Page 54 of Bred By the Wolfman

“You would?” he asks, radiant. “Do you want to get dinner with me?”

“Tonight?” I ask. “Don’t you have work?”

He waves a hand. “Dr. Owens owes me a favor.” His face grows more serious. “Dee, after today, after seeing our cub up on that screen... I want to be a part of your life in any way I can, now, during, and after. In whatever capacity you can handle.”

His words are so honest and freely-given that I’m not sure I deserve them.

“Russ,” I begin.

“Before you come up with reasons to say ‘no,’ just know there aren’t any expectations from me. All I want is your company.”

He may not have expectations, but that doesn’t mean I don’t. If we’re alone together anywhere along the way, I know what both our bodies will want.

Gently, Russ drops a hand on my shoulder. “I’m happy just being near you,” he says. “That’s all. Nothing more, okay?”

I don’t tell him, but what if I want more? Instead, I agree to a time and place, and then Russ gives me a ride back to my car. He plays nineties rock that makes me notice the speckle of gray appearing on his muzzle fur, and I think how utterly, drop-dead handsome he is.

A sweet guy with a good job, who’s amazing in bed, and even has lovely marks of maturity like that... I’m a goner.

Dinner goes by in a flash of light. We have Italian food, which is, apparently, Russ’s favorite, at a restaurant in Dunsville, where he actually lives. It’s a majority monster city, where all the chairs are sized for guests much larger than I am.

“Oops,” says Russ. “I guess I should have asked for a high chair.”

I snort into my water, and it jumps out of the cup. We both laugh, and that’s how the rest of our meal goes: laughing, joking, talking a little about our childhoods. My parents liked to go out a lot and see their friends, which meant most of the time I cooked my own meals, which eventually became me eating cereal for dinner every day.

“So that’s why you’re all about cereal,” he says, and sometimes I forget how he watched me through my window for weeks.

“It’s just easier,” I say defensively.

He holds up both hands. “I’m not much of a cook myself.”

“So who’s going to feed the kid?” I say, half-joking. But Russ’s face turns serious.

“I have cooking classes lined up, for when she’s weaned. I want to make my own baby food.”

I blink. He has a whole plan already.

“How are you going to, you know...” I gesture vaguely at my boobs. “Feed her?”

For a moment, his eyes search mine, and then he nods his head and looks away. “I have a professional booked,” he says, stabbing the remnants of his spaghetti with a fork.

He’s got that figured out, too.

“This must have cost you a lot of money,” I say quietly. And the part I don’t say out loud: it must also mean the world to him to have a baby of his own.

“Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it can sure get us close,” he says with a wry smile. His bright amber eyes rise back up to mine. “I’ve been saving for a long time, and this will probably finish cleaning me out. But it’s more than worth it.”

Wow. Having a family means this much to him.

When dinner’s over, I find I don’t want to leave because I’ve been having such a good time. Russ had a childhood somewhat like mine, where he spent more time taking care of himself than his parents did. He watched out for his little brother, too, and didn’t get to be a young boy for as long as maybe he should have.

But he doesn’t resent it. He wants to give his own child a different kind of life, and that’s part of what drives him.

It’s fucking hot.

I choose to be better than my base instincts, though, and when we’ve paid the check, I go back out to my car. Russ nods in understanding.

“Can we do this again soon?” he asks, playing absently with his fob.

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