Page 33 of Lycans & Lattes

“Hmm.” She tapped two fingers to her cheek as she reconsidered her bargain. “You owe me one whole day off, one minor favor, and a dozen salted, brown-butter toffee, chocolate chip cookies.”

“A dozen?”

“Yup. A friend of mine really likes them,” she said casually but wouldn’t look me in the eye to elaborate on said “friend.” “I’ve tried to recreate them, but they prefer . . . not mine.”

I leaned against the mop handle, grinning from ear to ear. “Is that so? The donut queen can’t make her big brother’s favorite cookies? Wow, today has been full of surprises.”

A wet rag smacked me in the face, followed by my sister’s laughter.

I shook it off my head with disgust, taking a tea towel off the nearest shelf and wiping away the moisture.

“I’m not making you cookies now,” I threatened.

“Okay, okay.” Eloise waved her hands in the air. “I’m sorry, but sometimes you can be way too cocky for your own good.”

“Isn’t that a natural progression to becoming alpha?”

“Dad was never cocky or arrogant,” she reminded me, hopping off the counter and taking the mop from my hand. “At least, that’s what people say. You take after him, most of the time.”

She started mopping the back register area, having already cleaned up and finished the rest of her closing list. “I’ll finish up here. You should go warn Willow about tomorrow night.”

I wrapped my arms around my sister, bringing her back tight into my chest and lifting her off her feet. She kicked out and tried to elbow me in her patented one-two assault, but she didn’t fight as hard as I knew she could.

“Oh my moons, put me down, you brute,” she strained. “Fine! Now I want two dozen cookies, and I want them by Saturday.”

I set her down, roughing her mop of hair. “Deal. See you later.” And I skipped right out the door.

15

Willow

So . . . maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to come to dinner at Wyatt’s family home. Because standing on the doorstep was way more terrifying than it had seemed like it was going to be last night, after Wyatt had fucked me in my bed, on the couch, on the kitchen counter, the table, the floor, and in the shower.

Yep, we’d completed Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me” bingo card.

The Sullivan manor was a large multigenerational home that perfectly mixed elegance and spooky. The deep purple and emerald paint shone against the jet-black shutters, window frames, and roof. And while the fence surrounding the house was beautifully decorated with fall garlands, hay bales, and pumpkins, the house itself didn’t have many accents apart from some curling Gothic window adornments.

While timelessly beautiful, it was rather severe and intimidating too, which perfectly described the matriarch who lived inside.

Light glinted through the stained-glass cap depicting the moon phases in the center of the massive front door, beckoning us closer. Wyatt had joked that we should have pregamed before coming, and I was regretting not taking him up on the offer. Nothing a couple glasses of mulled wine couldn’t prepare you for.

Wyatt raised his hand to knock and paused. “We can turn back right now.”

I took a deep breath and settled my nerves. It was one night. Sandra had come to Wyatt with an olive branch, and it seemed to be important to their relationship that I accepted.

I smiled up at him. “We have pie and a can-do attitude. It’ll be fine.”

“Last chance—never mind.”

The door flew open a moment later, and Sandra stood with her arms wide in welcome. “My son!”

“Hey, Mom.”

“There you are,” she said, grabbing Wyatt by the shoulders and surveying him. “I see you did not stop by the salon. It’s fine. Too late for that now. Come in, come in.”

Wyatt and I passed a silent look between us before stepping over the threshold to follow his mother inside.

“What a lovely home,” I said.