Page 13 of Minnie: Double, Double, Toil and Trouble

My mouth waters, but food can wait. The poor little occupant of the box can’t.

Except I’m not greeted by the distressing sight I expect. The gift-wrapped box sits wide open on the coffee table, the golden wrapping paper ripped to shreds. Amber is on the couch, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed pink, and Natty is bouncing on the couch next to her, Tiptoe balancing expertly on his shoulder.

A fiery golden rope of magic that only witches like myself can see connects Amber to each of her fated mates. A grinning Chase is on the couch to her left, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. Wes and Julian are kneeling on the floor, matching smiles on their faces. But the best part by far is the golden ball of fur racing around the living room, barking happily and wagging his tail.

“Puppy!” Natty yells when he sees me. “Look, Minnie. Puppy!”

“Happy,” the golden retriever pup shouts, though I don’t need my ability to speak to animals to realize that little fact. It’s obvious to anyone who’s looking.

Julian holds up a cute little dog collar. It’s made of gold leather, with diamond-shaped gems all around. They’re all different colors, and sparkle in the light. He shakes it, and the bell on the front jingles. “Come here, Latte.”

“Latte,” Amber gushes. “That’s adorable.”

Chase grins. “The perfect name for the perfect pup.”

The perfect pup in question ignores everyone in the room and keeps chasing his own tail. My guess is he’s just happy to be free of the box, and he probably doesn’t even know what a collar is or what it’s for.

“Go to Julian,” I tell the pup.

Latte continues racing around the living room in circles, tail wagging. I don’t feel the urge to wiggle my own butt and stick out my tongue, which means my ability to talk to animals is also impaired, and the pup probably didn’t hear me.

I’m about to repeat the command, but Natty scrambles off the couch and chases after the pup, dislodging Tiptoe in the process. The mouse lands safely on the couch and dashes behind the throw pillow, while the oblivious Natty races after Latte, squealing each time he lunges forward and fails to catch the pup.

Julian shakes the collar again. “Here, Latte. Here, boy.”

The pup still doesn’t listen. And even though I’d rather let him and Natty play, the curse, or Formula M, or both, decide that helping Julian is my number one priority. I focus on my words and try again. “Latte, come.”

Latte skids to a stop, changes trajectory, and races toward me. I scoop him up, my voice turning sugary-sweet. “Here you go, Julian.”

Amber starts to get up. “I got him.”

“You rest.” Chase grabs her waist and gently pulls her back down. “I’ll get Latte.”

Wes jumps to his feet. “You two sit. I’ll do it.” The bear shifter crosses the living room in two giant steps. “Ambear, you shouldn’t be lifting anything heavy.”

“Latte’s tiny,” Amber protests. She tries to get up again, but Chase pulls her into his side.

Julian takes one of her hands and kisses her palm. “You’re already carrying our babies, Bean. Put your feet up and rest. We’ll bring Latte to you.”

Wes takes the wiggling pup and holds him up for Julian, who whispers something under his breath and clips on the jingling collar. Latte rewards him by licking his face.

“Safe?” a little voice asks, and whiskers peek out from behind the purple throw pillow.

“Latte won’t hurt you, Tiptoe. Julian, could you hold the pup up to the mouse so they can sniff each other?”

I bat my eyelashes at Amber’s mate and wish I could just glue them open so they stop embarrassing me.

Julian turns the puppy toward the couch when the collar starts to jingle. For a second, I think he’s shaking the pup, but then I realize it’s no longer on the pup. It’s flying through the air toward Tiptoe instead.

I want to scream, shout, jump to my mouse’s defense—but Montgomerys are always cool and collected, and Formula M ensures I comply.

Please, I silently beg. I need to help my mouse.

But it’s no use. I can’t move. I can’t scream. I can’t even beg Amber and her guys to help.

The collar contorts as if it’s alive, opening and closing rhythmically as it approaches the mouse. Each snap grows increasingly more eager, and the poor mouse squeaks in terror. But all I can do is stand rooted in place, feeling completely and utterly useless.

Chapter 8