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my teeth grinding.
    “Maggie?”
    “I’m trying to find a hole in your argument that doesn’t involve me threatening you,” I grumbled. “I got nothing.”
    She snorted.
    “What sort of questions is he asking?”
    “Oh, little things, about how Cooper and I got to know each other. He heard from a few of our neighbors that we weren’t exactly an instant love connection. Some of my better insults are fondly remembered. So he’s using ‘getting to know you’ conversations to ask what turned the tide, what couples around here do to date, that sort of thing.”
    “And what are you telling him?” I asked.
    Mo huffed. “Oh, I told him that Cooper showed up on my doorstep with a bear trap clamped around his leg, told me he was a werewolf, and we decided to go steady.”
    “Ha freaking ha.”
    My sister-in-law was not to be trusted.
    My embarrassment was replaced by annoyance, frustration, a desire to be rid of Nick that bordered on religious. It was obvious that he had been sent to torment me for some horrible wrong I’d committed in a past life.
    I failed to see how turning me into a blithering, sleep-deprived idiot was going to make me a better person. As a concept, karma was ass-backward.
    “Oh, good gravy, snap out of it, you loser!” I groaned, thunking my head against the desk.
    “Well, that seems harsh. I just walked in the door,” a voice boomed over me. I looked up to see Samson towering over my desk.
    I snickered, leaning back in my chair.
    “Now, what kind of werewolf doesn’t even notice when her office has been invaded?” Samson smirked, ruffling my hair. “What’s up, Midget?”
    My cousin Samson, ladies and gentlemen, the five-year-old trapped in a pro wrestler’s body, the man who gave me the Chuck Norris Fact of the Day calendar on my desk, which was why I tolerated abuse from him more than I would from most people. I loved him just as much as I loved Cooper. His mother had died before I was born, and his dad was a screwup of the first order, abandoning him to live with us when we were just kids. He’d been the one who helped keep me somewhat in line when Cooper left, and as my unofficial second in command, he was the first member of the pack to call me out when I was being a jerk.
    Well, the first to call me a jerk to my face and walk away without a limp . . . ok, without a permanent limp.
    He walked it off.
    I scowled up at him, but there was no real heat in it. “Everyone’s a midget compared to you.”
    “Doesn’t make the nickname any less fun.”
    “You know, the ink isn’t even dry on this yet,” I retorted, pointing to his paycheck.
    “It’s not signed, either,” he noted. “You only think I don’t pick up on stuff like that.”
    “Go on, you’ve claimed your thirty pieces of silver, go do something crazy like put gas in that penis replacement you call transportation.”
    “First of all, don’t mock the truck or my junk,” he said sternly, pointing out the window toward the mammoth F-250 required to haul his ass around. “And it’s not compensating for anything if it’s to scale.”
    “Ew.” I shuddered but was grateful for something to think about that did not involve hot outsider eggheads. I was still shuddering in revulsion when a sandy-haired werewolf stuck his head in the door, toting a jam-packed postal box.
    Clay Renard was one of a handful of people in the valley not related to me by blood or marriage. In fact, that handful was pretty much limited to Clay, his widowed sister, Alicia, and her two boys. Clay was a few years younger than me. He was a likable, easygoing sort of guy, friendly and helpful, without being a pain in the ass about it. He was as close to the all-American type as werewolves got, with a strong, square jaw, high, sharp cheekbones, and light blue eyes. Even though his hair was brownish-gold, he had dark eyebrows that served as exclamation points on his open, expressive face. I liked the way they tilted when he smiled. And he had a