The Werewolf Nanny

by Amanda Milo

“You have serious skills,” I tell him, amazed. “Thanks!”

  He glances at where I’m clutching my numb wrist. “Anytime. You okay?”

  “Mmhmm, you bet,” I chirp and shine a smile on the table of customers as Finn reaches to pass the burger and shaken fries to its recipient.

  Finn makes a purring noise that has my eyes widening as I glance at him—and find his gaze fixed on me, evidently having made the sound to gain my attention. “Were you working the fryer?”

  I drop my wrist and stretch my digits, feeling them tingle. “Just blanching the last batch of taters. Mitch called in so it’s Hank, Kelly, and me running the extras back there.”

  Finn turns. “Donal!”

  A huge guy who sometimes works the bar at night melts away from the wall. Maybe werewolves can read minds (or, more likely, his werewolf-keen ears overheard our conversation despite the din) because Finn doesn’t say a word to him; with a shared look, Donal quietly nods and begins silently making his way around tables, heading for the kitchen.

  (Privately I marvel—not for the first time—that werewolf hearing really is that good.)

  “He’ll handle the fryer and the heavy lifting,” Finn announces to me. His gaze drops to my wrist. “Why don’t you go ice that?”

  I shake it out and drop it to my side. With my good hand, I lamely point to my table. “I’m good, and I need to watch—”

  “Right,” Finn says. And he’s suddenly on my other side, gently raising my injured wrist. “You come with me.”

  “But my tables—”

  Finn whistles, making the conversation hush in the whole place. I feel my face heat stupidly as everyone’s eyes shoot up to us. Finn lights the place up with a megawatt of a panty-melting smile. “Ladies and gents, we’ll be right back. If you need for anything, just shout.”

  “I need a refill on Coca-Cola,” a man calls, raising his cup of ice.

  Finn misses a step, clearly not expecting someone to be immune enough to his estrogen-surging smile to have enough faculties to ask for something. “That so?” He reverses direction, releasing me only long enough to snag the man’s drink. Then he’s passing me, ordering, “Follow me, swayt hart.”

  Dutifully, I trail after him as he makes a beeline for the soda bank. “I really am fine.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Finn tells me. He takes his eyes from the filling cup to pin me with a look over his shoulder. “And you haven’t been.”

  I feel all the blood drain from my over-warm face. Icy ants bite along my skin. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you have insurance?” he asks quietly, kindly not making eye contact as he turns around and moves to deliver the drink to the customer.

  I wander behind him, skin turning clammy.

  After setting down the drink and checking on the other patrons, Finn swiftly crosses to the kitchen and calls out Donal. “Change of plans. Watch tables. Sue and I will be right back.”

  Without a word, Donal moves back out to the pub section and stands over the tables, crossing his thickly-muscled arms.

  Finn makes a disgusted noise. “Mate, you look like you’re a prison guard. Feckin’ smile, would ja?”

  Donal bares his teeth.

  “Not like that. And drop your arms,” Finn commands.

  Donal does, clasping his hands in front of himself in a pose of hulking servility—but he separates his middle finger very pointedly from his clenched-clasped fists and makes direct eye contact with Finn, who grins.

  “Better,” Finn calls cheerily. And then he takes my hand. “You. Let’s make this quick.”

  He leads us to the break room and walks us to the lockers. Not mine, though. He moves toward one of the large ones in the corner, opening it not by using the combination lock but by bringing the meat of his closed fist against it, knocking it open.

  “That’s not very secure,” I point out faintly.

  He reaches inside, shrugging. “It doesn’t have to be. It’s medical supplies, and nothing anybody can have much fun with.” He draws out a brace, and takes my arm.

  I want to protest—but a brace really would be nice. “Thanks,” I say quietly.

  “Okay, back to the question. Insurance?” he asks, eyes flashing to mine.

  I shake my head. “I’m self-pay.”

  “Have you checked in with your doctor to find out if this is carpal tunnel?” He expertly fits my hand in the brace, refusing to let me suit myself in it by gently brushing my other hand away. Carefully, he tightens it.

  “I haven’t asked because if he says yes, I can’t really do surgery,” I explain. “And even when the laws forced everyone to be insured, I had such a crappy plan that if I needed surgery, I can pretty much guarantee that I’d be footing just about all of the bill.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not right.”

  “It really isn’t,” I agree, lips pursing. “If I had been allowed to skip insurance these last couple of years? I could have pocketed the money I was made to pay out for it and I could have afforded the surgery myself.” I shake my head, aggravated. “I need to get a second job in order to cover what the stupid plans ought to cover in the first place.”

  Finn’s forehead is pinched. “I’m sorry, Sue.”

  I shrug uncomfortably. “It is what it is.”

  Finn is still holding me by the brace, his touch light. “Tell me if whatever is happening gets worse. We might be able to help.”

  My eyes shoot to his. “I can’t take—”

  Finn rolls his eyes. “You won’t be taking. We’ve got all sorts of ways you can make extra income.”

  I stare at him, eyes widening. “Like… drugs?”

  Finn sputters, “What?” He makes a face at me that almost makes me laugh. “No! Just—totally legit busy work, all right?”

  I nod, biting my lip.

  Finn’s other hand closes on my shoulder and he leans in. “Don’t let it get worse. Just tell me. You won’t lose your job, I promise.” His eyes search mine. “Trust me?”

  I find that I do. And this realization has me taking in an easier breath. “Yeah. I do.”

  He smiles. Not one of his showy ones, but one of his quiet, friendly ones. Ones that—I don’t know if he knows this—to me are more trustworthy. I’d trade this kind for all his celebrity-worthy grins in the world. “Good.” He straightens and releases me to fish around the supplies for a cold pack. He snaps it, turning back to me. “What are your plans this weekend?”

  I can’t help it. I tense.

  Finn misses nothing. His smile stays, but his lips tighten so the arc of it looks a lot less easy. His eyes turn a little… almost sad. He drops his gaze to the ice pack he gently closes over my wrist, wrapping it around me like a chilly taco. “If you don’t have any grand plans, we need to take Ginny.”

  I freeze. My wide-eyed gaze is locked to his. “Take her?”

  Finn shakes his head at me, lips pursing briefly at my reaction. “Just for the weekend. She needs to start spending time with the Pack. Go for some runs. Get tutored on Changing.”

  Swallowing with relief, I nod. “This weekend would be good for that. The girls have visitation with their dad, so Ginny was looking at hanging around the house pretty much bored to tears until Monday.”

  “Perfect,” Finn declares. After the briefest moment of searching my face, he steps back and motions for the breakroom door. “Ready to get back out there?”

  “Yep,” I say. I test out my wrist. “I still haven’t forgiven you for the new uniforms, or the new hair mandate—but thanks for the save, Finn.”

  His smile is faint. “That’s what I do.”

  CHAPTER 24

  SUSAN

  It’s Friday morning. My first day with my brand-new uniform. I’m shaved all the way up to my—

  I’m shaved. My booty shorts are confused about their job here and are trying to be a thong. And I’m standing in front of my mirror, applying texturizing spray I hunted for and found in Charlotte’s bathroom, so that I could achieve beach-wa
viness (and also burn my neck and manage to stain my shorts with coconut oil-curling-cream fingerprints).

  But damn, my hair is looking all showy and nice.

  Taking a deep breath, I drop my curling iron to its stand and try to relearn walking (aka discover a way to move without sending my shorts straight up my crack), exiting the bathroom, heading for the kitchen, trying not to notice how the flesh of my breasts gleams and jiggles with my every step and how I can SEE it happening below my periphery.

  As soon as I round the hall, almost all the activity in the kitchen stops. Deek is in human form, facing the sink and washing something—bless the man. Not a dirty dish in the house with him around. The kids are staring at me.

  “Holy wow, Mom!” Charlotte exclaims from the Island where she's making a sandwich. “You look hot!”

  My cheeks burn.

  “You DO,” Ginny agrees, sounding sweetly genuine.

  “You look pretty, Mom,” Maggie chimes in.

  “Thanks, you guys.” I gesture to my shorts. “I feel a little stup—” I start.

  But abruptly, my words are cut off at the sound of a loud shatter.

  Everyone female yelps in surprise—and Deek barks a deep-voiced apology. “Sorry!”

  But he isn’t looking at the kids or at the mug that’s exploded into pieces of glazed pottery all over the kitchen tiles.

  He’s looking right at me, his eyes wide.

  And without so much as glancing down, he drops to his knees on the floor and starts sweeping his hands, blindly collecting bits of jagged-edged mug. “I was going to get you coffee,” he explains.

  I’m stunned—and not because he was thoughtful enough to want to pour me some coffee. No, I’m shocked because he’s meeting my eyes.

  As if he realizes he’s making direct eye contact and he’s uncomfortable with it, his gaze predictably drops. But then I’m more stunned: his eyes have caught and he’s staring at my chest.

  I clear my throat, and Deek jumps and flinches guiltily and immediately, his clean-shaven face turns into a full beard. And it’s the whole shebang, with fur-like mutton chops sprouting in too.

  “So this is my new uniform,” I murmur, weirdly not feeling embarrassed anymore in the least. I grab the Finn-supplied wrist brace from the counter and slide it on with a smile on my face.

  “It’s good on you,” Ginny says.

  “Your hair looks amazing,” Charlotte adds.

  “Mom, your shorts are showing off your butt,” Maggie points out.

  I sigh and smile at her. “Thank you, honey.” My dear, I know. “But this is what Finn told me to wear.” I smile at the other two. “Thanks, girls.”

  “Finn?” Deek croaks, making the word odd in his throat—almost a growl. His ears are no longer human. They’re tapered and furry and lying flat against his head.

  I blink at him. “Yeah. Finn said he wants us to get more ‘attention.’” I make a face and look down at myself—and I’m shocked anew at how surprisingly nice my breasts look as they sit plumped and hugged by the fabric of my tank top.

  When I glance up and catch Deek’s unblinking stare—a stare!—and flushed cheeks, I feel… pretty.

  It’s something I haven’t felt in a long time.

  With a frown, I process something I never really was able to put my finger on until this moment: I’ve lost my mojo. I lost it when I found out about my husband’s last affair. Actually, now that I think about it, my self-worth had been eroding before that. I guess ever since his first ‘indiscretion.’ Because how could something not be wrong with me? Obviously, I wasn’t enough for him if he felt the urge to stray elsewhere. For a while, I was utterly, wholly, completely demeaned.

  But logically, I’m aware that his choice to have extramarital affairs was exactly that—his choice. I thought I fully understood, inside and out, that I’m not less of a woman, even if my self-esteem got hit by a bus.

  Again.

  And again.

  And… again.

  The emotional pain damaged me then. Every time.

  But honestly? I just realized I’m still not over it. Somewhere inside, I’ve been quietly thinking of myself as being screwed up. Not sufficient enough to keep a mate satisfied. Unfit to be anyone’s partner.

  It makes me sad. Suddenly, I feel like crying. Embarrassed, I blink extra fast and reach for my cell phone in my back pocket as a distraction.

  But it’s not there. My buttcheek-hugging shorts do not have anything more than decorative suggestions of pockets—they aren’t actually functional. After all, carrying a cell phone while working would surely ruin the lines of my outfit. Wasn’t there a line like that in the first Deadpool movie?

  “Susan?” Deek asks softly and so gently that I feel a tug on my heart. “Are you okay?”

  Convulsively swallowing an embarrassing rush of tears, I paste on the quickest, most unconvincing-feeling smile. “Uh-huh.” My eyes dart to the clock on the wall and I jump. “Whoa! Ladies!” My heartbeat increases, and I clap my hands to get everyone moving. “It’s go time!”

  Lunch bags are paired with backpacks. Books and folders and flash drives are checked for. Charlotte makes a very dramatic huff and races for her Chromebook, which she left behind in her room.

  I go for my cell phone, snatching it off my bathroom counter and slipping it into my purse as I sling the strap over my arm, spin for the doorway—

  And run smack into Deek.

  His gaze is uncharacteristically steady on mine. “Are you all right?” he rumbles.

  It’s the timbre of his voice—or maybe it’s the gentleness in his eyes. But something about him following me, caring enough to check on me, has my belly experiencing a tiny flutter.

  Then it’s very suddenly definitely the way his big, rough-skinned hands close over my arms with all the care—the genuine compassion—you’d use to lift an injured bird.

  It has me swallowing hard again and staring right back at him. “I’m fine. Gotta go.”

  Deek cocks his head, an ever-so-slightly unsettling quality to the gesture. A startlingly large amount of not-humanness is evident in such an infinitesimal movement. “All right,” he says agreeably. But his thumbs press against the insides of my arms and his fingers add a little pressure—but fast. It’s a squeeze, there and gone and then he’s releasing me. Stepping back. Glancing down at my sock-clad feet, where his submissive gaze stays locked. “Have a good shift.”

  “Thanks,” I breathe, staring at his hair, which is multiplying and very quickly turning to fur. Why is he nervous? “You have a good day too, Deek.”

  Wordlessly, he nods.

  I hear the girls tromping toward the front door, leaving.

  “Thanks for coming to check on me,” I add. “You’re very thoughtful. And… I appreciate you. It,” I correct quickly.

  Maybe he would have nodded again. We’ll never know, because he turns into a wolf.

  “BYE, MOM!” Maggie shouts.

  “Bye,” Charlotte and Ginny chime.

  Fighting the strange smile curiously trying to take over my face, I call back, “You guys have a good day!” as I crouch down and start stripping Deek’s clothes off of his wolf form.

  “We will!” they call in a triplicate of variations, and then the door shuts behind them.

  I work Deek’s various buttons quickly, strip him of his shirt and open his jeans and work his zipper down, and as I do, I can’t help but comment, “I’ve never undressed a man so much in my life until I met you.”

  The wolf’s golden eyes bolt up to mine.

  It’s my turn to duck my head as I finish dragging his man’s pant legs from his wolf’s hocks.

  That finished, I fold his clothes and set them on my bathroom counter. “Okay,” I puff quickly, shoving my hair behind my ears, strangely out of breath, “It’s time for me to get out of here. Bye, Deek.”

  A wurf of returned sentiment is made, but he doesn’t look at me when I pass him to exit the bathroom. He does, however, join me when I make it t
o the door.

  And as I walk out and begin to close it behind me, I glance back just once.

  He’s watching me.

  I shoot him a lopsided smile, wave, and with reluctance, shut the door.

  CHAPTER 25

  LUCAN

  I text Finn. I break my phone. Then I Change, gather my clothes, put them in one of Maggie’s spare backpacks (along with my damaged phone), and perform the necessary arrangement of Changes required to lock up the house, exit into the backyard, fit on the backpack, go wolf—

  And then I’m running.

  Two miles.

  Four.

  Six.

  Using sidewalks, dodging dog walkers and shocked dogs, startled cats, mothers pushing strollers, joggers, and—

  I end up taking a detour when a squirrel darts out in front of me.

  Stupid squirrels. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re the number one cause of deaths among werewolves and shifters. At least submissive ones. Finn, to my knowledge, has never bolted after any bushy-tailed arboreal rodent if it posed a detriment to his life. He’s got an alpha’s control.

  I, on the other hand, am powerless not to chase the streaking puff of irresistible black and I nearly meet my end on the grill of a dark navy blue Crown Victoria and an alien-green Kia Soul.

  If you’re thinking “A werewolf can see colors?”

  Of course we can. We have nearly as many cones in our eyes as a human does: two verses your three, just like a wolf. And for the record? Your actual lupines (and canines, for that matter) can perceive colors just fine. The whole ‘only black and white’ thing is a myth, although it is true that they can’t always see the color spectrum that you’ll see.

  Purple, for example, is a dead ringer for blue.

  So that Crown Vic could be the loudest shade of violet known to man, and all I see, all a wolf would see, all a dog can see—is blue.

  It’s the same way Finn sees his car. It’s also why he tells everyone his favorite color is blue, making them scratch their head as to why his ride is so NOT blue. But Finn knows that car is ugly. An eyesore, to a regular human.

  He only sees a respectable admiral blue (with a tennis ball-green interior) like the rest of us werewolves.