I have no idea what that’s about.
My eyes move to Bailey and Cat, who are whispering. In fact, there’s suddenly a whole lot of whispering. Tyson looks pissed. Riley whispers something to him and Tyson calms, though just marginally.
“What?” I ask, resting my hand on his arm. He pulls me tight to his side as the reception line continues and the rest of the line of people move up, taking the time to greet us. Several more are related to Tyson, too. More cousins on his mother’s side, second and third cousins on both sides of his family, relations by marriage, and every single person acts happy to see him. Everyone except that Mason guy.
Bailey and Cat steer us to the buffet after the seemingly endless line finally ends, and plates of food are loaded up and handed to us before we’re ushered to one of the bigger pub-style sets ahead of the picnic tables. We sit with Riley, his parents, Cat and Bailey. The table of alphas is next to ours and the guy, Mason, isn’t there. I see three other tables that are clearly designed for the elderly people of the village as they’re comfy high-back cushioned chairs rather than picnic tables.
Riley says something else low in Tyson’s ear and he speaks back with his finger in Riley’s face. It’s loud with the big crowd, the music, and the noises of people serving food, so I have no idea what is happening here.
Bailey leans in from the seat beside me. “I’m your wolf shifter pack life guide. I’ll stay close.”
“Good. What’s wrong with that Mason guy?”
“Not a clue,” she says with a shrug. “I haven’t seen him since he got back from a project he’s been gone on. It’s weird. I think he got back Sunday and it’s odd to not have seen him. I love your dress and your shoes. Dig in.” She gestures to the food.
She’s trying to act all nonchalant with me, but her expression and body language aren’t remotely relaxed.
Tyson is already eating while in discussion with his uncle Atticus and with Riley. Men from the neighboring table are leaned in to participate in the conversation.
I catch that they’re talking about a run in the morning. All of them. I know how much that run with just Riley meant to Ty; he talked about it, about how it felt, how he used to dream about running with other wolves. I’m excited for him.
He’s taking everything in. He’s been reserved but also warm with most everyone who approached. People had said sweet things. Men talked about what a wonderful man his father was. Women talked about being so happy for Cat that he was back. People said things like, “Welcome home.”
“This is great,” I whispered, forking up some creamy dill potato salad.
I wasn’t just talking about the food. I was talking about all of it.
Bailey tells me there will be dancing and music all night long but that before that happens, there’s a presentation for their youth in the pack. She chats happily while eating, telling me that after that’s over, anyone under drinking age will go home. She tells me many of the alphas get into wrestling matches and wiggles her eyebrows while telling me that those are fun to watch.
“After dinner, if you want, during some of the community stuff, we can go show you the house. Are you guys staying tonight?”
“I have no idea,” I say.
“We are.” Ty leans in to tell her. His eyes then bounce to mine. “Oh. If that’s fine with you, Ivy.”
“I don’t have anything with me,” I say, “But if you want to, baby, that’s fine.”
“I do. Baby,” he says and smiles. He dropped his voice an octave with that ‘baby’ and my insides are all tingly now.
“Taste this potato salad,” I say. “It’s so good!”
He leans over and tastes it off my fork as I’m about to put it in my mouth.
“You’ve got your own,’ I admonish and then I lean over and fork up a bite off his plate. He steals that before I’m able to get the fork to my own mouth.
There are amused faces around us.
“It’s good,” Tyson says.
“I can give you the recipe,” Tyson’s Aunt Lucy calls over.
“Oh. Great,” I say. “It’s delicious.”
“Try the breaded pork cutlet,” Bailey suggests. “And the stuffed tomatoes.”
“I’d complain there’s way too much food on my plate, but it won’t go to waste, knowing Tyson.”
“There’s loads of food at these things. It’s potluck, my favorite,” Bailey says. “I’m an awful cook, so I get to bring soft drinks or paper plates.” She rolls her eyes.
“Don’t sweat it,” I reassure her. “Saves you some work.”
“Saves us some food poisoning,” one of the guys at the next table says.
She pokes her tongue out at him, but her face goes bright red.