Mostly.
We'd overloaded the magic circuit between us when we'd first sealed our bond.
Since then it had proved to be erratic and invasive, flickering in and out for a few hours, then gone again for days.
Disconcerting.
I expect I'd have gotten used to having the connection to Adam already if it were consistent, as Adam assured me it should have been.
As it was, it tended to take me by surprise.
I felt the wheel vibrate under Adam's hand as he started the car, then he was gone, and I was standing in my grubbies talking to his daughter on the phone.
"Bowling," she said.
"Thanks, kid," I told her.
"I'll bring back an ice-cream cone for you.
Gotta shower." "You owe me five bucks, though ice cream wouldn't hurt," she told me with a mercenary firmness I could respect.
"You'd better shower fast." Adam and I had a game, a just-for-fun thing.
His wolf playing with me, I thought, because it had that feel: a simple game with no losers was wolf play, something they did with the ones they loved.
It didn't happen often in the pack as a whole, but among smaller groups, yes.
My mate wouldn't tell me where he was taking us--leaving it for me to discover his plans by whatever means necessary.
It was a sign of his respect that he expected me to be successful.
Tonight, I'd bribed his daughter to call me with whatever she knew, even if it was just what he was wearing when he walked out the door.
Then I'd be appropriately dressed-- though I'd act astonished that we matched so well when I hadn't a clue where he was taking me.
Play for flirting, but also play designed to distract both of us from the reason we were dating instead of living together as mates.
His pack didn't like it that his mate was a coyote shifter.
Even more than their natural brethren, wolves don't share territory well with other predators.
But they'd had a long time to get used to it, and were mostly resigned--until Adam brought me into the pack.
It shouldn't have been possible.
I've never heard of a nonwerewolf mate becoming pack.
I set out clothes to wear and hopped into the shower.
The showerhead was set low, so it wasn't hard to keep my braids out of the full force of the water as I scrubbed my hands with pumice soap and a nailbrush.
I'd already cleaned up, but every little bit helped.
A lot of the dirt was ingrained, and my hands would never look fashion-model tended.
When I emerged from the bathroom in a towel, I could hear voices in the living room.
Samuel and Adam were deliberately keeping it soft enough that I couldn't hear the words, but it didn't sound like there was any tension.