1
DOMESTIC DISTURBANCE
Dear Diary,
It’s been two weeks since I moved in with the Hawthornes. So far, I’ve broken three antique vases, committed fourteen etiquette violations, and I’m currently mediating a territorial war between my dog and a very judgmental cat.
On the bright side, the new housekeeper hasn’t quit yet.
Abigail West
(Formerly human. Currently questioning all my life choices.)
The Hawthorne mansion’sdining room reeked of old money. It had crystal chandeliers. Shiny cutlery. Gleaming china. Mahoganyeverything. And, last but not least, several portraits of stern-faced Hawthorne ancestors who looked like they’d never committed an etiquette violation in their very long lives.
Meanwhile, I was still recovering from yesterday’s parlor incident.
In my defense, no one had told me that the arrangement of objects on the mantelpiece in the formal sitting room had been exactly the same for going on five decades. Apparently, moving the antique clock a few inches to make room for a cute photo of me, my best friend Ellie, and my dog was a giant no-no. Although Victoria had returned the antique clock to its original position without a word, her silence had spoken volumes.
There was a right place for everything in this house and I had yet to develop the supernatural ability to detect it. Quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“By the way, the Pemberton family sent a lovely gift welcoming you as the new Hawthorne luna,” Victoria said without looking up from her newspaper. “A handwritten response is required within forty-eight hours. I’ve left the stationery on your desk.”
I masked a grimace. I was sharing Victoria’s study while she taught me the ropes of being a Hawthorne luna, AKA dumped all her duties on me. I now had my own appointed mahogany desk, which I had already marked with a coffee ring stain.
That had been etiquette violation number five.
“I already thanked them,” I said, reaching for my cup. “I sent a text.”
Victoria’s newspaper lowered by a fraction of an inch. The look she gave me could have curdled milk.
“A text,” she repeated leadenly.
Existential guilt had me biting my lip.
“It was a nice text,” I said defensively. “With an emoji.”
Across the table, Samuel made a sound suspiciously like a laugh. His badly masked amusement danced across our mate bond.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
His smile widened.
My belly clenched, my irritation fading like damp mist in overzealous sunshine. Damn that werewolf was hot.
I was distracted from my impure thoughts by Victoria.
“We discussed this, Abigail.” The Hawthorne matriarch’s voice held the patience of a saint who was rapidly approaching martyrdom. “Formal correspondence requires a formal response. On proper stationery. In ink.”
I suspected she was not joking.
“Is there a specific ink color, or—” I hazarded.
“Blue or black. Never red.” She returned to her newspaper, her expression cooling. “And we should also review proper greetings. I heard about your encounter with Meredith Ashworth in town.”
I winced. I’d run into the elderly vampire outside a bookshop.
“Why, what happened?” Samuel asked.
