Page 2 of Big Bad Single Wolf Dad

“Mike the Zombie, not Zombie Mike.” I’m heading for the door as Ollie corrects Lily-bear.

“I’m sleeping in the crow’s nest,” Noah announces, grumbling as he ascends the rickety wooden stairs of the nursery to the loft area of their collective bedroom. I keep asking the kids if the groans bother them, but they say it’s what makes this part of the old mansion fun. It’s got character and opinions of you walking all over it.

I’m just glad Noah doesn’t want to go back to his own bedroom, which each one of my beloved werewolf younglings has, of course. Except not when I’m hosting a party. I want to know where they all are with so many people around, even if those people are society’s richest and finest.

I’m nothing if not protective of my self-made pack. I adjust my three-piece suit as I close the door to the sprawling nursery. It’s the furthest away from the revelry and a godsend for those of us with outstanding hearing.

“Sleep tight!” I holler through the wood.

“I can swim. The smell just caught me off guard is all!” I hear Noah growl.

I’ll have to ask Mike what really happened, once I get to where I need to be. At a party with blackened salmon bites topped with ricotta cheese and garlic-infused bacon bites. I smile at my own creation, which has been perfected by the chefs I have catering the event.

I even sourced all the best ingredients, including flying in fresh fruits from this orc’s farm in a little town called Curiosity. Everyone says they are the best. I’ll be the judge of that tonight.

“Mrs. Saint Joseph,” I say as soon as my Gucci dress shoes hit the marble floor of the downstairs foyer, a sweeping entrance that most people would call a ballroom from the sheer size alone. Especially with the verdant decorations adorning the walls. “I was hoping to see you while I still have some genuine smiles in me.”

I give the striking woman of sixty a smile before taking her proffered hand. “That's all I ask when forced to wear a corset.” Her gray and yellow eyes dance with mischief. She likes to pretend she’s well beyond her prime just as much as I love joking about schmoozing. I find it’s always best to be self-aware when you’re networking.

“The kids have the most darling way of making a wolf late,” I continue. “But enough about those who should be sleeping, I see a server over there and two glasses on a tray with our names on them.”

“Two?”

She lets me guide her through the crowd and toward the server, who notices me and makes her way in our direction. I look around. It’s not a good sign when I only see one waitress with drinks.

“Your hanging garden is driving me wild with envy, you know,” a voice says as I take both glasses from the waitress and hand them to Mrs. Saint Joseph.

“Because I know when a woman looks thirsty,” I say as I hand her the flutes, then turn to a tall vampire with curly blonde hair. “As a matter of fact, I do know, Ms. Tells,” I reply. “It’s the only reason I ever throw any of these. For the contest of it all.”

“You’ll be positively green when you see my next event,” Ms. Tells says.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

I’m glad Mike made me go with a live plant theme. Rather than an enormous and historic mansion, my favorite place to host looks more like a Midsummer Night’s Dream moved next door to the world’s most decadent buffet. I catch notes of lilies, roses, and caramel-covered apples and smile, breathing in the scents like they might be my last.

The back of my neck tingles, and I turn around, scanning the perfectly coiffed crowd as I locate the reason behind the sensation. Her striking blue eyes are no longer on me, though the butterflies dancing across my chest tell me she’s the one. The one responsible for the neck tingles, that is. I decide to make my way over to her.

This night just might be turning out better than I expected.

2

SARAH

I brush a curly blonde annoyance from my face and behind my ear as the driver pulls up to the gigantic, Gilded Age-era mansion at the address I gave him.

“Wow,” the cabby whistles. “Fancy schmancy. I’m sorry I didn’t wash up the car.”

“Me too,” I mutter as I try to count the number of windows on the property. “Er, I mean, I also think, wow. Not that you should have cleaned up. I mean, look at me.”

I gesture to the second-hand cocktail dress I scored off eBay. At sixty-two dollars, the gown, normally priced in triple digits, only needed a little tender love and care to make the tattered hems and moth-eaten lace accents flawless.

“You look like a million bucks to me, lady,” the driver says, shaking his head and giving me a meaty thumbs up. I remind myself to slip him a big tip. Mind reader or not, this cabbie knew I needed a confidence boost.

I’ve been told it isn’t so much what a person wears that makes their class stand out at parties but how they wear it. I keep this in mind as I hand the cab driver a large bill and clip my blood-red clutch back together.

“Wait!” he says before grabbing the money and hopping out.

I smile at the gorgeous guests passing the window and looking in, then wave. I never know what to do with my hands in nerve-racking situations like this. Everyone else driving up are in Beamers and other fancy cars with names I can’t pronounce.

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