It didn’t help that I’d been up at the butt crack of dawn, all kinds of nervous about moving.
Still, it was better than falling over.
I’d been in situations where my ass hit anything but the place I’d wanted it to. Like the floor, the side of the toilet, and my personal, painful favorite, the edge of the bathtub. That bruise lasted for a month.
This time, however, my ass hit the softness of my couch, and I gave myself a second to catch my breath. Yeah, just that little movement made me feel like I’d run a marathon.
I scoffed, hearing the sound echo off the walls. “Marathon, my ass. You can’t even walk all the way to the kitchen.”
Okay, so I was a smidge bitter. Sue me.
I reached out for the lightest box I could see, put it in my lap, and lifted things out. These were my office supplies. I didn’t work from home, per se, but I had a book blog and often planned out what books I would read for the month and logged them. Pens and pencils and highlighters could stay where they were for the time being.
Scanning the room for something more pressing than my office stuff, I spotted a box with kitchen scribbled in black permanent marker in someone else’s handwriting.
I leaned with a groan before scrubbing my hands over my face.
I couldn’t reach it. All the boxes marked kitchen were right in front of the small island, another thing that had caught my eye when the realtor showed me the place. The house had an open floor plan, with an island lower than most, giving me a place to do my chopping and prep work. Already, I’d lined up several recipes I wanted to try out.
“Back to the chair,” I grumbled but got in it before I ran out of energy. Which tended to happen fast.
I wheeled over to the boxes, opened the flaps of the first one, and smiled at the stack of cookbooks inside. From five-minute bread to Southern cooking and everything in between. I’d found them all at thrift stores or used book stores and cherished them all.
They were books.
About food.
How could you go wrong?
I pulled out the books one by one and stacked them on the built-in bookshelves separating the kitchen area from the dining room. I was almost done with three boxes when a loud knock at the front door made me squeal and almost leap from the chair.
After putting the rest of the books on the island, I rolled over and flung open the door, needing to know who had scared the shit out of me.
A man stood there, hands on his hips. His eyes were targeted above me because probably he’d expected someone standing—as everyone did. Very little surprised me anymore.
“Can I help you?” I asked, and he stepped back, his gaze dropping to my level.
“Oh…um, yes.” He squared off his shoulders and pretended not to be shocked. I rolled my eyes while he did. He wasn’t very smooth about it. “I’m Brandon Graves, brother of the alpha of the Midnight Alder pack. It is requested all new shifters in the area report to the alpha for registry and to review the pack rules. You actually should’ve reported before you moved here…ma’am.”
Being called ma’am was a first.
I crossed my arms over my chest as his golden eyes did their best not to focus on my legs or the chair. It wasn’t like I was going to claw his eyes out if he looked. Sometimes, people went out of their way not to stare at me and ended up seeming to ignore my very existence.
I wished he would look at me like he probably did a normal girl. I mean, let’s face it. He was six foot six of raw muscle, though his full cheeks and belly made it apparent he never turned down a meal, it didn’t detract from his overall boy-next-door charm.
I swallowed as I begged the heat to retreat from my cheeks in his presence.
Sexy didn’t begin to cover him, but he was one of those shifters, all pack and alphas and betas. That life wasn’t for me.
I’d buried the mate and other wolf shifter bullshit a long time ago. I might’ve been born with the beast in my blood, but fate had other plans for me.
He sounded so businesslike, but I could tell it wasn’t his true nature. He shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with being the messenger.
“Is there a website I can register on? Or a 1-800-shifter hotline to call? I’m not sure what you’re expecting from me.” Oops, I showed my sarcasm.
After running his fingers through his sandy-brown hair, he looked at me and smiled a little but schooled it immediately. What a damned shame. That grin was meant to get girls to kiss him.
“You need to come with me now.”
