Page 42 of Good Luck Charm for the Wolf

“Wait. I thought you were having wasp issues?” I ask, arching a brow as I step inside.

Doug rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, closing the door behind me.

“Yeah, uh, got them gone before inviting you over.”

He flashes a grin that is equal parts smug and boy caught cheating at poker.

“I know people,” he adds with a wink.

I laugh softly, because of course he does.

Doug is the type to handle his supernatural hornet infestation and still have time to text me silly memes before cooking a full meal apparently, if the scents permeating in the air are anything to go by.

His attic apartment is warm and surprisingly homey. Masculine, sure, I mean, it’s all wrought iron, dark stained wood, and leather.

But it’s unmistakably clean and uncluttered.

Spacious, really, especially for the city.

There’s a vase on the table. It’s tiny but pretty, filled with half a dozen white carnations.

“I love carnations! Totally underrated flower,” I tell him, and he answers with a dip of his chin.

Sexy, sweet man.

The faint scent of something delicious wafts from the kitchen.

“So, did you cook for me?” I ask, genuinely surprised, and secretly thrilled as I slide the light shawl I have around my shoulders off and drape it over the back of his couch.

Doug shoves his hands in his pockets and shifts on his heels like a nervous schoolboy.

“I mean, yeah. I figured I’d take you out, but then I thought why not cook instead? More private. Less chance of me running into vengeful ex-clients or, you know, swarms of insects.”

He pauses, glancing at the neatly set table.

“But now that I’m saying it out loud, it probably sounds lame. You probably wanted something fancier.”

I blink at him, then shake my head firmly.

“No. This is perfect, Doug.”

His shoulders relax a little, and when he guides me over to the small, tastefully decorated dining table, I feel this rush of affection for him.

He clearly tried.

And honestly?

The spread is honestly impressive.

Cheese, crackers, pickled veggies, and tomato bruschetta on toasted French bread slices sit perfectly arranged on the table like he’s trying to win Date Night Olympics.

“This is great,” I say, smiling as I grab a little of everything.

I eat, because obviously I do. Besides, the food is really good.

But I can’t help noticing Doug watching me. Intently.

Like weirdly intently.

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