How to Howl at the Moon (Howl at the Moon, #1)

by Eli Easton

“And you might want to work on your town’s welcoming committee. Maybe invite a few little old ladies to participate. Tell them I want my fucking fruit basket.”

Lance limped convincingly to the cabin, whining every time he put weight on his paw.

Roman had been a military service dog, a highly trained German shepherd.

It was just possible Tim had finally met someone as bad with people as he was himself.

“Do you know what’s wild? You remind me a little of Sheriff Beaufort.” Tim drained the cooked noodles. “He stares at me just like that, and his eyes are the same gorgeous blue. He’s gotta be the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in real life, but I think he’s a few calls short of Bingo. If you know what I mean. Besides, he’s pure alpha male, and I have this love-hate thing about men like that. Nice to look at, but they make me all nervous.”

If God ever loses his watch, he only has to look at Lance Beaufort to get back on schedule.”

Lily snorted. “As if I would tell anyone! You think I want it spread around that my son’s into puppy play?” Lance felt his temper supernova. Yes, that was really quite an interesting sensation, the way the cells inside his chest spontaneously burst into flame. “I AM NOT INTO PUPPY PLAY! AND HOW DO YOU EVEN KNOW THAT TERM?”

“I swear, we should never have let you play fetch when you were an adolescent. Obviously one of those sticks got lodged up your behind.

Tim kissed him like he was starving to death, and all Lance could feel was joy at being accepted this way, as a man, as a lover. And all he could think was: mine, mine, mine. The kiss stripped away the remaining tatters of his doubts and defenses, and Lance knew with certainly, by the swelling of his heart, that he had bonded with Tim completely. He was in love. He was a one-man dog, and Tim was it for him.

“Oh, my dear son.” She squeezed his hands. “He makes you dance.”

“Oh. Isn’t it illegal to do stuff in a car in a craft store parking lot?” He smirked, teasing. “I won’t tell the sheriff if you won’t,” Lance said seriously.

“More,” Tim said. “More of everything. Except your clothes. Less of those.”

“I need to find and burn all your Twilight books,” Lance said at last. “Team Jacob,” Tim muttered,

Mad Creek—crazy, wonderful, pack. He was home.