Page 6 of Wedding for My Werewolf

“Something… sad. Maybe lonely.” She shrugged. “She reminds me of a lost little bird.”

“A little bird.” His tone was skeptical, and Rona swatted at his arm.

“Oh, stop. It’s my feminine intuition.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Rona, you’re a siren.”

“Feminine intuition works on any species.” She sniffed.

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t laugh at me, Eric Grayson.”

“Me?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“I don’t know—I just think she needs help.”

His wolf immediately agreed, but he simply nodded.

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

She smiled at him and raced off again. He demolished his breakfast, then lingered over his coffee, scanning the morning paper while keeping an ear tuned to the steady rhythm ofthe town. The usual breakfast crowd filtered in and out—trolls ducking under the doorframe, pixies zipping between tables, humans chatting over pancakes. John, one of the yetis who lived in the peaks outside of town, lounged on the patio by the river, enjoying the sunshine.

The bell chimed as the door opened and Robin’s scent drifted in from outside. His head snapped up in time to see her wrestling with an armload of grocery bags as she wove between patches of ice on the sidewalk. Paper bags stretched at their seams, threatening to split. Her auburn hair had escaped its neat braid, stray wisps catching fire in the sunlight as she tried to balance her load.

The bottom bag gave out. Oranges and apples scattered across the snow-dusted concrete.

He was out the door before his wolf could finish its urgent press against his skin.

“Here, let me help with those.” He crouched down next to her, gathering the runaway fruit before it could roll into the street.

She tensed at his voice, her fingers tightening on the remaining bags. That flash of wariness in her eyes made his chest ache.

“Sheriff Grayson,” she said cautiously.

“Eric,” he corrected, and she gave him a tentative smile.

“Thank you, Eric.”

His name had never sounded so sweet, and he had to force his hands to remain steady as he gathered the escaped fruit into the remains of the bag. Then he gestured at the remaining bags.

“Let me carry those for you.”

“But—”

“I insist. Those bags won’t make it halfway to Garrick’s place.”

Her pulse jumped—he caught the flutter at her throat. She took a half-step back, amber eyes darting to the street behind him.

“How did you know where I?—”

“Small town.” He kept his voice level, matter-of-fact. “Word travels fast.”

She wavered, shifting the remaining bags. One handle stretched dangerously thin.

“Look, I’ll walk ten paces behind if it makes you more comfortable. But these groceries aren’t going to carry themselves.”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Five paces.”

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