Page 48 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

A tall, broad man with iron-gray hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and quiet, heavy shoulders steps out of the kitchen carrying a massive wooden salad bowl. He has Boone’s broad jaw, his calm, heavy gait, and eyes so dark they’re almost black. The air in the room shifts slightly when he enters—not with tension, but with that dense, gravity-like presence that marks a pack alpha.

Thomas Kinkaid sets the bowl on the table, wipes his hands on his jeans, and looks straight at me.

“Maisie,” he says. His voice is deep, a low baritone that rumbles in your chest. He doesn’t hug me, which I appreciate, but he extends a large, calloused hand and wraps it around mine in a warm, steady grip. “Good to finally meet you. Boone talks about you plenty.”

“Don’t start, Dad,” Boone mutters, his ears turning slightly pink.

“I’m not starting anything,” Thomas says smoothly, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just stating a statistical fact. The boy called us three times in October to explain the molecular structure of feline kidney tissue.”

I slowly turn my head to look at Boone. “Feline kidney tissue?”

“You were studying for a quiz,” Boone says defensively, looking at the ceiling. “I was helping you review.”

“You reviewed with me on a Tuesday,” I say. “You called your parents about my quiz?”

“He told us you got a ninety-four,” Linda chimes in, walking out of the kitchen with a platter of pot roast that looks like it could feed an infantry division. “And then he told us you hadn’t eaten lunch because you were stressed, so he brought you a sandwich. Have you eaten tonight, Maisie?”

“We had coffee⁠—”

“That wasn’t the question,” Linda says, already grabbing a ceramic plate from the sideboard and heaping two massive slabs of roast beef, three scoops of mashed potatoes, and half a loaf of crusty sourdough onto it. “Sit down. Right there.”

I sit. I don’t even try to argue.

Boone immediately pulls out the chair next to mine and drops into it. Before I can even pick up my fork, he reaches across the table, grabs another roll, butters it thoroughly, and sets it on the edge of my plate.

I look at the plate. I look at Linda, who’s already ladling dark gravy over the meat. I look at Boone, who’s watching me with absolute satisfaction.

“Oh my God,” I breathe, pressing my fingers to my forehead. “There are two of you.”

Thomas snorts from the head of the table, pouring water into four heavy glasses. “There are considerably more than two of us, Maisie. You’re just seeing the tip of the iceberg.”

Dinner is loud, fast, and unpretentious.

The man asleep on the couch wakes up about ten minutes in, wanders over without washing his hands, grabs two rolls, grunts a greeting at me, and sits down.

“That’s Uncle Wes,” Boone whispers in my ear.

“Is he actually your uncle?” I whisper back.

“No. He went to high school with my dad. Everybody calls him that.”

“Got it.”

By the time I finish half my plate, I’m so full I can barely breathe. Linda tries to put another slice of roast on my plate, but I hold up both hands in surrender.

“Linda, please. If I eat one more bite of beef, I’m going to turn into a wolf just from protein density.”

Linda laughs, a rich, warm sound, and takes the platter away. “Fair enough. Boone, take her bags upstairs. She looks exhausted.”

Boone’s childhood bedroom is on the third floor, tucked under the sloping eaves of the cedar roof.

When he pushes the heavy oak door open and flips the light switch, I step inside and immediately start laughing.

“What?” he asks, dropping our bags onto a wooden bench near the closet.

“Nothing,” I say, walking over to the wide wooden desk under the window. “It’s just... you.”

The room is enormous, smelling strongly of cedar, old paper, and Boone’s specific scent—cedar, leather, and that warm, spicy musk that makes my mating mark hum. The walls are covered in framed team photos, a state championship football pennant from his senior year, and a massive map of the surrounding county with pack boundaries marked in red grease pencil.