Page 1 of Seduced By the Werewolves

Chapter One

“Ms. Dockett, where’s my coffee?”

My head jerks up at the sound of Mr. Bosley’s irritated voice floating out from his office.

Shit. I completely forgot to stop at the coffee shop on my way into work today. My mind was on tonight’s dinner with Mom—specifically, how much I’m dreading it.

“It’s coming, Mr. Bosley,” I say as I hop out of my chair and grab my purse. He doesn’t have any meetings for twenty minutes, which should be enough time for me to run there and back.

“My coffee is supposed to be on my desk when I come in,” he growls, still not leaving his office.

“I promise I’ll have it soon!”

I sprint out the front door, hop into my car, and drive recklessly to the coffee shop. The line is long at the drive-thru, so I park and run inside instead. It’s busy this time of morning, and I stand there tapping my foot much too fast while the barista works. Then I’ve got the caramel crunch latte in my hand and I’m speeding back to the office.

I manage to get the cup onto Mr. Bosley’s desk moments before his first appointment is due to walk in. Mr. Bosley scowls at me as I leave. Back at my desk, I’m patting down my ruffled hair and straightening my skirt as a visitor enters.

“He’s expecting you,” I tell the woman, who looks even younger than I am, wearing a skintight dress with hair piled on top of her head in a severe bun.

She doesn’t even glance at me as she walks into Mr. Bosley’s office and closes the door. I sit back in my chair, breathing hard, trying to shake out my trembling hands. Sometimes this job makes me want to cry.

Actually, it does. Often.

I take a few calming breaths. Remember, you have health insurance and a steady paycheck. I can tolerate Mr. Bosley’s shit if it means I can afford food and rent. I just have to squeeze myself down small and do what he wants, and maybe someday I’ll get it all right.

Finally, when I feel composed again, the phone rings.

“Orland Bosley’s office,” I answer, pulling out a pad of paper and gripping my pen tight to still my shaking hand. “How can I help you?”

I only have a few minutes at home to clean up before meeting Mom for dinner at Red Robin. We try to see each other weekly, just to “catch up.” Usually it’s an hour or two of my mother telling me all the things she thinks are wrong with me and how she would fix them if she could just be me for a day. Then I receive a nice, thorough summary of all her work and friend drama, until my liquefied brain is nearly spilling out of my ears.

These weekly dinners are just another reminder that I don’t fit in this world, that I’m unacceptable the way I am.

When Mom and I sit down at a booth at the restaurant, I can already hear the words coming out of her mouth before she says them.

“How’s that diet going?” she asks predictably, surveying the menu.

She’s such a hypocrite, inviting me out for burgers and shakes while insisting I’m on a diet I never once expressed interest in. These days I’ve learned to wear baggy clothes around her so she won’t remark on how tight they are, how they show off too much of my big boobs, how my rounded tummy or my thick thighs are too pronounced.

“It’s not?” I don’t even look at the menu because I plan on ordering the bacon burger with barbecue sauce and fried onions.

“And what about the exercise plan?”

Again, a plan that doesn’t exist. I already jog every single morning and go hiking on the weekends. I’ve invited her along on hikes before, but she has no interest in “tromping through the woods.” I don’t even do it to lose weight—I just like the clarity of mind it gives me, how focusing on the steady beat of my feet and the thrum of my heart centers me in a world that’s so noisy and demanding. Plus, I have killer thighs.

“There is no ‘plan,’” I say evenly. “I’m just living my life, okay?”

My mom only sees me as a college dropout. And maybe she’s onto something, because it’s not like I’ve done much since I realized higher education wasn’t for me. I’m just not a book-learner, as hard as I try. I need to be on my feet, picking things up as I go. When I told her I wasn’t going back to college, Mom said I’d just end up working for someone higher up the food chain, doing their bidding like a dog.

She was absolutely right, of course, and she loves to hold that over my head.

Mom sighs like she’s running out of patience.

“You need to make a change,” she declares, setting the menu down. “You’re just a lackey for that Chad Bosley or whatever his name is. And you’re still single!”

I can’t even hold her gaze as she says this. Yeah, I am single. So what? I don’t need someone else’s validation to know my life is worth living.

I don’t say any of these things to my mom, of course.

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