Page 35 of Wrong Number, Right Cougar

“You didn’t eat much when everyone was here, and you didn’t touch the beer Frank gave you.”

“I just wasn’t feeling hungry.” My appetite had decreased recently, and I put that down to late nights, meeting new shifters, and running a business that was just getting off the ground. “And I was busy entertaining the guests so I forgot about my drink.”

That was true, but if I’d really wanted the beer, I would have guzzled it.

“Okay.” Wilder smacked my wet butt as I strolled into the bedroom. I stopped, as I always did, to gaze at the view over the lake and to the mountains beyond.

But my mate stared at me as I took out clothes from the closet.

“I don’t mean to harp on the issue but have you lost weight?”

I pulled on my briefs and jeans, thankful I no longer had to dress in a suit and tie for work. He was dwelling on it, and I was irritated. I felt fine, just a little more tired than usual, and that was expected with all the changes in my life.

“Not that I’ve noticed.” But as I said that, I zipped up my jeans, and yeah, there was a lot of extra space. The pants hung lower because they’d either stretched or Wilder was right and I’d lost weight.

I pushed past him, anxious to end this conversation, and headed into the kitchen. I stuffed a day-old danish in my mouth, to prove to my mate I was eating, and started the coffee. But I really wasn’t hungry and chewing the pastry and swallowing was difficult, and I hoped Wilder didn’t take note of how long I took to eat it.

The coffee aroma that I loved was making my belly churn, but I had my back to Wilder so he couldn’t see me grimacing. I anticipated that first cup of coffee each day and usually drank it on the deck, no matter how cold it was.

I had to keep up the pretense or my mate would haul me off to the doctor, and I didn’t want to hear that I had a tummy bug or I was low on iron or I needed more sleep.

“Here you go.” I handed Wilder his coffee in his favorite mug and took mine out on the deck.Don’t follow me, please don’t follow me,I said to myself.

He didn’t at first, and I leaned against the railing, breathing in the fresh air, tinged with the scent of spring blossoms. But I rested the coffee on the top railing, unable to drink it. If Wilder took a shower I could tip it out, though his enhanced shifter scenting ability might pick up a coffee aroma on the shrubs below the deck.

He appeared at my shoulder, downing his brew as he usually did. He’d usually have three cups in the early morning and go cold turkey the rest of the day.

“Beautiful day.” He was staring at the scenery, not at me and my full mug or how I was gripping the railing. The world was a little lopsided, or perhaps it was me. I was lightheaded and would have preferred to go back to bed. But there was too much work, and I had to plow through the day.

I tensed, waiting for Wilder to ask why I wasn’t drinking the coffee. But he continued to sip his and study whatever was in front of him. I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I dumped the lukewarm liquid into the garden.

“Fine. I don’t feel great, but it’s nothing, okay, so don’t say anything.” I stormed inside, furious with my mate for not saying anything. Gods, what was wrong with me?

I slammed the mug on the kitchen counter and put both hands on the granite countertop. Leaning forward with my head between my arms, tears trickled over my cheeks and one plopped on the floor.

Wilder padded over the tiles in that quiet shifter way of his and put a hand on my back. “You’ve been working hard and need a day off.” He steered me toward the bedroom. “Back to bed with you.”

“I’m sorry I snapped.” He took me in his arms, and I rested my head on his chest, enjoying the reassuring pounding of his heart.

“No need to apologize. I can take being shouted at.”

A giggle burst out of me, and my mate joined in. The laughter washed away my anger, but I was exhausted and didn’t grumble when he tucked me into bed. He sat beside me, saying he’d get me some tea instead of the coffee.

“Would you be able to eat toast?”

I nodded.

He disappeared and was back with a tray five minutes later. Again he sat on the bed while I nibbled the toast.

“Gerald noticed you weren’t well.”

“How would he know?” It was the first time we’d met.

Wilder cleared his throat and hesitated. My belly clenched, thinking the guy was a cancer specialist and had decided I was going to die.

“He’s a midwife.”

Oh. That wasn’t bad, though he was a qualified nurse, so it was almost as bad as a doctor diagnosing me at a social gathering.

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