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I am ashamed.
Just nowhere near ashamed enough to stop.
At this point, writing fanfiction about my chihuahua-shifting mate in an alternate universe (without magic) is a coping mechanism.
What will happen to my far-fetched dreams of becoming a novelist if I decide to become a werecanine?
If I don’t think I can measure up to human standards for literature, will I ever get a book properly published with fae standards looming over my head? Will I spend millennia wishing I had something profound to offer the world, discover it’s too vast and I am but a small fluffy dog, then convince myself I’ve next century to worry about it?
I don’t know.
Probably.
That sure sounds like me.
Why do today what you can cry about tomorrow?
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Eclairs.” He licks some chocolate off his bottom lip. “Willoughby came by earlier with some ingredients, cursed getting me a phone, and said to bring her an adequate offering once I was done, or else.”
“Cursed getting you a phone?” I echo the part that doesn’t seem to connect to anything in my brain.
He picks right up on what I mean and clarifies, “I texted her a shopping list. She took it as an abuse of power. But I would be remiss to ignore the fact she got what I asked for within the following hour.”
I slouch deeper into the soft couch cushions. “Your friends are actually the best, and I want them.”
Ollie arches a brow. “Beautiful, they are your friends, too.”
“Nope. I’m totally the bonus friend. If ever you weren’t around to keep the ties connected, I’d be friendless again.” I kick the note card over once more. “When are you going to clean this up?”
“When my mental health is not quite so reliant on the fact the most precious being in my life wanted to plan a future with me.” Coy, he peers at me down the elegant bridge of his nose, rubber spoon still pressed to his lips. “It is the foundation of my affirmations as I try to open my mind to the idea that I am allowing such a precious being to meet the reason I require emotional-support messes.”
“I can be pretty tough. I just have to forget to try so hard. Then, apparently, my default setting is rude and inappropriate. Which is exactly what I’ve decided your brothers deserve.”
“Often what humans consider rude and inappropriate is just what fae understand to be honest.”
I slide yet another point into the pro category for blind trust and werecanine transformations. The cons might be heavy, but the pros are certainly numerous.
Wandering back toward the kitchen when the oven timer goes off, Ollie calls, “Are you ready to go over the rules again?”
I pop up off the couch, fix the note card I kicked over, and follow him into a whirlwind of pots and pans, dirty counters, chocolate-spotted floors. The sight overwhelms me completely as I sink into a chair at the crowded table. Trays of raw cinnamon rolls the size of my head sit all over the flour-coated surface. “Are you stress baking?” I ask, hesitant.
“I am stress baking,” he confirms mildly, pulling a tray out of the oven.
I dare say he had Willow buy him trays because I did not have this many.
What in the world does Willow do? Why does she have this much money? Is her vampire husband super rich? Maybe precious gems scatter the streets in Faerie, and they sell jewels to the highest bidder every couple of months. That’s my guess. Is there an acceptable way to ask? I am now deathly curious. “Do you also stress clean?”
“On occasion, yes.”
“Man, I wish my stress were that productive.”
“It is all I can do to keep from screaming.” He gets a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls. “Let’s go over the rules.”
I sag in my seat. “No thanking anyone, ever.”
“Why?”
