Page 65 of Break Out the Girl

Chocolate chips win.

By the time Basil marches the children into the kitchen, now all dressed in the clothes Kitten put out last night, the first massive pancake is sizzling away.

“Take a seat, my friends!”

While they scramble onto the high stools, I take the pan, which is cast iron and not the easiest to use, and flip the pancake. It tumbles over and over in the air, then lands plop back in the pan.

Their stunned little faces are so amazed!

Even Sicky-Ricky.

I need to find a bucket and put it next to his seat in case of more puking.

On the end stool, Lil’ Hare is finally awake and bright-eyed and bushy tailed. I get the vibe she’s a proper trooper. Basil slides onto the stool next to her, carefully balancing his fishing-gun against the table leg.

Not the best idea if he’s planning to repel invaders, but I’m not sure I should interfere—after all everyone learns the hard way.

“Tippety, tippety tin, give me a pancake and I will come in,” I grin at Lil’ Hare, who blinks back at me, then at the sizzling pan.

Basil rolls his eyes. I think that’s what the kids do these days instead of finger-snapping at poetry.

Food time. I pile the plates high and the kids attack the grub like a shark feeding frenzy.

Aww. Shark.

My heart sinks down to my toes. If Shivery doesn’t make it back, I will have to cut off a horn, to always remember him by. I make a mental note to seek out a hacksaw, just in case.

Now, food for Kitten and my favorite Burly-man.

Timing!

Rory drifts into the kitchen, looking beautifully disheveled. Her eyes are half-lidded as she sniffs the air.

“Is that... chocolate?” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

“Only the best for my peas,” I tell her, planting a kiss right on the crown of her head. “And for my next act…”

I quickly stir two mugs of the only coffee worth drinking—instant.

“You're a lifesaver, London,” Kitten smiles.

“Can I have one?” Basil Fuckwad grumps.

“Absolutely.” I fill another mug. “Here you go, put hairs on your chest.”

Kitten’s eyes go all soft and gooey as she watches the kids stuffing their faces. I put a plate in front of her. “Eat up. I’ll go take stuff to Wolfie before he decides to chew on the furniture.”

I grab Burt's plate and coffee mug, then head out the French doors.

Hmm, would he prefer it in a bowl? Or maybe I should search around for some kibble?

Standing at the edge of the deck is our burly wolf. His coat is beaded with little diamonds of morning moisture.

“Breakfast, big boy,” I call out, setting the plate down on a wicker table.

The air shimmers, and bones click-crack until he shifts back. Burt looks at me for a second then lunges for the pancakes, wolfing (ha, see what I did there) two of them in a single, monstrous bite.

“Fucking starving,” he grunts, grabbing the coffee mug. “The roads are quiet. No sign of any search parties.”