Page 69 of My Girlfriend is a Werewolf

“Greta, you better not be bugging that man,” a woman called out as she bustled over, her bright pink earmuffs holding back her dirty-blonde hair.

“He has real trees, Mommy.” Greta pointed. “They’re squishy now, but he says they smell good and get fluffy. Can we have one?”

“We are not getting a tree, sweet pea.”

The tyke’s lips turned down. “I know. ‘Cause we need food and not fri-vol-ussy things.”

Ares found himself tightening as the child inadvertently revealed the real reason mom didn’t have one.

“One day, I’ll get you the biggest tree you ever saw,” the woman murmured as she crouched by the child.

“Okay.” Greta didn’t have a tantrum like some kids.

Mom leaned close to whisper, “I saw a snowman wandering.”

“Snowmen can’t walk,” snorted the kid.

“Well, this one is, and he has candy canes!”

“Oooh.” Greta glanced left and right before spotting the suited character. “I see him!” She bolted for the snowman with candy.

The woman rose. “Sorry if she disturbed you.”

“Nah, she was fine. Cute kid.”

“Precocious with no filter you mean.”

His lips curved. “She is. She mentioned you guys don’t have a tree. Why don’t you take one, on the house?”

She eyed him, her expression suspicious at the offer. “I don’t need your charity.”

“Hardly charity. I already know I won’t sell all of these. So you taking one now saves me carting it back to my place.”

Her lips pursed. “While your offer is kind, I’m afraid I don’t have a way to get it to our place. But thank you.”

With that, the pretty woman headed for her daughter, and Ares found himself glancing at her often as she strolled the Christmas Market. Not buying anything, but managing to give her kid a fun afternoon of face painting, a visit from Santa, and, of course, a fistful of candy canes.

When Ares closed up, toting five trees back onto the trailer he’d used to haul them, he noticed a red mitten lying on theground. A woolen one he recognized and, stitched inside, a name.

Greta Dawson.

The kid would need it with snow in the forecast and mom tight on dough.

Hunting down where Greta and her mom lived wasn’t stalking but rather doing a good deed. It wasn’t hard. Not many Dawsons in the area.

One to be exact.

The townhome, which probably hadn’t seen better years since it had been built fifty years ago, looked tidy compared to its neighbors. The walkway clear of snow and ice. A wreath that had obviously been made by a child hanging on the door. The front window plastered in paper cut-out snowflakes.

Ares knocked and stood waiting.

When the door flung open, the woman exclaimed, “What are you doing here?”

He held up the mitten. “I found this.”

Before the woman could reply, there was a blood-curdling scream from inside.

The woman turned and bolted inside the house.

Ares didn’t think. He followed.