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A woman stepped outside. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, with light brown skin, dark wavy hair that just reached her shoulders, and the wiry form of a distance runner. And she wore a tank top over yoga pants and running shoes so brightly pink, they nearly glowed in the dark.
That she was shifter was obvious from her energy. She was alsostunning, with wide hazel eyes, a generous mouth, and apple cheekbones.
“Connor,” she said, and held out her arms. She was just a little shorter than me, and nearly dwarfed by Connor when they embraced. He pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“It’s good to see you.”
“And you. It’s been too long.” She put her hands on her trim hips, looked him over. “I think you’ve gotten taller.” She glanced at me, smiled knowingly. “And definitely more interesting.”
Connor smiled, and it was warm and happy. “This is Elisa Sullivan.”
“Of course it is,” she said with a smile, then reached out a hand. I walked up to meet them, and we shook, shifter power tingling in her touch.
“Marian Decker. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“And you,” I said. “Your shoes are amazing.”
“Right?” She looked down at them. “Running is my best friend and my worst enemy. But just seeing these makes me smile.” She opened the door, waved us in. “Come on in. Let’s get acquainted.”
***
The house’s interior was lovely. It had been gutted and remodeled, small rooms replaced with an open living and dining room, carpet replaced by hardwood floors, heavy cabinetry painted white. It was cheery and happy, and that was helped by the two giggling little girls who’d been captured in the arms of the man I guessed was their father.
“I’m Arne,” he said, a tall man with square shoulders, light skin, and short blond hair so pale, it was nearly white. The children squealed beneath his arms. “And these are Maddie and Roxie.”
They laughed as he swung them back and forth.
“Elisa,” I said. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“You know me,” Connor said, tilting his head to look at the girls. “Hello, ladies.”
They stopped wiggling to look at him. “You’re the prince,” said the older girl, who I guessed was six or seven. She had light brown skin and curly hair pulled back into a bouncy tail.
“Something like that.”
“I’m a wolf!” said the littler one, closer to three or four, and bared her teeth menacingly. She had her sister’s coloring, but her hair was darker and made a halo around her face.
“A terrifying wolf,” Arne said, and put them carefully down. “Now, go play.”
The younger girl put her thumb in her mouth, held out her hand automatically for her sister’s. The older girl took it, and they ran down the hallway and turned in to another room.
“We’ve just finished up some soup,” Marian said. “Creamy chicken and wild rice, because we’re in Minnesota, of course. Would you like some?”
“I’d love some,” Connor said, then glanced at me.
I was starving, so I nodded eagerly. “As long as it’s not any trouble.”
“Zero trouble. Sit down,” she said, gesturing to the table as she moved to the stove, where a blue enamel pot was waiting. She pulled down bowls from an overhead cabinet, plucked a ladle from a crock near the stove, and began to fill the bowls.
“That smells amazing,” I said as the scent of chicken began to slip into the room like smoke.
She brought the bowls to us—stoneware of a deep ocean blue—along with folded linen napkins and silver spoons.
“What would you like to drink?” Marian asked. “Coffee, water, tea? We’ve also got a fridge full of pop for company.”
“Water’s fine,” Connor said. “Riding always makes me thirsty.” He glanced at me.
“Water’s fine for me, too. Thanks.”
