Page 1 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

Chapter 1

Fletcher

“Shit, Fletcher! Don’t look!” Ben gasps as we exit the subway onto King Street.

I immediately turn in the direction he’s looking and take in the semi-gruesome sight. Yes, there’s a dead Virginian opossum lying belly-up on the sidewalk—but she does look good. Maybe even better than she did when she was alive.

There are a few butterfly clips in her gray fur and her bald tail is wrapped around a single rose. Why is it that every time I’ve come across a dead shifter this month, there’s always a red rose?

A middle-aged woman is kneeling next to the body, painting her nails fuchsia-pink. It’s the shifter equivalent of dressing up the body—a sign of respect, and a way to help the possum transition to the afterlife.

My jaw drops and I show Ben my teeth. Look how big and scary they are!

“Oh, no,” Ben says. “Calm down, buddy, it’s okay.”

“Bu shiha kee daya,” I say with my mouth hanging open, like I do whenever I’m talking at the dentist.

“Shifters keep dying?” Ben seems to understand me, even though I’m not making much sense.

I nod.

He squeezes my shoulder and crouches to peer into my mouth. “Wow! You are scary! Look at those molars. So… ummm… teethy!”

I heave a sigh and close my mouth. After fifteen years of friendship, Ben always knows how to talk me down when my possum side takes over.

Wolves growl, cats hiss, bears attack, and I try to scare away threats by showing my teeth—or playing dead. Thankfully, that didn’t happen this time.

“I told you not to look,” Ben says.

“That’s like telling me not to think about a white bear.”

“What white bear?” He looks around like he might find one strolling casually through downtown Toronto.

“I don’t mean an actual bear. It’s this advice I heard on a podcast. Never mind. Forget about bears.”

“Well, now I can’t! What if she’s a bear shifter and she suddenly attacks us?” He points to the woman painting the possum’s nails.

We stare at her, but she doesn’t shift or growl or do anything bearish. Ben and I sigh in relief.

“Do you think the possum is just playing…” He pauses as though trying to come up with a different word so he doesn’t repeat himself. He finally shrugs and says, “Possum? Too many possums,” he mutters.

We’ve been friends since we were kids and roommates since college, so he’s probably seen me play possum more times than he’s seen me accidentally tent a blanket while watching TV. But when it comes to shifters, I know dead when I see it—which is fucking sad, come to think of it.

“She’s too stiff,” I say. “She’s probably been here a while, too. Look how many farewell cards and candles there are. She’s more popular in death than she was when she was alive.”

“You knew her?” Ben shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, bud.”

Ah, hell. “You don’t recognize her?”

Ben pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and squints. “I really need to get my eyes checked. What if there is a bear and I don’t see it in time?”

“There aren’t any bears,” I tell him. Though I can’t help but add, “That I know of.”

Ben looks around again, and I try to hide my grin. “How much longer until your insurance kicks in?”

“Three weeks. Stupid probation.” He shakes his head. “You going to tell me who the poor possum is?”

I take a deep breath. “Mrs. Ellis.”