Page 23 of Fetch Me A Mate
That broke the ice. Edgar Tansley recounted a story about a traveling warlock who’d tried to pay for his room with a cursed pocket watch, and the parlor filled with laughter. The tea in Diana’s cup swirled a happy, golden yellow.
She was refilling a cup when the front door opened and Maeve Cross strode in. The lioness shifter moved with a sharp, contained energy, her short black hair framing a face that missed nothing. She carried a large, empty glass jar, which she set on the mantel with a decisive thud.
“Donation jar,” Maeve announced to the room, her voice carrying an edge of command. “This place costs money to fix. Let’s see what your memories are worth.” A few people chuckled, but several of the men reached for their wallets.
Diana smiled. “Maeve, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Make it worth my while.” Maeve’s sharp eyes swept the room, pausing for a fraction of a second on Rowan’s broad back before landing on Diana. She lowered her voice. “You’re doing good work here. The place feels like it’s breathing again.”
“I’m trying.”
“Trying’s good.” Maeve leaned in a little closer, her scent of spice and something wild cutting through the sweetness of the scones. “But a word of advice, from one business owner to another.”
Diana waited, sensing this was more than a casual suggestion.
“Watch the wolves, sweetheart.” Maeve’s gaze flicked deliberately toward Rowan, who continued to sand the banister, seemingly oblivious. “Especially the ones who look like they’re trying to outrun a storm.”
Diana managed a light laugh, though the warning landed with a peculiar weight. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Maeve gave a curt nod and moved off to pour herself a cup of tea, leaving Diana to puzzle over the remark. Twyla saw a fated mate who needed a reason to stay. Maeve, whose gaze was as sharp as her claws, saw a man running from something dangerous.
The tea hour was a success. The jar on the mantel held a respectable collection of bills by the time the last guest departed, and the parlor felt warmer, imbued with fresh laughter. Diana cleaned up in a haze of contentment, the quiet hum of the inn a comforting presence around her.
That night, she lay in bed with the inn’s blueprints spread across her quilt. Her fingers traced the elegant lines of the staircase, the place where Rowan had spent his day. His silence had been a fortress, a stark contrast to the easy camaraderie in the parlor.
She thought of the conflicting currents swirling around him. Twyla, the hopeful matchmaker. Maeve, the cautious protector. Both felt right, somehow. She remembered the shocking, possessive strength in his arms when he’d caught her on the roof, a feeling of absolute safety mixed with a thrilling spark of danger. Then she remembered his cold dismissal in the hallway, his eyes shuttered, his voice a flat wall of sound.
He was a storm, just as Maeve had said.
Diana stared at the blueprints, at the tangible future she was trying to build from ink and wood and hope. What did Diana want?
She wanted the inn to succeed, obviously. Wanted to prove herself worthy of the community's trust and Miriam's faith in her abilities.
But underneath those practical desires was something else. Something that had nothing to do with business plans or renovation schedules.
She wanted to understand the man working above her head, driving himself to exhaustion on her project. Wanted to know what had driven him away from Hollow Oak before and what had brought him back. Wanted to be the reason he stayed this time.
12
ROWAN
The sky over Hollow Oak had turned the color of a fresh bruise. Rowan worked on the roof, the wind tearing at his jacket, pulling at the corners of the heavy tarp he was wrestling into place. A storm was coming in fast from the mountains, a real gully-washer by the smell of it. He’d seen the clouds gathering and had stayed late, driven by an instinct he refused to name to make sure the inn’s wounds were covered.
He hammered the last anchor into place just as the first fat drops of rain began to fall. They hit the shingles with a sound like scattered pebbles, quickly building to a relentless drumming. He made his way to the ladder, soaked through in seconds, the wind a solid wall against his back.
He was halfway down when the lights inside the inn flickered. Once. Twice. Then they winked out, plunging the world into a deep twilight broken only by a startlingly bright flash of lightning. Thunder cracked directly overhead, a raw, splintering sound that vibrated through the ladder.
Inside, he stood dripping in the lobby, the darkness absolute. He could hear the storm raging, a wild, chaotic music of wind and water. He should leave. Get in his truck, drive to his small,empty cabin, and wait it out alone. That was the smart play. The safe play.
A soft glow appeared at the top of the main staircase.
Diana held a three-pronged candlestick, the flames dancing and casting flickering shadows that made her look like someone from another time. Her face, illuminated from below, was a study in soft curves and determined angles. She wasn’t frightened by the sudden dark, just focused.
“I had a feeling you were still here,” she said, her voice carrying easily through the roar of the storm. “The weather turned fast.”
“Just securing the roof,” he said, his own voice sounding rough in the enclosed space. “Didn’t want your new joists getting soaked.” He shrugged out of his wet jacket, the motion stiff.
“Well, thank you.” She descended the stairs, the candlelight moving with her. “The power’s out all over the square. Twyla’s sign went dark a few minutes ago. No telling when it’ll be back.” She reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped, the circle of light creating an intimate island in the vast, dark lobby. “The fire’s still going in the parlor.”
