The Human

Published by: eXtasy Books

Author : Josie Lugo

ISBN :978-1-4874-3527-1

Page :257

Word Count :81545

Publication Date :2024-11-15

Series : Shifters of Summerdon#3

Heat Level :

Available Formats : The Human (epub) , The Human (mobi) , The Human (pdf) , The Human (prc)

Category : Paranormal Romance , Romance , What's New

Product Code: 978-1-4874-3527-1

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Priscilla’s life is full of taking care of her nephew, her family’s flower shop, and her grandmother, giving her barely any time for herself, let alone others, but the Bane triplets are determined to woo Priscilla, relieving her burdens and revealing their secrets.

Priscilla Espina is struggling. Moving back home isn’t a choice after her sister dies and she has to take on the care of her nephew, Pancho. Now an unexpected mother, running her family’s flower shop, and her grandmother abandoning her to live in a retirement facility, there’s a lot that Priscilla has to handle herself. Thankfully, she has Tracer, Art, and Nix Bane, triplets who come into the shop daily to check on her and play with Pancho. When the brothers admit to wanting more—more time to spend with her, more acceptance of their help, more permission to kiss her—Priscilla agrees. Choosing a single brother would be impossible, but getting all three is a dream come true. What she doesn’t expect is to learn that the triplets share a secret, the type that allows them to turn into wolves, accidentally putting her in the crossfires of an extremist human organization determined to end the existence of paranormal creatures. Priscilla is already too familiar with loss—she isn’t going to lose another loved one without a serious fight.

I should already be asleep. I’ll have to get up in just a couple of hours for Pancho and then get the store open downstairs, and yet, I don’t get off my stool.

The canvas in front of me has been an accumulation of weeks of work, and I should call it done. I should leave it alone so that I can put it up on my website. Not to mention, the oil will have to dry for months before I can even varnish it, so each day that I continue to add to it, the longer I have to postpone selling it.

My eyes almost burn from staring at the should-be-completed-scene, trying to figure out what it needs. Usually, I get this sense of accomplishment, this feeling in my stomach, whenever I finish my work.

Instead, I have this nagging feeling that this scene is missing something. What that is? I have no idea. Days have been wasted as I stare at this canvas, unable to move on because every time I attempt to start something new, I find myself only capable of thinking about this missing element.

Just like the rest of my work, this painting is similarly dark. Not solely in color but in the image of the car accident. Shattered beer and soda bottles were the only three-dimensional pieces splayed out over the road I’d painted.

The glass was glued on, a tedious job that took hours and a tweezer since the pieces were so tiny. For the clouds, I’d mixed the acrylics with extra resin to make it runny, as if the clouds themselves were weeping.

I never actually saw the photos the police took of my sister’s crash. And technically, she was hit by another driver. She didn’t veer off the road and hit a tree like my painting. Not that my imagination hasn’t made up plenty of images to terrify me of driving.

Maybe I should use the last of my gold leaf for the lightning that shows off the scene? Except that would be gold, not the silver hue I’m going for. Plus, I really like that only the glass is 3D.

So, I stare and stare, and at one point, I even get my white marker out as I consider highlighting the lightning so it’s even more dramatic. Only I don’t want the focal point to be so high, and I end up doing no work and getting nothing done for the night.

By the time I made it to bed and fell asleep, I was terrified to look at the clock on my phone. Thankfully, I never need to set an alarm since Pancho has an internal clock waking him up before seven each morning. It’s a blessing and a curse.

However, this morning, it feels more like a curse as Pancho demands that he be fed by screaming. He’s finally making it through the night without needing a bottle, which, according to the dozens of books I’ve read, is good for his age.

Heading over to my grandmother’s old bedroom, where I keep Pancho’s crib and baby stuff, I almost trip over the pile of dirty clothes I’d left on the floor the night before. I hate having dirty clothes in my room, so I usually keep the basket closer to the washing machine. Except one look in that direction is a reminder that the basket is full and I’m behind on chores.

Great.

Another cry from Pancho and I’m leaving the clothes where they are to go grab him. I used to think starting a bottle first would be better until I learned the hard way that my little man has terrible separation anxiety.

Of course, who can blame him, considering he was only a few days old when his mother died. And he barely knows his grandmother since she is a whole town away in a retirement center. She used to visit a lot more often when he was younger, helping me with him so I could handle the store.

Now that she’s hired Leo to help in the shop, she’s been more absent than ever.

Pancho’s little fists cling to my shirt as I lift him from the crib. He isn’t truly crying since there are no tears staining his cheeks, which helps loosen my guilt. Despite his young age, he looks so much like my sister. The dark, thick hair and the big, round brown eyes framed with dark eyelashes are all Ambar.

“Up on the menu today, sir, is some formula,” I tell him as if he’ll actually understand. All the books say to explain what you’re doing so that kids can learn. So that’s what I do. “And on the phone, we have the prestigious sounds of the violin.”

I haven’t listened to music with real lyrics since before Pancho was legally handed over to me. That was one thing I didn’t need a book to tell me—classical music is better for babies. Of course, during his play time, I put on the kiddy music. I don’t consider it actual music. More like learning songs.

Pancho doesn’t fuss much as I prepare his bottle and then hand it to him. His hands attempt to hold up the bottle himself, even though he isn’t quite there yet. I work quickly to get him set up on the bathroom floor. This is the best time to shower—when he’s distracted by drinking. Or eating.

There’s already a bunch of blankets and pillows on the bathroom floor, acting as both a mat and a little cage for him. Setting him down, I prop up a blanket under his bottle so he can continue to eat—drink—and then make quick work of showering.

By now, I’m used to five-minute cold showers. It’s usually only on days when I wash my hair that I spend enough time under the stream for the water to turn warm.