And he’s got mischief all over his face.
“What are you up to?”
“Don’t spoil the surprise, Bay.” He pokes me in the nose. “Now go on in.”
“Mom and Dad aren’t even home,” I mutter.
He stares at me without answering.
“Besides, I’d rather come back when I can introduce them to my wolf.”
“They’ll meet your wolf soon enough, I’m sure. Throw some of your stuff together. I won’t be long.”
“Okay.” I pout.
“I’ll see you in a little bit.”
“All right,” I mutter, feeling annoyed that I’m here for what feels like no good reason.
“Kiss me,” he orders.
And after I do, he drives off.
Nostalgia swims through my veins as I trudge up the stairs. Because it’s hitting me that I don’t live here anymore. I’ve lived in this house my whole life.
I get to the top of the stairs and caress the banister. I’ve had a great life here. My parents are awesome. I have an incredibly thoughtful, supportive, and fun older brother.
But on the plus side, I don’t have to be sad because I’ll be living down the street. I can still hang out whenever I want. And my parents are back to their old selves, thanks to Aunt Mimi, so I get to start this next chapter of my life knowing they’re about to embark on a fun and exciting journey for themselves as fresh empty nesters.
They probably thought they’d be stuck with me forever.
And to their credit, my parents never, ever made me feel like they were in a hurry for me to grow up and move out.
I get into my closet and open my big suitcase. I figure I’ll grab a week’s worth of clothes to get me through to whenever we decide to come get the rest.
I grab the framed photo of me and Jase that I threw out the window. The frame needs new glass. I’m taking it with me and immediately putting it on the mantle over the fireplace in the bedroom.
My carry-on still hasn’t been unpacked from Rome, but there’s some jewelry and makeup in it that I want, and I also want to show Jase those knitted booties, so I’ll take it with me tonight. Noise startles me. I spin to assess it and see my curtains moving. Moving, followed by parting. Thankfully, I know by my nose who it is, so I don’t have to freak out and scream my head off.
My handsome mate is in a squat on my windowsill. He sets his phone down beside himself and touches the screen.
“Well, hello…” I greet. “What’s this?”
Music. It’s Miley Cyrus’sAdore You.
And despite the lyrical opening of the song suggesting one mood, it looks like my mate is in a different mood. A predatory one. He prowls to me, taking my face into his palms and pressing his lips to mine to lay a movie-worthy kiss on me.
“Dance with me, Bailey,” he says and starts moving to the music with me pressed close to him. Or maybe it’d be more accurate to say I’m melted into him.
My eyes drift shut as we move, as his scent fills all my senses. The sensation of our bond is a living, breathing presence right here with us. I love it so much.
He sings some of the chorus into my ear, changingboytobabe.
Tears stream down my face. Happy ones.
He got my first dance. He gets this dance. Every last slow dance. All for him. It’s all I’ve ever wanted and it’s really mine.
This song played for our first dance about a decade ago. Ahead of it, I stared at him the entire night, daydreaming he’d come over and ask me to dance. And then Sherry pranked me with the beet juice and he tied his flannel shirt around my waist, leaving him in a muscle shirt as he danced with me. Just like right now. My hands were on his bare shoulders. And now I can touch him wherever I want.