I blink and set down the glass. “Very nice.”
“What brings you here on this fine morning?” Garrett asks. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
“Celebrating what?”
Garrett gives me a funny look. “Thanksgiving.” He rolls his eyes. “I thought the Cabrera Garcia clan was supposed to be one big happy familia.”
Garrett’s purposely terrible Spanish grates on my nerves, but I just shake my head and take another sip of my drink.
The alpha narrows his bloodshot eyes and studies me with an impressive amount of scrutiny for a man who’s wasted on hundred-year-old scotch. “I know that look,” he says. “You’re having woman troubles.”
I grit my teeth and take another drink, annoyed that someone with so little self-respect is this astute.
Luckily, before I can answer, Hugo goes to open the door. A cold draft breezes down the entryway with a flurry of snow, and in walks Damon Brewer — another wolf shifter.
Damon is with his mate, Chloe, and they’re both rosy-cheeked and windswept from the cold. Something wriggles in the woman’s arms, and when I crane my neck for a closer look, I see that Damon’s mate is carrying a squirming toddler.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Hugo,” Damon booms, shaking the old man’s hand.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Hugo replies with a gracious bow of his head.
“Two Irish coffees and a hot chocolate, please,” says Damon, taking the toddler from his mate and swinging her over his shoulders. The little girl giggles — the joyful, innocent noise so at odds with the miserable cloud hanging over me and Garrett.
Damon enters the lounge and inclines his head. He averts his eyes at just the right moment to indicate he’s not looking for trouble, but not so soon that we don’t get a sense for the dominant energy pouring off him.
Damon Brewer isn’t the alpha of the Gold Creek pack, but he could be. He also happens to be filthy fucking rich, which is the only reason Hugo didn’t balk at him bringing a kid in here.
“Fuck ’em,” Garrett mutters, killing the rest of his drink and holding up his empty glass to signal Hugo.
“Who?”
“Women.” Garrett lets out a loud belch.
“How original. You should put that on a bumper sticker.”
Garrett makes a face. “You think I should put a bumper sticker on my Roadster?”
I roll my eyes. Garrett’s referring to his Mercedes S Torpedo Roadster — the eight-million-dollar antique rust bucket that he trolls around in for the five months of the year when Aspen isn’t blanketed in snow.
“But really.” Garrett burps again. “Wolves like us weren’t meant to settle down with a mate and breed.” He tosses a disgusted look in Damon’s direction.
The other shifter is busy pretending to drop the toddler backward but then pulling up so that she giggles hysterically. The kid is a perfect blend of him and his mate, and I can’t help but notice that Damon seems like a completely different person than the last time I saw him. He’s smiling and laughing at his daughter, and the way he looks at his mate . . .
My stomach clenches. It reminds me of the way I look at Alex.
“Trust me, man. They’re more trouble than they’re worth,” Garrett adds, holding up his glass as Hugo returns to refill it.
Garrett’s hot take comes as no surprise. His siblings are a bunch of back-biting vipers who’d sooner screw over their own family than lose out on a couple of bucks. He doesn’t know what a family is supposed to be — people who love you no matter what.
That’s why losing Alex hurts so much. The mating bond is stronger than pack ties — even stronger than blood.
No matter how I feel about Alex, there’s nothing I can do to sever that bond. She will always be a part of me.
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to go about the rest of my life, knowing there’s a piece of my heart out there somewhere. I’ve heard the mating bond can drive a shifter insane if he ignores it long enough.
I can understand why. Watching Damon make a funny face as he licks whipped cream off his daughter’s nose, I can’t help but think I’d rather lose an arm or a leg than the one person who was meant for me.