Page 26 of Wrong Number, Right Valentine

“It’s to make smores in the microwave rather than a fire.”

I couldn’t figure out how it worked, but Reg demonstrated the graham cracker went on the bottom, topped with chocolate, followed by marshmallow and finally another cracker.

It was the silliest contraption, but I couldn’t wait to try it if we had kids.

“We cannot get rid of this.” I grabbed Reg’s face and planted a kiss on his brow.

“I wasn’t going to.”

Gods, we’d wasted so much time that all my good intentions were trampled underfoot, and we piled things in boxes that would probably not be unpacked for months. But I didn’t care. Our new home would be full of the most bonkers gadgets, and we’d fill it with memories. I couldn’t wait to leave.

It was early hours of the morning when we loaded the last of the boxes into the rented truck.

“Goodbye, apartment. Your new owners are going to have a dog and a baby, so prepare yourself for knocks, bumps, slobber, a lotta noise, and plenty of love.” My mate blew the apartment a kiss and closed the door. After placing the keys in a lock box, Reg got in the driver’s seat.

“This is the beginning of our new life.” I took his hand and squeezed. “Is your wolf awake?”

“Mmmm.”

“Is he excited?” I liked to check in with Reg’s beast because I had no way of knowing what he was thinking or feeling.

“He says that smores-making gadget is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen. A bonfire is a better option.”

“We can have a competition. Smores made outside and ones done in the microwave. I’ll make a spreadsheet.”

“Oh, goody. More spreadsheets.”

20

REG

The second I woke up, I sensed it—a subtle but undeniable change in my mate. As I snuggled against him, my head against his chest, I listened carefully. Faint as it was, I could hear it: a second heartbeat. My mate was pregnant.

It was all I could do not to wake him up right then and share the good news. But my mate deserved more than being yanked from sleep to hear, “By the way, your mate’s wolfy pregnancy detector went off. Congratulations!” No, this moment deserved celebration, not just a rushed proclamation.

Instead, when we woke up, I pretended everything was the same. I made breakfast, we chatted about our plans for the day, and he went to work. As soon as he was out the door, though, I got to work myself, only not for my job—I went into full-on baby announcement mode.

The first thing I did was try to figure out the best way to do this. Wolves always knew right away. We didn’t have any announcements like humans did.

My first step was looking online to see what humans did for pregnancy announcements, hoping for inspiration. Most of what I found was either overly dramatic or so cringeworthy it gave me secondhand embarrassment. Those ideas were definitely out. But one trend caught my attention—many people didn’t believe they were pregnant until they took three, four, or even five tests. It made sense. They couldn’t hear and scent things the way we could, but also, that meant that my mate might feel similarly.

I went to the store and bought a bunch of pregnancy tests and a stuffed wolf. If my mate needed extra confirmation, I was going to make sure he had it. And the wolf? That was for our baby, because as much as I hated to admit it, the squishy toy looked very much like me.

Next, I visited the bakery we used for special occasions at the restaurant. While we could whip up some amazing cupcakes, elaborate cakes weren’t exactly our specialty. When the owner came out to greet me, I asked for a favor: something custom, something celebratory, something today. The baker immediately agreed, telling me he had the perfect idea in mind. I trusted him.

My next step was the grocery store, where I picked up ingredients for tonight’s dinner. Despite mocking the cheesy, cringeworthy online pregnancy announcements earlier, I was falling right into that same trap. I was pairing our filet with every baby vegetable I could find. I couldn’t help but smile at my own ridiculousness—it was worth it for him.

When I got home, I set the bread dough to rise for the mini rolls I planned to bake and began prepping everything else. Not long after, the bakery called to let me know the cake was ready. When I picked it up, it was perfection. Banks was going to love it. The baker refused to take any money, insisting it was his gift to us.

Moving away from the pack had been a bigger deal than I’d let myself admit at the time. I told myself it wouldn’t matter if I lived with a community like the kind I grew up in, but the truth was, it did. The adjustment hadn’t been easy, not until I started my restaurant.

Over the course of that first year, the people I worked with had become my new family—a pack of our own, in a way. That was the thing about restaurant life—it wasn’t just a job. We were a team, a community. And that extended to people like the baker, who wasn’t full-time with us but still played a vital role in keeping things running.

By the time my mate came home, my surprise was ready and waiting for him.

“What smells so good?” he asked, stepping into the kitchen.

“I made a special dinner,” I replied casually, hoping not to give too much away before the reveal.

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