Page 12 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

Another knock hit the door before either of us could get sentimental and ruin the makeup anyway.

“Open up,” Aunt Linda called. “I brought contraband.”

Dad sighed. “She means wine.”

“She always means wine.”

He opened the door, and Aunt Linda swept in wearing a black jumpsuit, gold earrings, and the expression of a woman who had come to watch a building fall in formalwear.

She held up a small bottle of gin.

“Plane bottle,” she said. “For emergencies.”

“We are at a luxury resort with four bars,” Dad said.

Aunt Linda kissed my cheek, then held me at arm’s length.

“Well, damn.”

“What?”

“You look fantastic.” Her eyes narrowed. “That dress is manipulative.”

“Thank you.”

She waved a hand. “I hate it.”

“Also thank you.”

Aunt Linda set the gin on the vanity and glanced at my father. “You told her?”

“Told me what?” I asked.

Dad closed his eyes.

Aunt Linda smiled with all her teeth. “Your mother seated me at a table with Grant’s divorced uncle because she thinks two unattached people over fifty should either flirt or become furniture.”

Dad groaned. “Linda.”

“What? I told her I already had a date.”

“You do not have a date.”

She shrugged. “I do. I’m dating the drama.”

“That tracks,” I said.

Aunt Linda pointed at me. “And you, my love, are the main event.”

“I was hoping to be a tasteful side dish.”

“No chance. The groom cheated on you with the bride. You showed up in the assigned color. Your cheekbones are doing God’s work. Every woman here is either horrified for you or taking notes.”

I blanched. “That is comforting in a violent way.”

“Good.” She lowered her voice. “Also, if Grant touches you, tell me.”

Dad straightened. “Did he touch you?”