Page 22 of Fetch Me A Mate
"I'm sure you are. But Twyla's scones are better than whatever protein bar you probably forgot to pack."
She wasn't wrong. Rowan had been running on coffee and stubbornness since dawn, too distracted by structural concerns and unwanted text messages to think about food.
Diana approached the work area, stepping carefully around the tools and lumber. "How's the progress?"
"Good. This section's worse than I thought, but nothing that can't be fixed." He gestured to the exposed framework. "Have to replace about six feet of support beam, then we can button it up."
"Sounds expensive."
"Not too bad. Most of the original timber's salvageable." He accepted the bag when she held it out, the warmth seeping through the paper into his palms. "Thanks."
The word came out rougher than intended, like it scraped his throat on the way up. Diana tilted her head, studying his face with those too-perceptive eyes.
"You okay? You seem..."
"I'm working." He opened the bag, revealing thick sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and still-warm scones that smelled of cinnamon and butter.
"Council meeting went well last night," she said. "Trial period approved, renovation budget secured. They want weekly progress reports, but that's manageable."
"Good."
"Varric seems fair. Elder Bram less so, but Miriam says he's skeptical of all change."
Rowan knew Bram's type. The old guard, convinced that any deviation from established tradition would bring ruin. They weren't always wrong, but they weren't always right either.
"He'll come around," Rowan said. "Once he sees results."
"I hope so. The Autumn Hearth Gathering is approved for next week.
He knew he should say something, congratulate her, acknowledge the victory. The words wouldn’t come. All he could think about was the alpha’s summons and what it meant. They wouldn’t just let him go. They never did.
He finished the bite and looked at her, forcing his expression into a hard, unreadable mask. “You should keep out of the work area.”
She blinked, the light in her eyes dimming. “What?”
“It’s a construction zone,” he said, his voice flat and cold. “Exposed nails, unstable flooring. It’s not safe.”
The words hung in the air, a deliberate, calculated barrier. He was using her own safety as a weapon against her, and it felt like swallowing glass. She stared at him for a long moment, herexpression shifting from confusion to a quiet, wounded resolve. She wasn't a fool; she heard the dismissal for what it was.
“Right,” she said, her voice losing its warmth. She took a small step back. “Of course. Well. Enjoy the sandwich.”
She turned and walked away without another word, her back straight. He watched her go, the sandwich suddenly heavy as a rock in his hand. His wolf snarled, clawing at the inside of his ribs, furious with him for pushing her away. For hurting their mate.
Rowan set the half-eaten sandwich down on a sawhorse. It was a lie. He wasn't protecting her from a nail; he was protecting her from a pack of them. He picked up his saw, the engine roaring to life with a pull of the cord. The noise was a relief, a violent sound that filled the space she had just left, and for a little while, it was almost loud enough to drown out the voice of his own regret.
11
DIANA
The Hearth & Hollow’s parlor smelled of lemon oil, old books, and the cinnamon-laced scones Twyla had delivered that morning with a conspiratorial wink. Diana arranged mismatched teacups on a lace doily, her hands moving with a purpose that belied the nervous flutter in her stomach. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm, inviting glow over the worn armchairs she’d dragged into a loose circle. It wasn’t perfect—drop cloths were neatly folded in one corner and the scent of paint primer lingered—but it was a start.
“They’ll come,” Miriam said from her place of honor by the fire, her knitting needles clicking softly. “This town runs on curiosity and baked goods. You’ve provided both.”
Miriam was right. First came the eccentric Tansley brothers from the mercantile, Rufus and Edgar, who brought a tin of enchanted tea leaves that changed color with the mood of the drinker. Then came Freya, her arms full of fresh mint for garnish. Soon, the room was filled with a soft murmur of conversation as a dozen townsfolk settled in, drawn by the promise of tea and memory.
Visible through the parlor doorway, Rowan worked on the main staircase, the steady rasp of his sanding block a rhythmic counterpoint to the chatter. He hadn’t said a word about the tea hour, but he hadn’t left, either. He just worked, a solid, brooding presence at the edge of the light.
“I remember when Henry and I first bought this place,” Miriam began, her voice capturing the room’s attention. “The parlor was a disaster, but the hearth drew a perfect draft. Henry said any house with a good hearth could be a home.”
