Page 9 of Little Howl of Moon

“How wonderful. Do you have any hobbies?” he asked.

I smiled to myself. “Gardening. Home-brewing beer. I got into it a couple years ago, and it’s become a whole thing.”

Oliver’s brows lifted. “Really?”

“Yep. And mead.”

He grinned and leaned forward. His pine-forest scent washed over me and I did my best to hide the fact that I was inhaling him like he was the perfect candle on a cozy winter day. “I tried to do that a couple times and it completely failed. I’m a chef, but my expertise lies in cooking, not things like that.”

More of my uneasiness faded. “How long have you been a chef?”

He laughed, and it was loud and a little wicked. “A long time. I started working in kitchens when I was sixteen, and it stuck. Then I realized I had to make more money. I . . . Well, I have two daughters. They’re both in college now. And my wife, well . . .” He trailed off, his expression softening. “She passed away almost six years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. My hand smoothed over my chest as I tried to comprehend the devastation of that. “I can’t imagine losing a partner.”

His head tilted as he studied me, but then he looked away. “Sorry. I was explicitly instructed by my kids to not start with that.”

I let out a soft chuckle. “I would start with it if it were me. Especially if you were together for so long.”

He nodded, his shoulders relaxing. “I miss her every day. But I also . . . I want a second chance. I want this. And I hope that my past won’t scare you off.”

My head immediately shook. “Of course not.”

“This sort of thing has put me completely out of my depth. Especially with who’s brought us together.”

“Yes,” I said, trying to withhold my eagerness. Not that the Barista was perfect, but I really couldn’t think of anyone who’d been matched by him who hadn’t ended up finding the love of their life.

The man sitting across from me wasthe one.My mate.

At least, that’s what the Barista thought.

“Iamolder than you, I’m assuming.”

I cracked a grin. “Yeah. It doesn’t bother me.”

He narrowed his eyes. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven. How old are you?”

“Forty-eight.”

We stared at each other until I propped my head up with my clawed hand. “I like that you’re older than me. Veryauthoritative.”

His nostrils flared and for the first time in our conversation, he looked away, his cheeks turning pink. I caught a scent of arousal and sucked in a breath, pushing away the ravenous part of me that wished to demand we leave the coffee shop and fuck immediately.

“You know,” he finally chuckled. “I used to judge the couples the Barista told me about. I’ve known him for some time, and I’m still very much in the human world. But we’ve gotten a beertogether every now and then, and always ended up talking about love. Love and monsters and that funny little feeling we all get when we’re finally fully accepted by another person. Then, sex would come up. And I remember he told me once about a couple who met and then immediately left because of how . . . thirsty they were.”

I ignored the way my dick started to harden at his words. “Are you suggesting . . ?” I couldn’t get my hopes up, because then I’d make a fucking fool of myself.

His gaze intensified and I couldn’t look away. “It’s been a long time for me, you know. And even longer since I’ve been with a guy. Don’t get me wrong, I do know what I’m doing. But admittedly, I’m curious . . .”

I cocked my head. “About what I’m packing?”

“Sure, if you want to put it that way. But here’s the thing, I’m not submissive. So if you’re looking for a partner or mate or person who is submissive in the bedroom, I’m not your guy.”

“I’m . . . not,” I croaked. “I’m not looking for someone submissive.”

The corner of his mouth tugged. “I didn’t think so.”