"She's home!" Ivy claps, squeals, and bounds out of bed.

I groan at all the bouncing, shaking, and the daylight her newfound enthusiasm forces into my eyes.

Unlike Ivy, I require sleep in solid blocks at consistent intervals. Ivy can sleep wherever, whenever. If it's twelve minutes or twelve hours, she wakes up "refreshed."

What time is it anyway?

With a pained squint, I fumble for my phone and bring up the display. 12:46PM.

The phone gets lobbed back to the bedside table. My hope is to roll over. If Sam is in the house, I don't have to get out of bed. She's safe. And she isn't the type to bother anyone if the door is closed.

I know, I know. I shouldn't be this tired at this time of day, but I didn't get a chance to crash until mid-morning. Now, it's like the middle of the night for me. This whole traipsing-after-Sam thing, who was gone this morning before I even came home, will be the death of me. This may sound like an exaggeration, but, well, it isn't. 

I can't screw this up. And I'm a stammering, stumbling idiot when I'm sleep-deprived. A recipe for disaster? Abso-fucking-lutely. On so many levels. My competency for this task, or lack thereof, is only a fraction of what could go wrong.

I'd like to bury my head under my pillow, but all this crap is firing through my synapses. Ivy is also prancing around my room, tidying up a few stray curls and touching up her near-perfect makeup.

No rest for the wicked, I guess.

Over her black negligee, she puts on a sheer black cover-up. It barely covers a damn thing, and still, she heads for the bedroom door.

The turn of the knob has me lumbering after her, grabbing for the first pair of pants I can get my hands on—some shredded black jeans that fall low at the waist.

"Hi, you must be Sam," Ivy says cordially. It passes as genuine, though not by much. There can be a glacial edge to her voice that I'm sure humans can hear, too.

"Oh!" Her surprise is accompanied by the strong scent of her fear. It wafts into my room. "Hello," she squeaks like a mouse in a wide-open field.

It's not as bad as it was last night, but it's still pungent, like her body knows what her mind does not. Ivy's no linebacker, but she could inflict more harm with fewer consequences.

And that puts me in the doorway, shirtless, my hair probably a mess. I'm no model for appropriate behavior, but anything is better than letting these two "get to know each other" without me there as a buffer.

Ivy can mingle within the human world, and no one is ever the wiser, but she's never lived with one before. I suppose that makes me the expert here. I had a human mother. Too human, which doesn't make her the best example. I was always a "lone wolf," regardless. I didn't understand why or realize I was an actual shifter until my early teens.

Yeah, it's been a while, and I was never good at it in the first place, but I do know that Ivy shouldn't be welcoming her new tenant in lingerie.

"I'm Ivy." She leans against the kitchen counter, her hand unabashedly on her hip. Her cleavage is spilling over a bit. It usually is. "Jael's girlfriend."

This is usually when a possessive female would toss a glance in my direction and give me a caustic little grin, but Ivy doesn't acknowledge me whatsoever. She's too busy glaring at Sam's turned shoulder.

Sam isn't rising to any challenge, though, and Ivy's eyes eventually narrow. She doesn't know what to make of that.

For Sam, it's a wise move. It helps that she's "playing it down" today. She's swimming in her clothes. Black glasses, no makeup...

Forget it. It's not helping that much. Even with a black eye and zero effort, she's...

Fuck. I'm staring. And breathing, which is worse. She smells feminine and fertile. It's not a new scent, but it's not what I'm used to these days, and I can't remember it ever being so strong.

I hold my breath and look away so abruptly, it's unnatural.

Did I mention how bad I am at pretending? And functioning at this hour? Functioning in general...

"It's nice to meet you," Sam offers with a brief, friendly glance toward Ivy's gaze, never dipping lower, despite the open invitation. Sam then wanders over to the table. "Do you live here, too?" she asks Ivy while she unpacks her groceries.

"Not exactly," Ivy trills in response, like she's a sparrow and not a hawk. "My parents own this place, but I technically live with them."   

"I see," Sam claims.

Ivy may have her facts straight, but there is nothing comprehensible about our living arrangement.

Sam's angelic, baby-blue eyes then flutter to mine. Am I ready for it? Not. At. All. And I don't think she's ready to take in my hairy chest. Her gaze skirts up my torso like it's unholy ground.

"The rent money is on your desk. Paycheck, new place, groceries. It's a big day for me." She gives me a grin and a little shrug that's probably supposed to ease the tension, but it suggests she likes me more. Maybe I've earned that with the whole asshole-blockade stunt from last night, but it won't do Sam any favors with Ivy, who doesn't like losing. "Do you mind if I use the kitchen? I have a craving for pancakes."

Ivy is watching me more pointedly than Sam is.

Do. Not. Engage. "Sure," I croak, checking my beat-up nailbeds as if I cared about their appearance. I wanted that to sound cool and calm. A lot more indifferent. But there's a groggy coat to my throat, Ivy and Sam are both making me uncomfortable, and my wolf ears were like, pancakes? "Help yourself to whatever."

"Thanks." Sam moves toward the drawers and cabinets and does a great job avoiding Ivy while she's at it.  

I don't have any ingredients she could use, but there are a few pots and pans, and she could probably dig out silverware and something that resembles a spatula.

Before Sam invites us to join her, something it seems like she's building up the nerve to do, I excuse myself with the claim, "I'm going back to bed."

I'm not surprised when Sam smirks toward the sun streaming through the blinds. She doesn't openly mock me, though, or ask me to explain, and I appreciate that.

I don't ask Ivy to follow me, but for some odd reason, she takes the hint. It must serve her own purposes. I doubt she agrees, this torture should end.     

"She's cute," Ivy comments once the door closes. "Funny how you failed to mention that."

This is a trap, in case you were wondering. A nasty one, lined with stakes. Is there a way I can avoid impaling myself when I fall? Probably not. Denying it would be ridiculous. If I say nothing, that means I'm hiding something. If I agree outright . . . well, that could get gory fast.

What's a witless male secondary-predator to do?

Downplay. It worked for Sam, and maybe it'll work for me, too.

"She's all right. Not my type, though." I crash back into bed, my guilty eyes closed as soon as I can get away with it. Good thing I'm facing the wall. Otherwise, Ivy could probably discover the truth through my damn eyelids.

Sam is everyone's type. I'm just not her type by any stretch of the imagination, for more reasons than I care to tabulate. Do the details matter if I wouldn't stand a chance under any circumstances?

"Is cute a dealbreaker?" I growl in response to Ivy's lack of one. "Awesome. Thanks," I inject as if she gave me the yes I wanted to hear. 

Her footsteps move away from me. "Quite the contrary..." she chants in a tone that raises my hackles.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I roll over when she doesn't answer me again. I'm met with an open window and a chilly breeze.

After closing the window that Ivy purposely left open, I go back to bed and bury my head underneath my pillow.

Does it help? No. What's done is done. Sleep is beyond me, and that says a lot about my dilemma.

And do you know what's bothering me more than anything? It's the smell of butter on a frying pan. It comes with the sizzling of buttermilk, eggs, and flour, and whatever else my new roommate adds to her recipe—this is no shit from a box.

It overpowers the lingering scent of Sam, at least. Still, I'm all fired up, insane with hunger. When I can't stand it anymore, I prowl toward the door, ready to eat anything and everything.

Sam's no longer in the kitchen. She must be eating behind her closed door. I'd call that good fortune for all involved. Unfortunately, the wholesome goodness lingers in the air, making my mouth water.

My senses lead me straight to the plate on the counter. Next to three golden-brown full-size pancakes, there's a note on an index card. I had some leftovers. Help yourself. 🙂

The cooking, the thoughtfulness. My dead mother wasn't capable of this, even when she was trying.

I am done for. Truly. But hey, I won't die on an empty stomach.