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“What would you rather I say? Shazam? Boom shaka laka? Voilà?” “I mean, a simple yeet would have sufficed, but boom shaka laka is a solid choice as well.” “Noted,” he deadpans, and I fight a smile.
“Listen, coffee maker, I know you think you’re the shit because you’re bougie as hell, but let’s keep it real. You have one job—to make coffee—and, bitch, right now you’re sucking at it. You should be ashamed. What would all the other coffee makers have to say about your attitude?”
“So, just out of curiosity, when you don’t get a lot of sleep, what’s your cycle? Obviously, slap-happy is cycle one,” he points out, circling his finger in my direction as if that’s all the proof he needs. I think about the question. “Slap-happy, hangry, impatient, and then cuddle slut is a solid pattern for me,”
But not pumpkin coffee, that shit just tastes like burnt Thanksgiving.
I look around and realize that lycans have dipped many a toe in the hot as fuck gene pool. Strong, virile, tall bodies are everywhere. Both men and women are a feast for the eyes. I have to stop myself from calling Tad and announcing that I’ve found the promised land.

