Wes glances at me, his black eyebrows drawn together. “Yeah. What’s it to you?”
“All the Spellmans I know are faeries.”
He chuckles. “Don’t let the name confuse you. Jake’s werewolf father died when he was an infant. His human mother remarried a faerie who adopted Jake and gave him his surname.”
“Interesting. Well, see you around,” I say with a nonchalance that belies my excitement. Perhaps Jake Grayclaw Spellman will be more sympathetic than most pack alphas to my loner status. He might even overlook the fact I’ve been living with an ancient faerie for the past three years, avoiding pack life entirely.
Who knows? Perhaps Jake Spellman’s faerie stepfather was related to Miss Dragonfly.
As I pull open the door to my car, I take a fortifying breath. Regardless of the number of Spellmans populating this small community, there’s only one Spellman I need to deal with at the moment: a furious spitfire of a faerie who’s looking for a way to kick me to the curb.
Sorry, Miss Sophie Spellman Brownlee. The odds of you winning are zilch. But it’ll be fun to see you try.
Chapter 3
Shore Shack
TEDDY
Later, June 22
I follow the narrow, weed-strewn path around the side of the bakeshop, hoping its unkempt appearance isn’t a harbinger of what I’ll find out back. Surely my new faerie employer takes better care of her personal residence. The cottage must be in better condition… right?
Wrong.
Mongrels and moonbeams! It’s not a cottage at all… It’s a dilapidated little shore shack. The formerly white wooden siding is so weathered it’s turned a dingy gray, most of its paint peeled away, the battered front door is sagging on its hinges, and every window is crusted with grime.
I’m a fastidious man, which I realize is a bit unusual for my species. My old pack alpha used to say I should have been born a vampire instead of a werewolf. He was teasing me of course; he understood me better than myown parents. A wave of sadness washes over me at the memory of Jarrod and the fight that took his life—and nearly ended mine.
I shake off my melancholy and step up to the door. Unable to locate either a door bell or a knocker, I use the side of my fist to pound on the flaking green paint. I pause, hear nothing inside, no swish of fabric or footsteps on floorboards, and resume my assault on the door.
A female voice finally shouts, “Geesh… I’m coming! Hold your horses!”
My eyebrows quirk upward at the quaint expression, reminding me of Miss Dragonfly. I heave a sigh, ignoring the surge of nostalgia threatening to sink my spirits yet again. I have no choice but to forge ahead; I must find a way to work with slovenly Sophie.
But when she pulls open the door and steps aside so I can enter, my breath hitches and my feet refuse to move. The faerie standing before mecan’t possiblybe the same person I encountered in the shop.
This faerie is wearing a coppery silk blouse that shows off her flawless complexion, black jeans that hug her curvy hips, and ankle boots with four-inch heels that boost her to nearly my height. Her lustrous brown hair falls in long, loose curls past her shoulders, and her gray eyes have flecks of blue, almost like the lake when a cloud passes over the sun. I gaze unabashedly at her glossy lips, which are painted the color of burnished bronze.
And then there’s her scent, which I didn’t notice earlier in the bakery, probably because it was masked by all the construction dust clogging my nostrils. But nowthe mossy aroma of damp grass after a gentle rain wafts toward me; I smile, inhaling the greening scents of spring, my favorite season.
Sophie Spellman Brownlee is a vision of such loveliness and perfection that I’m struck speechless—until she purses her pillowy lips, draws her slanted faerie eyebrows into a mighty scowl, and hollers, “Well, what are you waiting for? Come inside so we can get this over with.”
I’m so startled by the contrast between her natural beauty and her snippy mouth that I take a step back. Then I realize it may appear I’m retreating, so I square my shoulders and cross the threshold, entering the monstrous mess this faerie calls home.
I pause, wincing at the disorder, uncertain where we’ll find an unoccupied spot to review Miss Dragonfly’s will.
Half-open boxes are stacked haphazardly around the living room; torn newspapers and bubble wrap lie scattered across every available surface, and the scarred floorboards are grimy underfoot. To my left sits a lumpy sofa covered in a bilious brown throw. Two oversized chairs with frayed slipcovers, one green and the other gold, are shoved against the far wall.
“Follow me,” calls Sophie over her shoulder. “We’ll use the kitchen.” I notice her wings are partially protruding from the specially-designed slits in the back of her silk blouse.
Trailing behind her, I’m momentarily distracted by the sway of her hips until I step on something soft and cushy. An indignant screech causes me to jump as aflurry of white fur streaks past. Sophie chases after the creature and returns moments later, cooing at the fuzzy bundle in her arms. “Poor baby. Leslie is clumsy and didn’t mean to step on you.”
“The name’s Teddy. And what is that? Some sort ofrodent?”
Sophie’s gray eyes darken. “Shh, you’re insulting her!” She coos some more endearments at the ratty creature with the voluminous tail… er make that plural. The rat has too many tails to count.
“This is Zosia, my nine-tailed fox. She’s still a kit and doesn’t know to hide from big, bad wolves yet.”
