“Helping,” I said simply, refilling a trucker’s mug.
“You—you’re not staff.”
“No,” Robert agreed, slipping behind the counter to plate an order. “But we’re very… team-oriented.”
Her jaw dropped. “Does my dad know?”
That’s when her father chose to walk out of the kitchen holding a plate of blueberry waffles and a spatula like a scepter. He took one look at us in aprons and nearly dropped the food.
“You boys better be wearing hairnets.”
“We’re werewolves,” Robert said without missing a beat. “No stray hairs.”
“You are weird, but funny” her father snorted and I let go a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Pauline pinched the bridge of her nose like she was trying to ward off a migraine. “This is insane.”
“You’re welcome,” I told her, handing over a perfectly foamed cappuccino I may o
