Greta's Thing

"Says me, that's who. You think August likes you looking like a hobo?" Greta's tone sounded so maternal and nagging that August couldn't help but giggle. Graeme looked at August with eyebrows raised in expectation.

"I-I do like it," her cheeks flushed. Graeme wordlessly gestured toward his mate and gave Greta a "told you so," look.

"August is your mate, Graeme. She would like you in a potato sack with wiry hairs coming out of your nose. The council members, particularly the elders, are not so partial to your charm."

"You just implied that August didn't like it," he argued. "Anyway, haven't you noticed? Facial hair is very masculine. It exudes a kind of natural authority."

"You have natural authority without it," Greta argued. "Fine, fine, just make it less," she surrendered, putting her hands up.

August watched the bickering with amusement.

"She likes to act like she's my mother," Graeme grumbled in her ear.