means he couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag. He’d never hurt you,” he promises my girls and I. Then his gaze drops to Deek. He bends down enough to scritch affectionately at the wolf’s ear. “This, what you see here, is just his natural nervousness in a new place and new situation.” He extracts his boots out from under his friend’s head gently. “As much as it looks like this one couldn’t kick snow off a rope, he’s a good lad. He’ll watch over you all like you’re Pack.” Cauley hunkers down to say this last bit, and he gently tugs the wolf’s ear like he’s telling Deek to watch over us like we’re ‘Pack.’
Cauley’s bright eyes move back on the three of us. “Now here are some rules. And these are important, so listen up. You’d do well to leave off on the direct eye contact—at least for the first few days. Submissive wolves have a real hard time with it, especially when they’re adjusting to new people and places.”
He pauses, smiles, waits for us to nod dutifully, and continues. “Next, give ol’ Deek here direct commands, and he’ll follow every one to the letter. But don’t send him off running errands. No shopping mall trips,” he pins Charlotte with a pointed look—misguided, because Charlotte is a bookworm, not a shopaholic, “no social stuff outside of this immediate family, at least at first.” Cauley holds up three fingers. “Three: he can go outside as much as he wants, but he’ll probably only want to be out in your backyard, where there’s a privacy fence. Like a good number of submissives, this one’s spent a donkey’s years in the pack dens, and so everything’s pretty much going to be new to him. Also, he gets carsick.” Cauley grimaces and mutters, “Real carsick. Especially around corners.” Then his expression melts into his usual grin, his eyes warming. “But he’ll be awful good to you. Just go slowly, eh?”
We all nod, and then Charlotte asks, “What’s a donkey’s years?”
A question I’d been pondering myself. And I’ve heard a lot of interesting Irishisms working at The Gargled Werewolf, where the owners and much of the staff are directly from the Emerald Isle.
“A long time,” Cauley replies, standing. He nudges Deek’s furry shoulder with his boot. “This one’s whole life, actually. Poor bast—” He glances at the girls and grins sheepishly. “Poor sod,” he finishes instead. Then his gaze shifts to me. “Walk me out, will you, a stór?”
My treasure. Which, if overheard by the casual observer, would lead them to believe that Cauley is really sweet on me.
But I’ve heard him use it on a thousand women.
Still. He did bring my family a babysitting werewolf. As gestures go, it means something. If our new babysitting werewolf turns out to be even halfway as good as Internet research says he’ll be, he’s a Godsend.
I lead the way to the front door, and Cauley places his hand at the small of my back as we step out. I stop though, resisting his guiding hand just outside of the doorway. “Should we really leave…” A werewolf alone with children, I want to say, but that’s just instinct trying to override what Google told me: werewolves are perfectly safe. You have absolutely nothing to be nervous about where werewolf childcare workers are concerned.
Of course we can believe everything Google says.
And my head warns, You already agreed to let him watch Maggie alone so shut your mouth before you offend your boss—an alpha wereshifter, I’ll remind you, Mouth.
Cauley’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Awf, they’ll be fine. They’re behaving like lambs with him.”
It strikes me that he genuinely thinks I was more worried about what my girls will do to the werewolf. He’s so confident that I find myself relaxing, blowing out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“There you go,” Cauley says in his pretty way, drawing me against his side playfully. “Come on. Leave the door of the gaff open if it pleases you. We just need to get his things out of the car.”
Not sure what to do with my hands or arms in this situation but clasp them in front of me, I lick my lips and try not to pull away. “Thank you again for this. For bringing Mr. Deek.”
Finn waves his hand, the one that was resting on my hip, dismissively. “No ‘mister.’ Just call him Deek. Nearly everybody does.”
We’ve reached the curb where nobody could miss Cauley’s