The box was lighter than he expected, and when he lifted the lid, her vanilla and sugar scent wafted up to meet him, mingled with a hint of chocolate. Homemade cookies—thick and golden brown, studded with chunks of dark chocolate.
The notecard had fallen into his palm when he opened the box, and he turned it over to read her message.
Thank you for shoveling my driveway. You didn’t have to do that, but I really appreciate it. I hope you like chocolate chip—they’re my grandmother’s recipe.
—Sara
P.S. I promise there’s no bunny food in them.
Against his will, his lips twitched.
He hadn’t really intended to shovel her driveway, but after she left for school, the sight of her snow-covered drive had nagged at him like a splinter under his skin. She was new here. She didn’t know how quickly the snow could turn to ice. She could slip, fall, hurt herself…
Stop,he’d told himself, even as his feet carried him to the shed for the shovel.This is not your problem. She is not your responsibility.
He’d shoveled the whole thing anyway. And the walkway. And the path to her back garden, because once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. And now she’d given him cookies. She was feeding him. Again.
I should throw them away.
He ate three before he made it to his truck.
He spentthe rest of the day in a state of low-grade agitation. The tavern was busy—a Tuesday lunch crowd followed by a steady stream of locals and tourists in the evening—but he moved through it with a grim detachment, snapping at waitresses and bartenders and customers alike.
“Seriously, Ben,” Nina said, setting a glass of water on the bar in front of him. “You’re going to give yourself an ulcer. And you’re scaring the customers.” She pointed with her chin towards a table of tourists who immediately flinched.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Nina leaned against the bar, her expression a mixture of concern and exasperation, then sighed. “But if you don’t want to talk about it, at least go work in the office before you scare off all the customers.”
Rather than arguing, he retreated to his office with a glass of whiskey, sinking into his worn leather chair with a sigh of relief. The room was small but comfortable, the rustic wood paneling covered with old concert posters from other bands. A small framed photo of The Bite in their heyday, four young Others convinced they were going to change the world, was the only reminder of his past.
He didn’t look at the photo anymore, hadn’t in years.
The whiskey burned pleasantly as it went down, smoothing the edges of his thoughts. He was just starting to relax when the door swung open without a knock.
“You look like shit.”
Adrian dropped into the chair across from his desk, all lazy grace and wolfish charm. The werewolf’s red hair was artfully tousled, his amber eyes glinting with amusement, and his smile showed just a hint of fang.
“Get out.”
“Can’t. I’m on a mission.” Adrian helped himself to the whiskey bottle on Ben’s desk, pouring a generous measure into his glass. “Nina is worried about you. She says you’ve been snapping at everyone even more than usual.”
“I’m fine.”
“Annabelle says you growled at a customer for asking about the specials.”
“He was annoying.”
“George says you threatened to fire him for breathing too loud.”
“He was breathing too loud.”
Adrian raised an eyebrow, taking a long sip of whiskey. The silence stretched between them, comfortable despite Ben’s irritation. They’d known each other too long for social niceties.
“So,” Adrian said finally, his tone deceptively casual. “I hear there’s a new teacher in town.”
His hand tightened around his glass. “So?”
