pile of spoons, and a wooden box with a bow. “Can you grab all that and haul it over? Awf, look how strong you two are. Perfect. Open up that box, would you, Maggie?”
When Maggie draws off the lid, she gasps.
“Ain’t that a sight?” Finn asks. “Do us a favor and set that right up here.” He indicates the cake.
He and Rooker bend their knees, arms tight as they support the massive confectionary marvel, lowering it enough that Maggie can reach up and place a wedding topper on the uppermost tier.
It’s your typical human bride figurine—and beside her is a wolf, two children figurines, and a smaller wolf figurine. Our whole family, represented on a beautifully piped wedding cake.
“And that’s not all,” Rooker tells her and Liam, everybody watching really. “Back at Half Moon, in the freezer we’ve got—”
“CEASE FIRE!” Maggie shouts. “Ice cream! SAY ICE CREAM!” she cries.
Charlotte slumps forward, groaning so loudly she can be heard over the congregation’s laughter. Beside her, Ginny, arms folded, a smile on her face, shakes her head. “Typical. Maggie, you’re so special.”
“Thank you!” Maggie calls back. Then she turns to Finn. “Can I have—”
“Maggs,” Finn says gently. “That pail over there?” He tips his head to indicate the bucket. “That whole thing is ice cream. If you don’t get full on that, we’ve got the other flavors up at Half Moon, but garl, if you don’t get full on that, something is wrong with you.”
EPILOGUE
LUCAN
ONE YEAR LATER.
“Dad,” Susan says, voice full of exasperated affection. “You don’t have to do the dishes. You’re the guest here.”
The scents of cloves, sugar cookies, wet boots, and chemically imitated citrus soap are thick in the kitchen, where my dad is steadfast in staying.
It’s cold enough to see your breath in here, just like werewolves like it. It’s two days before Christmas and the sleeves of his oatmeal Aran fisherman’s sweater are rolled up, his arms are buried to his elbows in soapy water, and a winsome smile graces his face—the man is the picture of contentment. Chestnut hair showing almost as much grey in human form as his coat has gone silver in his wolf form, my father shakes his head, keeping his gaze lowered because he’s a submissive, but he’s smiling back at Susan warmly. “Guests who help tidy up are remembered fondly, and they get welcomed back.”
He draws another mug under the water, scrubbing it with care. It’s one I bought for Susan, because mugs are the one place where she loves to see puns, and I love wooing her with things that make her happy. This one has a craftily designed set of letters that look like they’re made of yarn, and a crochet hook is printed on it. The mug reads Coffee, because I was up hooking all night.
(We’re not crocheters, but I couldn’t stop laughing at the play on words, and my reaction as I gave her the gift made Susan crack up. She still smiles when she uses it. Witty coffee mugs; the gifts that keep on giving.)
Susan moves to hug my dad one-armed, holding our son, Shane, in her other. “You know you’re always welcome, with or without doing any cleanup. Here,” she offers. “Take your grandson, and I’ll finish the dishes.”
My father makes a dramatic sound of indignation. “You’re not doing these dishes. You just had surgery!”
“That was over three months ago,” Susan points out, gasping and laughing at his absurdity. Thanks to our joined incomes and my help around our household, Susan felt secure enough to have carpal tunnel surgery a while ago. And like she said, she’s recovered, already back to work and everything, her wrist doing worlds better.
My father, though, is not sold. “Saoirse told you to sit down and take a load off your feet, just wait til she gets back. She’ll say, ‘See? That’s the problem with humans. None of you feel properly compelled to listen to an alpha.’”
Susan kisses him on the cheek before dutifully sitting down, catching my eye and giving me a wry shake of her head as she re-situates Shane on her lap. To dad, she asks, “There. Happy?”
My father meets her eyes and wags a soapy finger in front of her nose. “You know how Finn is lippy?”
“Definitely.”
“Do you know how we controlled him when he was a boy?”
Susan makes a thoughtful face. “You didn’t beat him enough, I’m thinking, if that’s where you’re going with this. But how?”
My dad laughs, turning back to the sink and starting