Rafferty's Lucky Charm

Chapter 1

According to the town’s tourism pamphlet (printed on embarrassingly green paper), Cloverton has been protected for centuries by shapeshifting guardians who take the form of wolves.

They supposedly ensure good harvests, ward off natural disasters, and occasionally help old ladies cross the street.

Please. It’s the most transparent ploy to sell t-shirts and commemorative shot glasses I’ve ever encountered.

The rental car’s GPS directed me down Cloverton’s main street, a charming if cliché small-town thoroughfare lined with brick buildings and hanging flower baskets.

I adjusted my glasses, straightened my tweed jacket, and tried to ignore the peculiar number of wolf-themed storefronts.

Wolf’s Bakery. Howl Good Books. The Pawsome Pet Shop. Subtle.

My Oxford shoes clicked against the sidewalk as I made my way to my first stop.

The Lucky Hound, supposedly the oldest pub in town and, according to my research, ground zero for many of the Guardian sightings.

The building was a classic Irish-style pub with a weathered green door and a hand-carved wooden sign featuring a wolf with an improbable four-leaf clover in its mouth.

The moment I pushed open that door, my carefully ordered world tilted on its axis.

“Watch it!”

I didn’t even see him coming. One moment I was stepping over the threshold, the next I was colliding with six feet four inches of solid male muscle. The impact sent me stumbling backward, but before I could fall, large hands gripped my biceps, steadying me with surprising strength.

“Whoa there, steady now.” The voice was deep, with an Irish lilt that did something utterly unexpected to my insides. “You alright, lad?”

I looked up—way up—into the greenest eyes I’d ever seen.

They crinkled at the corners as the man smiled down at me, revealing perfect teeth in a face framed by a neatly trimmed auburn beard.

His hair was a mess of darker auburn waves that looked like they’d been repeatedly raked through by frustrated fingers.

“I’m fine,” I managed, suddenly aware that my glasses were askew. I tried to adjust them, but the stranger beat me to it, gently straightening them on my nose with a touch that felt absurdly intimate.

“There you go, much better.” His hands lingered a beat too long. “Can see those pretty brown eyes now.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “Thank you, Mr…?”

“O’Sullivan. Rafferty O’Sullivan. Just Rafferty to you.

” He finally released me, taking a step back that allowed me to fully appreciate his form.

He wore a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose muscular forearms dusted with auburn hair.

His jeans hugged powerful thighs and a frankly magnificent ass that I definitely did not notice when he turned to pick up the tray he’d apparently dropped in our collision.

“I own this fine establishment. And you must be the professor.”

I blinked in surprise. “How did you—”

“Small town.” He winked, the gesture playful and somehow predatory at the same time. “Word travels faster than a wolf on the hunt.”

Great, another local leaning into the ridiculous mythology. “Dr. Eliot Byrne,” I confirmed, offering my hand. “I’m researching your town’s… colorful legends.”

His handshake was firm, his palm callused, and oddly hot against my skin. “Here to prove we’re all mad, are you?” There was amusement in his tone, not offense.

“I prefer to think of it as providing historical context for folkloric developments.”

Rafferty threw his head back and laughed, a booming sound that filled the pub and drew every eye our way. “Fancy words for saying you think we’re full of shite!” He clapped me on the shoulder, nearly buckling my knees. “I like you already, Professor. First pint’s on the house.”

Before I could protest, he was steering me toward the bar with a large hand at the small of my back, his touch burning through my jacket, shirt, and possibly my skin.

“Mal!” he called to a pixie-ish bartender with pink hair. “Get the professor our special Green Guardian ale, would you?”

“It’s a bit early for—” I began.

“Nonsense.” Rafferty guided me onto a barstool with surprising gentleness for such a large man. “You can’t study Cloverton without experiencing it. First rule of research, isn’t it?”

As Mal placed a suspiciously green pint before me, Rafferty leaned against the bar, his massive forearm inches from my hand. I caught his scent—hops, pine, and something wild I couldn’t identify.

“To new friends,” he said, producing his own pint from nowhere and clinking it against mine. “And to opening closed minds.”

I should have been offended. Instead, I found myself mesmerized by the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the peek of chest hair visible where his top button was undone, the intensity of his gaze as he watched me over the rim of his glass.

This is just field research, I told myself, taking a sip of the surprisingly delicious beer. Immersion in local culture. Nothing more.

Little did I know, I’d just taken my first step into the most ridiculous—and arousing—adventure of my life.