Page 11 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

He rubbed one hand over his jaw and said, “Your sister has always been able to cry at the exact moment consequences arrive.”

My throat tightened. “That was mean.”

“It was true.”

“Still mean.”

He shrugged. “I’m trying it out. Your Aunt Linda says I’m too generous. She also thinks Grant has the moral depth of a puddle in a gas station bathroom.”

“She said that?”

“On the shuttle. In front of his uncle.”

I pressed my lips together and Dad’s mouth twitched. It was the first clean laugh I had almost had all day.

“Is Mom furious?” I asked.

“Your mother has chosen denial as her weekend activity.”

“She does love a theme.”

“She wants this to go smoothly.”

“She should have raised fewer people with terrible impulse control.”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

“She should have protected you better.”

The room went quiet. Outside the balcony doors, the resort moved on without us. Voices floated up from the terrace. Glassware chimed. Somewhere below, someone laughed in that sharp pre-dinner way of people trying to prove they were having the correct amount of fun.

I turned away from the mirror. “Dad.”

“I know.” He lifted both hands. “Bad timing.”

“It’s not bad timing.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s going to make me cry, and I put effort into this eyeliner.”

He nodded once, accepting the terms. “Then I’ll say this. You don’t owe anyone grace tonight.”

“I think Mom has a different contract.”

“Your mother and I have not agreed on a contract since 2014.”

“Is that why you divorced?”

“No. We divorced because she alphabetized my spices during an argument and told me I was just like paprika, which I still don’t understand.”

I stared at him.

He shrugged. “There were other things.”

I laughed then, it came out rough, but it came.

Dad smiled, relieved.