Page 11 of Good Luck Charm for the Wolf

Right between no clients who pay in exposure and no cases involving haunted dolls after midnight—do not ask.

Horace, ever the charitable Grizzly, finally relents with a sigh that probably registers on the Richter scale.

“Fine. Stay the night. Spare room’s over there.”

He gets rewarded with a kiss from Carina, which he takes like it’s no big deal while I, from my itchy, welted perch on the couch, practically wilt from secondhand yearning.

Something inside me twinges.

Jealousy?

Envy?

Deep-seated dread mixed with the faint whiff of calamine lotion?

Whatever it is, it’s green, ugly, and sitting heavy on my shoulder.

He’s all like, “Oh hey, Doug, remember how single you are? Let’s talk about that.”

Not because I want Carina. No offense—she’s lovely, but she’s also very much the Grizzly’s girl and I enjoy having all my limbs intact.

But I do want what they have.

That thing.

That someone-to-come-home-to thing.

That you had a crap day, let me make you forget all about it with snacks and cuddles and smexy fun times thing.

I want someone whose smile makes me forget that hornets think I’m target practice.

Someone who gives me a reason to not just exist, but to actually be.

A mate.

Yeah right.

Who am I kidding?

I’m Doug.

Lone Wolf.

Zero prospects.

Barely making rent and rocking a solid record of bad decisions and worse exes.

Not exactly starring in anyone’s romantic fantasy unless their kink is sad paranormal PI with commitment issues and recent recurring bug trauma.

Fantastic.

Now we’ve officially hit the Self-Deprecation and Despair portion of tonight’s programming.

Next stop: probably Spiraling Into Existential Crisis, sponsored by chamomile tea and poor life choices.

FML.

“Thanks,” I mutter, dragging myself up from the couch like a man twice my age and three times my level of defeat.

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