a shoulder in a shrug.
Killian ceased his groaning. “Yeah, my T-man, what did you get?”
Sometimes they did that weird twin thing—finishing each other’s sentences. Or they’d repeat the other’s line. “Just some almond croissants.”
“And where are they?”
“Yeah, where are they?”
See?
“Already eaten.”
I hope.
“But you don’t eat almonds!”
“Or croissants!
Killian slapped me. His arms worked again, apparently. “And you didn’t offer any.”
It was so damn hot outside. I yanked my shirt over my head and stuffed it into my back pocket. Now the sun had direct access to my skin, slow-roasting me like a sacrificial cut of wolf meat.
Callum nodded past me. “Five o’clock. You’ve got fans.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face and leaned against my shovel. Five ladies in matching wide sun hats, dressed in so many florals I initially thought they were actual flower pots, sat around a garden table. Gran was among them, playing bridge with Edna, her bestie who used to give me candies before she graduated to joints. They were the only ones not ogling.
“Take yours off, C. Give the girls something to hold onto through the winter.”
He flushed, eyes averting, and dug with more strength.
I chuckled. “You won’t cheat on that imaginary mate of yours if you show your abs once.”
“Yo, beautiful ladies!” Killian shouted. He dropped his shovel, lifted the hem of his shirt, and dragged it across his face. The ladies eyed his tattoos and giggled. When the fabric fell back into place, he winked at us.
“Quite a display there, Killy!”
He bumped his chest. “I made them myself.”
Just then, my phone buzzed with a new text. A picture of Bunny Doc holding a to-go matcha in her tiny hands. I imagined my cock?—
