car. It’s a Joker purple Chevrolet Chevelle SS with a nearly fluorescent green interior, and he’s fiercely proud of it.
It’s hideous.
He stops us, and his fingers take my chin, tipping my face up to look at him. “And think nothing of it, Sue. You’ve been working for the Pack for years. You’ve been good to us.” His eyes search mine, and he has to see I’m uncomfortable. He lets me go before I can finish pulling away. He turns, fishing into the trunk of his car until he hauls out a duffel and a leather case engraved with what looks like a Bible verse.
I watch him, pressing my lips together for a moment before I just say it. “Look, I really appreciate this. I do. But I’m also… I feel like you might…” I clear my throat, shaking my head, and meet his gaze, forcing myself to soldier on. “A lot of the girls at work need sitters for their kids. I’ve never heard of you offering to drop a werewolf off at their door before. Are you in the habit of loaning wolves?”
Cauley pauses. “No.”
I lick my lips, nerves tight. “Why haven’t you stepped in for them before? Why are you doing this for me?”
He pins me with a quick but very significant look, and very seriously says, “Well, I wasn’t hoping to eat crackers out of their knickers.”
I blink at him.
He grins.
“Cauley—”
“Finn,” he corrects, and he’s in front of me now, the Bible-like case under his arm, the duffel’s handle in one hand, the strong fingers of his other hand smoothing over my shoulder, kneading my muscles a little. “We do help the garls at work, just not with their own werewolf. But this isn’t a favor with strings. I’m a friend, not the mafia. I don’t expect a thing from you except to see you worrying less. And if I’m hoping for an outcome, it’s honestly that you’ll be back to smiling like sunshine at work. That’s all.” And he uses his gentle grip on my shoulder to jerk me close enough to plant a kiss on my forehead.
“Cau—” I start again, but the pad of his thumb inserts itself between us and gently presses over my lips.
I go very still.
With our faces close enough to taste each other’s breath (he drinks Folgers, by the way, and on him, it’s a very nice smell), I can feel him looking at me. I think he’s waiting for me to look up—but I won’t. “Finn,” he repeats softly.
I’ve read as recently as yesterday that werewolves can hear heartbeats, and I wonder if he can hear mine racing. I don’t tip my head back to meet his eyes because I’ve got the sense that if I do, he’ll see it as an invitation to kiss me somewhere other than that tingling spot on my forehead.
And although that could lead to the stuff fairytales are made of—the gorgeous Irish businessman sweeps a waitress off her feet kind—I don’t trust it.
Because I don’t trust any guy anymore.
After finally ditching my ex-husband and his endless affairs, I’ve told myself that not every man lets women treat his dick like it’s a Meijer pony ride—
(For those of you who aren’t familiar with Meijer, there’s a mechanical pony in front of every store, and for a penny, you can ride it. Shoppers frequently leave spare pennies on the machine, covering it with change so that everyone who wants a go can have as many free rides as they like. Apparently, my former husband had limitless pennies and a long line of ladies waiting for a turn.)
—but no matter what my head logically tries to assure me, inside, I’m not just gun-shy. I’m broken.
My trust in the opposite gender’s ability to be a faithful, supportive partner is well and truly gone.
So I like Finn, sure. But so does every woman who meets him. And for me, that’s a problem.
Finnegan Cauley is on his own level of hot. And he’s also achieved an expert level of flirt. He’s every woman’s dream man—he’s got the million-dollar smile, the laughing eyes, and hair styled either intentionally or by activity (it always looks like some woman has just used it to hang the hell on; it’s a good look on him and it seems designed to signal sex to females on a primal level).
As if his looks weren’t enough of a gift to any one person, he seems like a genuinely great guy. He always says the nicest things and