Page 36 of Knife Volume 2

“Yeah.”

Four minutes later, he was back up front, telling Shaggy, “Be back in thirty or forty minutes. Call me if you need me.”

June drove a practical mid-size SUV, and Knife drove the speed limit home. She kept up with him just fine, but he hadn’t expected anything different from the competent, elderly werewolf. Tuesday had told him she was in her seventies, but she still looked like she was in her forties.

He smelled the fried pork chops from outside as soon as his helmet was off.

June slid out of her car, looking around, taking everything in, and he led her up the steps and into the house, where Tuesday was stirring fried squash in a cast-iron pan, the pork chops sitting to the side, resting.

“I’m just gonna go change shirts,” he told them, and then raced upstairs to make sure the bed was made and everything was presentable.

But there was nothing for him to straighten. The bed was made. The closet doors were closed. The bathroom looked pristine.

Not that it’d been bad, but he’d figured the towels would need straightening on the rack, at the least.

How had she had time to run through the house for a quick tidying up and get a meal nearly ready to sit down to, in under fifteen minutes?

Downstairs, in a fresh shirt, he set the table while Tuesday finished the meal. She had a caprese arranged on a board — tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, basil, olive oil. The pork chops were on a nice platter, and she was pouring the fried squash into a serving bowl while he set plates out and asked June what she’d like to drink.

While they ate, June asked Tuesday questions about her filming schedule, and how she was going to film in a new kitchen. Tuesday stood to pull the hidden lighting arms out, to show her grandmother how he’d set things up for her.

She asked about the fence, whether deer came inside of it, and was pleased to hear they sometimes jumped the gate to come in. She’d scented an owl when she arrived, and asked what kind lived on the property — and was delighted to hear they had a mating pair of barred owls along with a passel of noisy crows.

Knife ate his fill, kissed Tuesday on the forehead, told June he was glad she’d come, and then left them to it. His darling Tuesday was more than capable of showing her grandmother the house, her office, and whatever else she thought her grandmother could see.

He really did need to get back to work, but he was relieved he wouldn’t be present when her grandmother noticed the pulleys in the bedroom and asked about them.

But seeing them together, how close they are, the love they have for each other, settled something in his chest. She’d lost the pack, but she still had her family.

And that reminded him he only had around forty-eight hours until he met her dad, but he put it out of his mind because he had no idea how that was going to go, and no amount of worrying or planning was going to help.

- - - ❖ - - -

Saturday arrived, and Knife watched the love of his life step out of the tiny bathroom wearing a pale-yellow dress with delicate lace at the top resting on her perfect fucking glorious rack, and tall heels in the exact same shade as the dress that made her legs go on for-fucking-ever. She looked like summer personified and had absolutely no idea what she did to him, just walking out of the motherfucking bathroom in a perfectly normal dress.

She saw what he was wearing and frowned.

“I didn’t ask you to dress up.”

He was the opposite of summer in his charcoal slacks and slightly lighter shade of short-sleeved charcoal dress shirt, but at least he wasn’t in all black.

“Your dad’s expecting a biker who’ll be out of his element in a fancy restaurant where the bill will easily clear a thousand dollars for seven people.”

She tilted her head. “I’m not sure that’s the case. It’s really more about treating everyone to something special simply because he can.” She sighed. “My mom might be thinking something like that, though.” She looked him over from head to toe and back up again. “Just to be clear, I’m not complaining about you dressing up. You look hot enough for me to undress you before we get out the door.”

He grinned. “The dress is nice. Expect to get your ass fucked while wearing it when we get back.”

When they arrived, Coach Mike Robinson was already seated with his wife and mother-in-law, and he looked every bit the famous NFL player turned wide receivers coach, now offensive coordinator for a team that’d nearly made it to the Super Bowl last year, and had a damned good shot at making it all the way this year.

He’d made it to the Super Bowl several times as a player though, and was wearing one of the rings to show it, along with dark navy dress pants, a crisp white dress shirt he’d clearly changed into because no way had that shirt survived airports and airplanes, and a matching navy tie.

Tuesday’s father stood when they came in, his smile genuine when he looked at his daughter, and then he shifted to look at Knife, and his expression turned appraising, clearly measuring the man his daughter had chosen.

Knife met his gaze and didn’t look away.

The two men shook hands, and Knife used his werewolf strength to make sure he shook back with just as much power as the other man — not something he could ever recall needing to do with a human before, but this man was six-seven and had clearly never stopped the kind of training that’d built his career.

“Mr. and Mrs. Robinson,” Knife said. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I hope you had a nice flight this morning?”