Page 26 of Love, Clumsily
Eventually, we decided to head back, aware that we’d been gone for longer than our promised “quick walk.” As we made our way down the trail, I found myself thinking about the future—moving in with Mason, becoming more integrated into pack life, and the possibility, however distant, of someday taking the bite.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it filled me with a sense of rightness, of possibility.
When we arrived back at Riley’s cabin, I immediately sought out Mason, finding him on the back deck engaged in what appeared to be an intense game of cards with Alex and a couple of other pack members.
He looked up as I approached, his face lighting up in that way that never failed to make my heart skip. “Hey,” he said, reaching for me. “Good walk?”
I nodded, settling beside him and peering at his cards. “Beautiful view. And lots of interesting conversation.”
“I can imagine,” he said dryly, glancing at his sister, who gave him an innocent smile.
“I only told him the really embarrassing stories,” she assured him. “Like that time you got stuck half-shifted and had to go to school with furry ears.”
Mason groaned. “I was thirteen! And it was a full moon night.”
“Still hilarious,” Riley insisted, dropping onto a nearby chair and pulling Jess into her lap.
The afternoon continued in this vein—cards giving way to a meal that was somewhere between lunch and dinner, followed by more conversation and eventually preparations to leave. By the time Mason and I were ready to head home, the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the forest.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Mason asked as we drove back toward town, the truck’s headlights cutting through the gathering darkness.
“It was nice,” I admitted. “I like your family. Even Riley, though don’t tell her I said that.”
He laughed, reaching over to take my hand. “They like you too. You fit, you know? With the pack. With me.”
The simple statement warmed me more than I could express. “I feel that too. Like I’ve found where I belong.”
He squeezed my hand, his eyes reflecting the dashboard lights with a hint of that otherworldly glow. “You have, you know. Found where you belong. With us. With me.”
I looked at him—this beautiful, impossible man who had literally crashed into my life and changed everything—and felt a surge of emotion so powerful it almost took my breath away.
“I love you,” I said, the words inadequate to express the depth of what I felt but all I had to offer.
“I love you too,” he replied, lifting my hand to press a kiss to my knuckles. “My mate. My Julian.”
As we drove through the darkening forest toward home—our home, soon to be officially shared—I felt a sense of peace and rightness settle over me. Whatever the future held—moving in together, pack life, perhaps someday the bite—I knew with absolute certainty that this was where I was meant to be.
Beside Mason. Part of the pack. Home.
Chapter 11
Moving in with Mason was both easier and harder than I’d anticipated. Easier because, as we’d already acknowledged, I spent most of my time at his cabin anyway, so the practical shift was minimal. Harder because suddenly all my quirks and habits were on full display, with no personal space to retreat to when I needed a break.
Not that Mason seemed to mind my quirks. If anything, he found them endearing—my morning grumpiness before coffee, my insistence on color-coding the closet, my habit of talking to myself while working. He observed these traits with an amused tolerance that made me feel simultaneously self-conscious and utterly accepted.
“You’re staring again,” I said without looking up from my laptop, where I was finishing a website design for a client.
Mason, sprawled on the couch pretending to read a book but actually watching me work at the dining table, didn’t even try to deny it. “Can’t help it. You make adorable faces when you’re concentrating.”
“I do not make faces,” I protested, though I knew from past comments that I absolutely did—furrowing my brow, biting my lip, occasionally sticking out my tongue slightly when particularly focused.
“You absolutely do,” he countered, setting his book aside. “And they’re fascinating. Especially the thing you do with your eyebrows when something doesn’t align properly.”
I glared at him, deliberately raising one eyebrow. “This thing?”
“That’s the one,” he confirmed with a grin. “Very expressive eyebrows. It’s sexy.”
“My eyebrows are not sexy,” I said firmly, turning back to my work. “They’re just eyebrows.”
