Page 37 of Purrfectly Outfoxed

“No. It was him. He’s generally very annoying.”

“I’m charming.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you can’t resist me.” He winks and I want to strangle him.

Bea watches this exchange with growing amusement. “Well. This certainly explains why you two were so... antagonistic at first. And then suddenly inseparable.” Her eyes narrow. “How long has the... the other part been going on?”

“The sex?” Jasper asks.

“JASPER!” I bury my face in my hands.

“What? She’s an adult. She reads romance novels. I hear those are super dirty now. Plus, she just told us about her and Harold?—”

“Can we please not discuss Bea and Harold’s sex life?!”

“I’m just saying, she’s clearly not a prude?—”

“About a week,” I say loudly, cutting him off before this gets even more mortifying. “The sex has been happening for about a week. Since the second night, actually. We’re... we’re fated mates. It’s a shifter thing. When two shifters are meant to be together, there’s this bond, and—” I stop, realizing I’m rambling. “I’m sorry. This is probably too much information.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bea says, moving slowly toward the kitchen. “I think after what I just witnessed, we’re well past the point of TMI. Now, I need tea. Maybe a little whiskey. Then you two are going to sit down and tell me everything.”

Jasper and I exchange a glance.

‘Is this really happening?’I think at him.

‘I think she’s taking it better than expected.’

‘She saw us having sex, and she’s making tea.’

‘She’s British. This is what they do.’

‘She’s American!’

‘She drinks a lot of tea for an American. Are we sure she was born here?’

Bea calls from the kitchen, “Are you two having some sort of telepathic conversation? Is that part of the fated mates thing?”

We both freeze.

“How did you—” I start.

“I told you I’ve read shifter romance novels before. And you’re looking at each other like you’re arguing. I may be old, dear, but I’m not stupid.” She fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. “Harold and I had our own version of that. After fifty-three years of marriage, you don’t need words. Though I imagine your version is more literal.”

Jasper leans over and whispers, “You know she’s gonna ask for the real dirt, right? Not just the Bonding 101.”

“God, I hope she’s too traumatized to want the play-by-play,” I mutter.

He grins. “She’s not. Look at her face.”

Bea is humming lightly as she lines up three mugs, glancing at us with bright, laser-focused curiosity every time she turns her back. I suddenly remember all those afternoons she spent on the sun porch, nose buried in a paperback with a burly, shirtless man on the cover and a wolf howling at the moon somewhere in the background. Was she… vetting me this whole time?

We shuffle into the kitchen, Jasper sticking to my shoulder with the practiced intimacy of someone who’s spent all week learning the exact angle of my hip. I want to be furious at him, but every time I look at his face—smug, amused, like he can’tbelieve his luck—I end up barely holding in my own laughter. It’s like we’re two naughty kids, pulled in front of the principal and daring each other to make it worse. I bump his arm with my elbow, and he immediately loops his hand around my waist, both a claim and a comfort.

Bea pours the tea and gestures for us to sit at the counter. We perch on the stools like guilty teenagers—me in my robe, Jasper in his signature nothing-but-jeans. Then Bea adds a thimble’s worth of whiskey to each, which seems justified. She stays across the marble from us, elbows on the counter, her chin in her palms and eyes fixed with a kind of gleeful fascination.

“I love science fiction,” she announces. “And this”—she waves her mug at us— “is a delightfully implausible turn for my retirement.”