Free Werecats and Werelocks (Collection) by Dakota Cassidy

around the glass of whiskey, but she hadn't broken him yet.
    Such a man. Such a gorgeous, hunky, brick shithouse man.
    "But we have to talk.” It was probably too soon after her revelation, but she had no choice. She'd formed a plan in her mind and nothing would make her deviate. Well, unless he said no. Then deviation would be cause for Plan B. Which she hadn't formulated just yet, seeing as Plan A was still in the fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants stage.
    "Is anyone able to talk after seeing something like that?"
    Frankie grimaced, tugging his borrowed shirt closer around her. It smelled spicy and male. Soooooo male. “I guess it depends. I mean, there once was this kid who lived down the road from me and whenever I shifted to my cat form, in order for me to get to the field to roam, I had to pass his house. Christ, he was a total shit. I mean, he threw stuff at me, even shot me with his BB gun, the freak. So one day I just got tired of being tormented and I shifted—like in broad daylight. Risky, I know, but he was a complete tard who deserved it. Anyway, after that, I think he did time in the local nuthouse, but I'm not sure. I just know I didn't much see him around after that. And no, he didn't talk. He did cry, though. So you're right. We can wait to talk. Want to nap? Maybe sleep will help you assimilate this—me—our situation. Sometimes sleep is a defense mechanism against the unbelievable."
    Sam's brow furrowed, his broad chest expanding with air. “I have to be honest when I say I don't know that I'll ever sleep again. Not with my eyes closed, anyway."
    Frankie ran a sympathetic hand over his forehead. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were kinda glazed. “I really think you should lie down."
    His lips became a firm line again. Obviously, he was hanging on to his sanity. By a thread, no doubt, but hanging nonetheless. “Ooooh, no. Absolutely not. I'm all in now. I want to hear the full story. So let's begin from the beginning.” Folding his hands in front of his wide chest, he turned with expectation written all over his hunky face. It was clear he wanted her to make sense of the incredibly, and unfortunately for him that just wasn't going to happen today.
    Frankie saw his lawyer mind working all the angles and finally said, “Okay. Ask and I'll spill."
    "You're the cat Glynice gave me as a Christmas gift? The big, fluffy, white cat in the cage on my desk?"
    "I am. A Persian cat to be precise."
    " You were in a cage on my desk yesterday with a red bow around your neck? That was really you ?” He sank back into silence.
    Her snort made him jump. “I so thought the bow was overboard and so did Beulah, but Glynice insisted. You know, I have to wonder something..."
    Sam's head cocked, his gaze bewildered. “You— you have to wonder something?"
    "Yeah. I mean, we see each other from time to time all over the building, but how did I miss ever seeing Glynice. She is your secretary, right?"
    Now he snorted. “Well, that's easy. She hardly ever shows up to work. I inherited her from my father and she really should be considering retirement, but she clings because she thinks she's helping me and I let her because I love her and she's been a part of my family since as far back as I can remember."
    The hint of affection in his tone for Glynice made her heart warm. “Ahh. Okay, anyway, yes, that was me on your desk. You want I should show you aga—"
    Sam flipped his hand up so fast it was almost Karate Kid -like. “No!” he cleared his throat. “Once was enough.” He paused and ran a hand over his stubble-riddled chin, the sound rasping in his sterile kitchen. “And why were you a cat? I mean, how..."
    "I'm always a cat. Well, half of one anyway. The other half of me is human. I'm what's known as a shapeshifter."
    His shoulders, broad and thickly muscled, flexed under bronzed skin, but his face remained calm with no outward signs of panic. If he was going to freak, he sure didn't show it. Dude was a man,