Page 24 of Wrong Number, Right Fox (Dial M For Mates #6)

JOSS

“Is it time to go, Papa?” Wayne, our barely three-year-old’s voice, carried through the kitchen, as he came barreling in, holding his little backpack with both hands like it was full of treasures. It wasn’t treasure by most people’s standards, but it was by his.

It had a crumpled drawing the barista at our local coffee shop drew for him on a menu at his request, a single sock he was sure someone was going to need if they stepped in a puddle, and a plastic dinosaur with one leg missing he’d found at the park.

Garner looked up from where he was zipping the main baby bag and smiled. “I’m just about done, buddy. Gotta finish packing your sister’s things, and then we can go.”

His sister Liz was barely a year old and as cute as a bug. I might’ve been biased on that one, though.

Wayne tapped his nose, his face serious. “I’m three. Do I get to be with the big kits?”

He was very proud of being three. It was something he announced anytime he saw an opportunity.

It was adorable. He would hold up three chubby fingers wherever we went and to everyone he met—the post office, the bakery, to strangers in the elevator.

He might not introduce himself by name, but he would let you know how old he was. It was his trademark.

The bag Garner was packing technically had things for both Liz and Wayne, but lately Wayne had insisted he didn’t need a bag anymore because he was, quote, “three now.” That usually lasted until we were halfway to wherever we were going and he realized he wanted a snacky-snack or a drink.

We pretended it was for Liz. Sometimes, it was just easier to let a three-year-old win.

“I’ll get Daddy!” he shouted, spinning around to break into giggles as he saw me standing behind him. He’d been so focused on Garner that he hadn’t heard me come in, Liz taking a nap in her wrap.

“Daddy! We’re gonna go Run Night! Run Night!” He absolutely adored den runs.

“Yep, it is,” I said, lifting the deviled eggs container from the counter. I’d spent an hour peeling the eggs and they didn’t look the best, but they were a den favorite, and I had a feeling I was going to be bringing them until I met the goddess.

Wayne darted back to Garner’s side, asking for the fifth time whether the foxes would be running in a circle again. He liked it when they did that—something about the symmetry, or maybe the chaos of it. Who knew what clicked in a toddler brain?

Den Run Night had quickly become one of my favorite parts of den life.

Even though I couldn’t shift, I felt like I belonged just as much as those who did.

There was something grounding about it, watching everyone come together, letting go of the day’s stress, being a part of the community.

And I wasn’t sidelined. I helped wrangle the kids while some of the other omegas got the chance to take their fur and let loose.

I was good at that part, the herding of the littles, setting up the food table, making sure we didn’t run out of wipes or apple slices. It made me feel useful. Present. A part of things.

And now, pregnant again— very pregnant—I took a step back. I still helped, but not like I used to. I couldn’t run after toddlers, and waddling was nowhere near as fast, but I could read stories, blow bubbles, and sing songs like a boss.

This pregnancy was different from the last two. With Wayne and Liz, it had been just one baby at a time. This time, we were having a full-on litter. Multiple heartbeats. Multiple kicks. Multiple late-night bathroom runs, and belly size that defied logic.

I looked like a beach ball smuggler. Garner even had to get special shirts made for me. He loved it though, especially the one with four sleeping foxes over the widest part of my belly.

I had no idea how I was going to juggle four infants, a one-and-a-half-year-old, and a three-year-old. That kind of math didn’t add up to “relaxed and chill.” But somehow, it didn’t scare me. Not really. Not with Garner beside me. Not with the den surrounding us.

A woman at the grocery store had looked me up and down the other day, in full on judgy mode. She’d said, “You’re gonna have your hands full.”

And yeah. That was probably true.

But they wouldn’t be as full as my heart.

We got to the clearing a little after dusk.

The long grass still held the heat of the day, and the big picnic tables were already laid out with food—crock pots plugged into portable batteries, salads in huge plastic bowls, drinks in coolers filled with ice, and more chips than the den needed for a year.

Kids were pretending to be foxes and running on their hands and feet, looking nothing at all fox-like.

Wayne ran off without hesitation, shouting to his den mates about bubbles.

Liz, tucked into her sling, let out a little sigh but didn’t fully wake.

She was just over a year old now and getting heavy enough that I felt every ounce of her on my back and hips, especially carrying the extra weight of the pregnancy.

She really needed to be in a stroller, but this was her favorite place, and I was never going to deny her that.

“Deviled eggs!” I turned just in time to see Booker peeling back the lid of the container I was still holding.

I smacked his hand. “Wait your turn.”

He stuck out his tongue, grinning. Booker and I had gotten close in that sibling-adjacent way where we could tease each other without it ever hitting a nerve. Sometimes we even teamed up to poke fun at Garner, which always made him roll his eyes, making it more fun.

After everyone had eaten and after Wayne had dramatically declared he didn’t like carrots unless they were “the crunchy small ones,” I set up the bubble machine.

It was my secret weapon. A couple of the older kids helped by blowing their own to add to the mix while the little ones screamed and chased after them. It kept them distracted just long enough for the omegas who wanted to shift without little hands clinging to them.

Garner came up behind me, brushing his hand over the small of my back. “You good?”

“Better than good.” I smiled up at him.

He kissed me quickly, then stepped back, his fingers already going to the hem of his shirt. I watched as he stripped down. They might have all been used to nudity, growing up in a den, but I wasn’t, and if I could see my sexy mate naked, I wasn’t going to waste the time ignoring it.

Then he shifted into his fox. Beautiful. Sleek. And adorable. All copper and white with piercing eyes that still somehow looked like him even without the human shape. I never got tired of watching him take his beast and seeing the animal in him come forward.

He was Alpha of the den, and it showed. The others followed his lead, and he ran with purpose… just one loop around the clearing, a signal to start the hunt, a signal that everything was safe and they were ready.

Then, just like he always did when I was pregnant, once he led them into the woods, he returned to me.

He padded over to the edge of the blanket I’d laid out and settled beside me, tail curling around his feet. Liz, now awake, reached out and patted his head. She recognized her papa.

Wayne came over and plopped down with a juice box, pressing into my side. “That’s my papa,” he said proudly. “He’s my bestest fox.”

And honestly? Same, kid. Same.

We sat like that for a long time. Watching the stars come out. Listening to the laughter and the rustle of paws in the underbrush, only getting up to add more bubbles to the machine.

Garner eventually shifted back, pulling his jeans on and wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

I leaned into him.

“I don’t know how we’re gonna manage four babies,” I whispered.

“We will,” he said without hesitation. “We always do.”

I rested my hand on my belly, feeling the flutter of kicks just beneath the surface. “I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

“You’re not the only one,” he murmured, kissing my temple.

And for a while, we just sat there, watching our den mates coming back and join their families.

This was what life was meant to be. Surrounded by pack, by laughter, by family. The deviled eggs were long gone. The juice boxes empty. Even the chips were in bellies. My feet were sore, and I was pretty sure I had mashed banana in my hair.

But my heart?

Full.

Overflowing.

The lady in the grocery store might not have understood, but I did. This was what life was all about.

Sometimes the wrong number is the exact one you need.

When my phone rings and I don’t recognize it, I ignore it. Full stop. Never once have I regretted that habit… until today.

The message left on my voicemail was a plea for help, his car stuck on a country road as the rain cascades down. He had meant to call a tow company, but got me instead. No big deal. I just need to call him back, right? Wrong?

Cell service dies one ring in and I’m left with one two choices: Hope they called someone else in the 20 seconds it took me to try and call them back or go and try to help them myself. I pick the latter.

Wrong Number, Right Grizzly is a sweet with knotty heat MM Mpreg romance featuring an alpha grizzly who gets a call he can’t ignore, the omega human with not one, but two flat tires, the crappy motel they get stuck spending the night at, just one bed, the wrong number that brings the two together, true love, fated mates, an adorable baby, and a happy ever after.