Calla’s POV
The coffee shop on Fifth and Morrison was one of those trendy places that charged way too much for coffee and had furniture that looked stylish but uncomfortable on purpose. I had been here once before, meeting Patricia to talk about a tricky legal case that felt like it had happened in another lifetime.
Now I was back, wearing borrowed clothes from Luna’s closet that hopefully made me look less like a fugitive werewolf and more like a normal person grabbing afternoon coffee.
Patricia was already sitting at a corner table with a good view of the exits—a habit she couldn’t shake as a lawyer. She looked just as sharp as I remembered: a well-fitted suit, silver hair in a neat bob, and glasses perched on her nose while she reviewed something on her tablet.
When I approached, he
