Page 8 of Fetch Me A Mate
Diana’s gift stirred, catching genuine affection beneath Twyla’s teasing. They weren’t meddling just for fun. They cared—for her, for Rowan, for Hollow Oak.
“He’s helping with renovations,” Diana said carefully.
“For now,” Twyla agreed cheerfully, tying a ribbon on the basket. “But when the time comes, don’t let fear choose for you. Some things are worth the risk.”
Diana clutched the basket, the words echoing as clearly as Miriam’s:You belong if you choose to.
Outside, the hammering resumed, steady and sure, as if the inn itself approved.
4
ROWAN
Rowan had already wolfed down two of Twyla’s scones by the time Diana came back with a handful of painter’s tape and a pencil behind her ear. Cinnamon clung to his tongue, sugar on the edge of his thumb. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand and set the empty napkin on the desk.
“Fuel working?” she asked, eyeing the crumbs.
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Thank Twyla,” she replied. “She thinks you require pastries to reach your potential.”
He grunted, which only made her mouth tilt like she’d gotten exactly the reaction she wanted.
They moved to the north wall. Morning light found its way through the cloudy window and made the dust look like a slow snowfall. He set his tape measure, squared his shoulders to the plaster, and started calling numbers.
“Stud here,” he said, tapping the wall with his knuckle. “Sixteen inches to the next. Read me off the marks as I go.”
She lifted the clipboard. “Sixteen, thirty-two, forty-eight…”
He measured beams, catalogued problems, and pretended not to notice how she hummed when she was nervous. It was atiny sound, almost not a note at all, more breath than melody. It drew along his spine in a way he refused to name.
“Header’s good,” he said. “Sill’s where the trouble lives. We’ll brace it until I can open the exterior.”
“Tell me where to stand,” she said. “And how not to be in the way.”
“You’re not in the way.” He set his square, penciled a line. “Hold this end of the tape. Keep it flat.”
She stepped in. They were shoulder to shoulder now, her sweater brushing his flannel, her perfume a quiet ribbon of vanilla and tea. He kept his focus on the steel tape and the numbers, on the steady work of making a weak thing strong.
“Mark at seventy-two and a half,” he said.
She reached to take the tape, fingers sure. Their hands touched, light as a match strike.
The mate-bond recognition hit him hard. Silver bright. Undeniable. It rolled through his body and landed low, precise as a claim. Scents sharpened. The inn itself seemed to hum. His wolf rose, ears forward, eyes on her.Mine.
He shut it down fast, buried deep like he’d practiced. He let out a short breath, masked the quake with a noncommittal grunt, and flattened the tape against the plaster.
“Trim,” he said, voice steady by habit. “Casings here are two and a quarter. We can match, or go three if you want it chunkier. Classic look either way.”
She blinked, the smallest hitch like she’d felt something too, then nodded and found her place again. “What do you prefer?”
“Match what’s here,” he said. “Makes the building feel like itself.”
“I like that,” she said quietly. “Being itself.”
His pencil moved. “We’ll keep it honest, then.”
They worked through the measurements. He called, she marked. He braced his boot against the baseboard and set a temp cleat while she steadied the level with careful fingers.
