Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
“I’d reimburse for the groceries, of course,” he continues. “You can bulk order a lot of stuff through the Grille.”
I stick out my hand. “Deal.”
Rafe’s smile is slow and feral. He takes his time reaching out to shake, and when he clasps my hand, electricity races up and down my spine.
“How soon can you start?” He releases my hand and leans a shoulder against the wall, suddenly casual. “I’m here because Channing burned our dinner tonight and stunk up the entire house. Turns out, broccoli stinks even worse when it’s charred.”
I laugh despite myself, partly because it surprises me to hear Rafe say anything light—not that I know him that well.
“How about tomorrow?” No sense in waiting. I need that money. Badly.
“That sounds good. I’ll text you the address.”
“Sure, give me your phone, and I’ll put my number in.”
“Oh, I have it.”
When I frown, he adds, “I made sure to get it when things were going down with Charlie.”
I make a hmph sound. I’m simultaneously annoyed and pleased that Rafe Lightfoot has my number. Honestly, I didn’t think I rated high enough in his thoughts to merit that. But then, it goes with his controlling personality.
“Anything I need to know? Allergies? Likes, dislikes?”
“We are carnivores through and through. None of that vegetarian shit. We may eat our broccoli—when it’s not burned—but we need our meat.”
“You need your meat,” I repeat dubiously. I mean, I’m not vegetarian either, but this planet is being destroyed by human’s meat production. Do we really need meat with every meal? But whatever, he’s the boss.
Oh, God.
Rafe Lightfoot is now my boss.
What was I thinking?
Rafe
I follow Adele out of my office, admiring her slender form in her fitted dress. She moves with a feline-like grace. Actually she’s very cat-like, this female, which is probably why the two of us don’t mix well.
My wolf wants to dominate, and she’s ready to scratch my nose.
The truth is, I like the idea of the beautiful spitfire Adele Fabre working for me far too much. The feisty foodie is the farthest thing from my type of female. Not that I have a type. Or time for females. And civilians—aka, humans—are supposed to be off-limits, according to my own rules.
But that rule obviously didn’t stick with Deke or my young brother, who both just mated humans—friends of Adele.
After what happened with her business partner and her shop last month, I’ve been concerned about her. The murder of her partner hasn’t been resolved by the police, but it seems obvious it was a drug cartel Bing had mixed himself up in. Now that he’s dead, Adele should be safe, but I still don’t like it. I would like to tie up those loose ends for her.
I also saw the eviction notice posted on her door and the chains around the handles. I’ll bet that’s killing her, not that she’d ever let on.
The female is proud. Very proud. Which is why I didn’t offer her a loan or help. I basically manufactured the private chef job on the spot, trying to guess how much money she needed and how plausible I could make the position without her catching on. One thing I’m sure of—if she thought she was getting a hand-out, she’d flip me the bird and walk out in a heartbeat.
She marches through the Grille in front of me. The first thing I noticed about Adele—other than her gorgeous scent and her curves under her neat clothes—was that she’s a born leader. Among her friends, she takes charge, soothes feelings, acts like a mother hen. She does it so adroitly, they don’t even notice. But I do. Because it’s something I do naturally too, for my own pack. It's the alpha urge—to lead, to protect. To dominate everyone else.
That’s why two alphas in the same room is never a good idea. We’ll fight to figure out who’s in charge, and in the power struggle, people can get hurt. There are a few people I’ll follow—Colonel Johnson being one of them—but never a human.
Adele is human. She can’t win a fight with me, no matter how many times she tries.
As if sensing my presence behind her, she whirls, her hazel eyes flashing. “Are you following me?”
“You forgot your coat,” I say blandly, holding up the garment for her to step into it.
She extends her hand for it, and I tsk. A moment passes as our eyes lock in a power struggle.
Once again, I win. A blush splashes over her brown cheeks, but she turns and lets me help her into her coat. All manners, that’s me. Gotta pretend to be a polite human. The veneer of civilized behavior is the only thing keeping my wolf from scooping her up and carrying her back to my office, where I can strip her naked and bask in her scent.