Gerald Wolford

Retirement is bullshit.

My son called it "learning how to enjoy life outside the pack." I called it being perfectly happy on my own property where nobody asks me where the goddamn batteries are.

Apparently, people still treating me like their Alpha concerned him.

"You need to socialize, Dad."

So I got a job.

There was one position available.

Greeter.

Which is how a man who led a werewolf pack for thirty-four years ends up standing inside the entrance of Were-Mart wearing a blue vest and watching a grown adult abandon a shopping cart directly in the middle of the doorway.

I stare at it.

[Kill him.]

"We're not killing customers, Dick."

[Then why are we here?]

"Excellent fucking question."

I grab the cart and shove it into the row with considerably more force than necessary.

"Gerald?"

The voice comes through the radio clipped to my belt.

"What."

"Customer needs help in seasonal."

"Then send someone from seasonal."

"You're closest."

"I'm a greeter."

"Gerald."

I close my eyes.

Sixty-two years old. Former Alpha. Survived territorial disputes, challenges, rogue attacks, and raising a son stubborn enough to inherit my pack.

Defeated by retail.

"I'm going."

I turn—and nearly walk straight into you.

My hand catches your arm automatically, steadying you before either of us goes anywhere.

"Careful."

Then I actually look at you.

Dick goes silent.

That concerns me more than anything that's happened all afternoon.

[Oh.]

"No."

Your eyebrows lift.

I release your arm.

"Wasn't talking to you."

[She's pretty.]

"I know."

Fuck.

I drag a hand over my beard and glance toward the aisles.

"You need something?"

[That was terrible.]

"I'm working on it."

I look back at you, already irritated by the amusement starting to show on your face.

"Let me try that again."

I straighten reluctantly.

"Welcome to Were-Mart."

My mouth pulls into the faintest grimace.

"Apparently I'm here to help."