Truth or Wolf: A Small Town Shifter Romantic Comedy (Wolf Brothers Book 1)

Chapter 1

One

Nudity was an inconvenient but unavoidable part of pack life.

— STEPHENIE MEYER

Ihadn’t planned on the wolf.

Big and shaggy, with Yeti-worthy fur and paws the size of dinner plates, it rubbed up against the beech tree where I hid an insufficient ten feet above the ground in a deer blind. Unfortunately for my citizen scientist self, the June firefly count was turning out to be more dangerous than anticipated.

Then again, nothing had gone to plan this year, which was why I’d slunk back to Moonlight Valley, Tennessee, a month ago.

There was no hiding my failures in a place as small as Moonlight Valley. Everyone knew Sally Aymes’s niece, even if I’d spent eight years away.

I’d imagined returning in a blaze of glory, with a great job and a polished-up image. Instead, I was a scientist-turned-pet-hairdresser, broke, and cleaning out Aunt Sally’s ancient trailer.

After losing my scientist job, I had nowhere else to be, and she’d left me her place, her possessions, and her four geriatric cats in her will. I would have preferred to inherit a romantic inn on a beach or vintage jewelry, but I was grateful. Oedipuss, Barack Obameow, Genghis Khat, and Emperor Meowpatine were welcome—if demanding—company.

“Get. Shoo.” I pelted the wolf with beech leaves.

Unimpressed, the wolf butted the trunk with its head. My tree refuge shuddered.

I jumped, almost dropping my phone. I had only one bar of service and I was resisting using it. There was, after all, just one option for a critter problem in this small town.

The Boone brothers owned All-Purpose Animal Services and were the local animal whisperers. If you had a problem dog, a problem horse—any kind of four-legged trouble, pest, or roadkill—you hauled it to them or you called them. Sometimes, they’d even pick up the phone and talk to you. Despite their animal-handling talents (or perhaps because of them), they were beastly themselves.

All but Atticus, the older Boone twin and the subject of my secret crush, were named after trucks. After their daddy had picked out his new truck from Consumer Reports, he’d bestowed the leftover names on his offspring. Maverick, Knox, Ranger, Mack, Ford, and Rebel had gotten the short end of that naming stick, while Atticus had inherited the family name.

It suited him. Where his brothers were gorgeous, rough, and mostly feral, Atticus looked like the red-haired, ginger-bearded love child of an astrophysicist and a Calvin Klein underwear model. He was a forensic accountant who did math for fun and who had successfully run for county tax assessor in the last election.

Constant and semi-stalkerish observation in high school had confirmed that Atticus was cheerful, smiling, and pleasant—the kind of man who not only held the door for you at the Piggly Wiggly but carried your bags to your car and put the eggs on the back seat. He had the same broad shoulders and muscled build as his cranky, evil twin, but he packaged his goodies in business suits. Atticus was nice.

He was also my first crush (and my second, third, and only crush other than a brief but memorable week when I’d binge-watched the animated Hercules movie and fallen in lust with a long-haired, cheerful, muscled Hercules singing and leaping around a historically inaccurate wooden ship). Like my animated crush, Atticus Boone was one-hundred-percent hero. He probably slept on a pedestal, the ivory marble kind that museums plopped antique busts of Homer and Odysseus on.

I’d been thinking about him for ten years, although I’d planned on at least five additional years of daydreaming and had therefore avoided all things Boone since my return to town a month ago. My crush was safe, it was fun, and it made me happy.

Atticus’s identical twin, Ford, looked exactly like him (which was the definition of “identical” after all), except he was perpetually grumpy, with a broody glint in his icy blue eyes. His default expression was stuck on scowl, and he did not like me. The feeling was mutual.

Still in my tree, I ran through my options. I could call my coworker and boss at Vanity Fur Pet Salon, but Sanye and I were both more qualified to wash and curl the wolf than run it off. I could leave a message for county animal control, but it was a department of one, staffed by my third cousin twice removed, Alessandro Aymes, and he was out of town overnight.

Giving in, I called the number. Miraculously, someone picked right up, greeting me with an irritated sigh. This identified the Boone on the other end of the line as Ford.

He was pushy, rude, and arrogant. Being in his company was like biting into an MM only to discover there’d been a factory malfunction and all you got was a bright candy shell and no chocolate. Pretty on the outside, but entirely disappointing on the inside.

I got straight to business before he could irritate me further. “I have a critter problem.”

“I am sure you have a plan to deal with that, Alice.” He sounded awfully laconic for my taste, seeing as how I was facing down death-by-hungry-wolf. “A multipoint checklist. A strategy.”

“Yeah.” I glared at the trees. They were unimpressed by my badass eyeballs. “By calling you. Do you have caller ID? ESP? Is Ranger flying his spy drones again?”

I had no idea how Ford had correctly identified me as his caller, but I did check overhead for a hovering drone. Ford’s brother Ranger was notorious for both his love of flying gadgets and his weird boundaries.

Ford sighed gustily. “How do you want me to help you, Alice?”

“I’m trapped up a tree. By a wolf. Did you know that there are wolves in the woods between my trailer and your family place? Because I did not, and it’s put a serious crimp in my plans for the evening.”

Muffled cursing ensued. Part of me suggested that hanging up in outrage was a suitable next step, but mostly I wanted someone to fix this problem fast, and I’d empty my depleted checking account to acquire Ford Boone’s help.

He finally ran out of swear words. “A wolf? What color?”

“Does knowing the color change your strategy?” I leaned over the edge of the blind and double-checked that my lupine nemesis was still down there. Spoiler: it was. “Brown. Black muzzle. Can you please help me? And I’d like the local discount, please.”

While I strongly believed in paying my way, I was also a fan of coupons and secret discount codes. This correlated strongly with my broke state.

Ford digested, then asked, “Are you cheaping out on this rescue?”

“You know what? If I’m paying, send Atticus. I think I should get to pick my white knight.”

This demand bought me additional silence. Ford’s business skills were terrible.

“Sit tight,” he said gruffly before hanging up without pleasantries.

I alternated between staring at the wolf—which showed no signs of leaving—and the bushes where the fireflies were coming out in cheerful swarms. Each time they flashed into view, I made a mark in my journal with my orange pen. I might as well do what I’d come out here to do while I waited. After all, science was important.

Firefly Watch was a citizen science project, monitoring firefly populations in North America. Since I firmly believed the world needed more fireflies rather than fewer, I participated whenever I was in Moonlight Valley.

Less interested in science and firefly counts, the wolf hung out at the base of the tree. Periodically, it cocked an ear in my direction. Once, it peed on the tree trunk.

An eternity and two hundred fourteen distinct firefly flashes later, a diesel pickup truck rumbled up the road. It stopped out of sight and then a big, burly man strode through the trees toward my blind. I didn’t know what the proper wolf-scaring equipment looked like, but he was disturbingly empty-handed.

He wore steel-toed work boots and faded blue jeans that clung to powerful thighs and an impressive bulge in a place I had no business staring at. I’d hired him to do a job, a critter-scaring job. Nevertheless, the way he filled out his company T-shirt was hard not to notice.

Atticus usually wore suits, but this more casual look was surprisingly attractive. I shamelessly ogled as he stopped near my tree, hands on his hips. The wolf yawned, less impressed.

The wolf’s teeth were far more scary than Atticus’s.

Atticus sighed and herded the wolf toward the bushes. I couldn’t catch what he said, but it involved some impressive male growling sounds.

An unexpected heat spread through my body, a delicious prickle of sexual awareness that I had experienced in exactly never. Where some people went zero to sixty on the attraction-o-meter, it took me the better part of a millennium. I took my time when it came to sex.

Wet cracking sounds filled the clearing.

This was when I realized I didn’t want the wolf dead. Merely away. Possibly exiled to Siberia or Timbuktu. “Don’t you dare kill it, Atticus Boone!”

“Are you sure?” he yelled back.

“Yes!” I bellowed. Alive but gone was a simple but elegant plan, one the wolf shouldn’t resist too hard. Plus, weren’t wolves an endangered species? Singlehandedly destroying an ecosystem wasn’t part of my master plan.

“I will take that under advisement,” he snapped. “But this particular wolf is asking for it.”

The wolf yipped and then there was a whole lot of commotion. Was Atticus wrestling with the animal like the Tennessee version of Crocodile Dundee?

I leaned out of the blind, trying to see Atticus past the blind, the tree, and the bushes, and I spotted not one but two Boone brothers staring up at me.

Only one of them was wearing clothes.

“Rebel Boone, put some pants on,” I hollered down because the youngest Boone was pure trouble and I already had my hands full with my crush on his brother. Seeing Rebel naked as a blue jay was disconcerting.

Rebel caroled out an apology. He sounded mighty happy about his undressed state, a happiness surely fueled by the whiskey fumes wafting up to me. Atticus pointed in the direction of the truck and barked out an order.

As Rebel loped away, I realized we were missing more than his pants.

“Where is the wolf?”

“Gone,” my rescuer said.

I would have appreciated additional details—for instance, was the wolf gone gone or was he lurking nearby, tucked behind a beech tree and making plans for a scientist snack the minute Atticus left? I leaned farther out to look for it, putting all of my weight on the edge of the blind.

The wood was old and damp. Termites had taken up residence, causing serious structural damage. My elbows sank into the wood, I lost my balance, and then I was hurtling toward the forest floor.

Atticus caught me.

Holy moly, he caught me.

He snatched me out of the air and cradled me against his broad chest like I was the heroine in a movie. I was touching Atticus. His gaze trapped mine, blue eyes glowing with inexplicable emotion as he kept me from crash-landing on the hard, unforgiving ground. My imagination rioted.

He looked like a muscled, horse-riding English duke with powerful biceps. Or a lumberjack! Big and broad, muscled from all that ax-swinging. Being held by him was amazing, better than anything I’d ever imagined. Perhaps avoiding him for the last month had been a mistake.

He frowned down at me, clearly less affected. “Alice.”

Deep and strong, confident and authoritative, his voice washed over me. My heart banged around inside my rib cage as if my insides had turned into a gigantic bouncy house—up, down, knocked sideways on my butt.

Steely eyes examined my face, likely assessing my lopsided bun and the tree sap decorating my cheek, and his frown deepened. I should have said something, but my face felt like it was on fire. Plus, my bun picked that moment to mostly unravel and flop over my face.

God, I was hopeless at dating.

I wanted to insist he put me down, but who was I to demand he not act the white knight? I felt like I could burrow inside him, lose myself in his heat and strength.

This was silly. Atticus was a person, not some celestial god (despite my adolescent conclusions). He had two arms and two legs like everyone I knew, plus that amazing beard.

He also has a penis, a naughty voice in my head whispered; it’d been a really long time since I’d seen one firsthand.

Atticus muttered something and set my feet on the ground. What he said, I had no idea, because one of my favorite fantasies was playing in my head—the one where the Duke of Boone came striding through the heather, cloak billowing around him, a man whose mission was to find me and offer himself (his penis, his heart, and his centuries-old estate) up on a silver platter—and therefore my focusing skills were poor.

“I’m okay,” I said-guessed.

That must have been the correct response because, sadly, he slid his arm away and stepped backward. I swayed toward him in an embarrassing moment of weakness.

His gaze swept down my body, his blue eyes intense, full of an interest I hadn’t spotted there before. Was he checking for injuries? Wolf damage? His motive seemed more personal than our previous interactions, and that had me regretting tonight’s sartorial choices.

When I’d headed out earlier to count fireflies, I’d thrown on my favorite citizen scientist T-shirt. Embroidered fireflies spotted my chest, charmingly cute but hopelessly unsophisticated and unsexy. If I’d allowed for encountering the object of my high school crush out here in the Tennessee woods, I would have chosen better than ancient jeans, a baggy T-shirt large enough for two, and eau de bug spray.

“Why are you out here in the woods, Alice? Are you officially becoming a hermit? Giving up on us in Moonlight Valley to play house in the woods?” The growly, concerned note in his voice made something quiver—quiver—inside me.

This wasn’t the vague crush I’d felt whenever I’d spotted him passing through my life before. This wasn’t me crushing on the captain of the high school math team.

This was far more specific.

It was lusty and fiery and I itched to bullet journal the parts of him that I wanted to explore.

“Science,” I blurted out, waving an arm toward the creek that meandered through the woods and provided all the standing water a firefly could want. “I’m out here doing science. Counting fireflies.”

His deep chuckle plucked on my stomach and parts lower. And then big, calloused fingers gently closed around my arm as he steadied me. “So you are a big fan of citizen science?”

Warmth spread through me. This was awesome. We had something in common—a shared love of fireflies and public participation in scientific research. We could find other things in common, like my appreciation for his fine form or the way his fingers loosely braceleted my upper arm and brushed my skin.

“The program is really important,” I babbled. “It’s tough to find a mate when you’re a firefly: you’re literally shooting in the dark.”

He nodded solemnly. “No pickup lines, just flashing.”

That sounded…dirty. And also scientifically accurate. We contemplated the mating habits of fireflies for a moment in silence.

“Who would’ve thought the woods was one big pickup scene, right?”

He looked at me.

Yep, I officially had zero cool.

I wanted to say something funny or interesting, but I would have needed to draft out that speech in my journal. This was why I hadn’t anticipated approaching the object of my crush for another five years. It would take me that long to come up with a good plan.

He was annoyingly attractive, standing there in his All-Purpose Animal Services T-shirt, plain white letters on navy-blue cotton, with nary an embroidered critter in sight. I couldn’t stop looking at him, and it made me want to…do things.

I hadn’t dated much, hadn’t ever quite understood why two people would meet and then move right to ripping each other’s clothes off, but it suddenly made sense. I imagined peeling his boring T-shirt off his body like the candy wrapper on a delicious Ferrero Rocher confection, and heat flooded my body.

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

That was… That was… I was pretty sure he was signaling that he was having kissing thoughts. Or maybe I had leftover dinner or tree sap stuck to my lower lip.

This wasn’t like me. I’d worshipped Atticus Boone from afar with a chaste if passionate devotion. My sudden intense attraction to his muscly biceps in that ridiculously plain T-shirt made no sense!

Fireflies emitted pheromones to attract appropriate mates to make baby fireflies. Perhaps I was similarly affected. Or maybe the Boone brothers emitted their own brand of chemical attraction? The majority of Moonlight Valley’s single women had remarked on their good looks and stalked them through the Piggly Wiggly’s produce section.

I mustered my remaining dignity (which wasn’t much). “Let me know how much I owe you. I’ll write you a check. Or Venmo you.”

A brief head shake. “We are all good.”

“That seems like a bad business proposition for you.” Not that I wasn’t reluctantly grateful—the upside to being broke was that I had gratitude on tap—but I didn’t want to take advantage of him. Not like that.

Another, more disapproving head shake. “Where is your car? How did you get here?”

“I walked.” Gas wasn’t cheap, and the exercise was good for me.

“I’ll drive you home.” He reached over and took my hand, pulling me away from the tree in a smooth move. “You can catch me up on what you’ve been doing since you returned to town.”

“I’m not here for long,” I babbled. “I’m relocating to Nashville.”

Atticus grunted. Spoiler: it was not a sound of shock and dismay.

I was vaguely disappointed. I’d seen various Boone bachelors at a distance, including him, around town in the two weeks I’d been back. I’d also heard the gossip about their doings.

All six brothers remained single, which ranked up there as one of the Wonders of the World. Since Moonlight Valley was a small town, many details about their comings and goings (and sexual shenanigans) had been shared with me.

It was therefore safe to say I knew a lot about the Boones.

Possibly (probably) someone had shared my future plans with him. Did he think they were foolish? Whimsical? Deeply disappointing on a personal level?

Oblivious to my social overthinking, Atticus tugged me toward a big, beat-up black Ford, liberally coated in mud. That poor truck had been places.

The sensation of his hand wrapped around mine, however, made it hard to focus on modes of transportation. My body lit up where our fingers touched, flashing urgent, lust-filled messages to my brain.

I loved his casual possession of my hand. He didn’t have to stop with a mere palm, fingers, and thumb. He could have the wrist, too. The entire arm. Me.

He didn’t pause when we reached his truck. Instead he opened the passenger-side door, a door that was substantially farther from the ground than seemed safe because his truck was lifted on an enormous set of tires. The vehicle looked rugged, ready to run over anything and everything in its path.

I set a foot on the running board, preparing to hoist myself up. My butt brushed Atticus’s front, which was closer than I’d realized. He gave a husky groan, then his hands closed on my hips and lifted me effortlessly up into the cab.

Before I had time to really appreciate his strength (or to feel like a professional dancer or an Olympic figure skater), Atticus leaned into me, broad shoulders blocking out the trees and any lurking wildlife. Heated blue eyes with swirls of amber burned into mine. I hadn’t realized his eyes weren’t pure blue.

Was I supposed to do something? I’d appreciated Atticus’s gentlemanly side before. He was the only Boone brother with noticeable manners, which I attributed to God having used up all the charm on this one. Still, if his good manners were the cause of his restraint, this seemed like the right moment to indicate that if he was attracted, I was exponentially more attracted, and we should get on with kissing.

Should I touch him? Keep my hands to myself? Where would they go? My hitherto vague fantasies had not prepared me for this moment.

Atticus braced one big hand on top of the open door. His other hand claimed a spot on the seat beside me. He rubbed a tiny, embroidered firefly on my shoulder. Heat spiked through my body.

He dipped his head toward me. “I like your shirt.”

“Me too,” I agreed breathlessly.

I’d known Atticus for years, watching him from afar as my peripatetic childhood had taken me to and from Moonlight Valley. In all that time, however, my imagination had never suggested this moment.

In fact, my head had never gone further than coffee or a cold beer at the local bar. Not that I liked beer, but I sure was willing to order one if I ever worked up the courage to ask Atticus out for a drink.

I’d also daydreamed about calm, rational, well-planned dates—like a picnic or paint-your-own pottery. As Atticus was steady and sure, quietly confident without feeling the need to put others down or get angry when they screwed up, we’d have awesome, mature conversations.

About…something. Probably the best way to file our taxes or double-entry bookkeeping. Possibly Atticus’s upcoming reelection campaign.

Now, I realized, my fantasies had been safe.

There was nothing safe about the man in front of me, his eyes heated and warm, like being this close to me turned him on. He was deliciously dangerous, and I only hoped the danger was all to my nonexistent virtue.

“Alice Aymes, you keep looking at me.” He growled this, sounding more like his evil, grumpy twin than calm, in-control Atticus, leaning into me.

What could I say? I had eyes; I looked. He looked right back. It must have been a trick of the light that made his eyes seem all amber now rather than sapphire-blue as they stared at me, hot and focused. On me.

He’s looking at me.

This really worked for me, although I wasn’t sure what my next step should be.

A ten-minute encounter in the front seat of a borrowed sports car my freshman year of college, some dorm room groping and football game kisses, and then a handful of first dates that had gone nowhere and made me wonder why people hooked up when there were more relaxing options. Long baths, sofa naps, and cleaning out my fridge came to mind. Front seat shenanigans were terra incognita for me.

Fortunately, Atticus had the map.

He leaned all the way into me, and instinct suggested I wrap myself around him and hold on tight in case he had second thoughts about debauching me in his truck. One big hand slid around my waist, warm and heavy. Yes, please.

I almost whimpered.

I wanted something, and I was absolutely going to get it.

I’d waited years for this kiss, and now Atticus was finally delivering, inches from my mouth. I wasn’t leaving this truck unkissed, that was for sure.

He tugged and I helped, all but throwing myself against his chest, tilting my face up. No fireworks had ever gone off in my body before, but today was clearly my Fourth of July.

Atticus twisted his fingers gently in my hair, fisting the messy length, and went in for a searing kiss. He slammed his mouth down over mine, not holding back. I wriggled against him, trying to fit all of my body against his.

Heat sparked where I pressed against him, cursing the blue jeans and T-shirts that kept us apart, the layers of sensible cotton and the thin barrier of my underwear. He licked and bit and sucked, his lips owning mine in a ruthlessly sensual assault. It felt so good that I opened up and moaned.

His tongue swept inside my mouth and then I learned what a kiss could be.

Because Atticus Boone was kissing the daylights out of me and I loved it.

I was nowhere near done with him when he let go of my mouth, cradling my head between his palms. “Yes?” he asked.

I loved me a good plan, but right now I was living in the moment as much as someone like me could, and my only plan was to emulate Shonda Rimes and say yes to everything.

I’d take everything Atticus had to offer—kisses, touches, sex. This would be our baseline sex, the first time, the orgasm by which all others would be judged.

“Yes.” My hands grabbed at his shirt. “Take your shirt off now. Now.”

He gave me a fierce smile and then leaned away, stripping his T-shirt over his head smoothly. It sailed away and I took him in. There was a lot to take in, thank God, baby Jesus, and all the saints of sex.

He was all strong shoulders, sun-kissed skin, and thick slabs of muscles. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to look first or touch first. Or taste. I definitely added tasting to my yes, please plan.

He, however, was clearly of the touch, don’t look mindset, because he covered me, caging me with his body, and it felt so perfect I’d have liked to freeze-frame the moment, keep it to take out and remember when life dealt more crap cards my way.

Atticus wasn’t taking things slow at all. He kissed me again, shoving my T-shirt up with one hand and releasing my bra. God bless front clasps.

He palmed my breasts, rubbing and pinching the nipples, and that felt even better. Heat tore through me, lust mixing with some other emotion. God, I couldn’t believe we were finally, really doing this.

“You are so pretty, sweetheart,” he whispered roughly, somehow managing to sound both grumpy and turned on, and I didn’t even mind that his hot eyes were focused south of my face. He was finally looking at me, and I was desperately trying to figure out how to speed this up and go straight to the happy ending. “But this isn’t our best idea.”

He was wrong, and I was happy to prove it. This time, I grabbed him, dragging his face down to mine and kissing him senseless. Equal opportunity was important.

Plus, I didn’t want to stop now that we’d finally gotten going, and from Atticus’s hot looks, he shared my sentiments. His big hand went down the back of my panties, cupping my butt, and I about expired on the spot.

The blissful feeling stopped abruptly when he pulled himself away, bracing a big hand on the top of the truck door as he glared at me.

I returned his look, unsure. This detour formed no part of my yes plan. Based on the obvious evidence pressed against the front of his blue jeans, he wanted me. Also, he was an amazing kisser.

I was undoubtedly broadcasting these conclusions on my face. His face, on the other hand, broadcast lust mixed with frustration. His breath came hard and fast, more proof that I wasn’t alone in these lusty feelings of mine.

He groaned but didn’t close the unfortunate distance between us, words tumbling from his mouth as if he had to get them out fast or not at all.

“Alice, I’m not who you think I am, and damn it, I want you—that hasn’t changed, and I’ve felt like that for a long time—but you need to know something?—”

This was when my attention abruptly switched from his beautiful, glowering face to a spot over his shoulder. A spot previously filled only by trees and bushes, harmless nature, and fireflies putting out in the hopes of finding a mate.

Now there was a wolf standing there.

No. Not a wolf.

Horrible, wet sounds filled the air, like bones crunching and being origamied into a new and uncomfortable shape. And then, in the place of the wolf, stood a man.

A big, naked man who was the twin of the man who’d kissed me.

My brain froze.

This was scientifically impossible.

There could not be a wolf one moment and a person the next. Science in general—and biology in particular—did not work that way.

“Ford, you son of a biscuit,” the naked newcomer growled. “Did you find Rebel and send him home?”

“Goddammit,” the man I’d kissed snapped. “Did you shift in front of her, Atticus?”

Revelation was an icy shock. My stomach quivered, sexy feelings fleeing faster than deer stampeded by a predator. I looked carefully at the face of the man who’d kissed me.

Except maybe he wasn’t. A man, that is.

Because if one brother could change into a wolf, then perhaps the others could. And worse, I seemed to be kissing the wrong twin.

The wrong twin who’d made me feel amazing things.