Page 2 of Fetch Me A Mate
“Only the ones you choose to tie yourself,” Miriam said, her tone softening. “You have more say than you think, Diana. This town respects stability. It may take a minute for some to put a human in that category. That’s not your fault. It’s just history.”
Diana hesitated. “Why me, though? We’ve never met. I don’t have innkeeping experience, and I’m… nobody special.”
“Child,” Miriam said gently, “you’ve been searching for home your whole life. Your gift lets you feel what others feel, which means you’ll know exactly what your guests need before they do. More importantly, you answered the call. Not everyone would get on a bus with nothing but a suitcase and a stranger’s letter.”
Diana’s throat tightened. “How did you know about?—”
“Your gift?” Miriam cut in, voice calm. “Hollow Oak calls to people who need what it offers. And sometimes it needs what they offer in return. Everyone here is different in their own way. Like that wolf of a contractor who’s coming.”
“A wolf?” Diana asked, brows lifting.
“Yes, dear. Shifters, witches, fae, vampires—you’ll find them all in Hollow Oak. Safe haven, for us and for the ones who need it. And you will, too.”
Diana swallowed. “So Rowan is a shifter.”
“Through and through. An alpha at that. A man of few words, but his actions speak volumes. He’s come back to Hollow Oak,and you’ll find you two have more in common than you realize. You can’t run from that. You can’t hide from it, either.”
Diana felt her empathic sense stir, that ripple of energy whenever someone spoke a truth too heavy to ignore. She didn’t understand the shape of it yet, only that Miriam believed what she said.
“I’ll come by tomorrow to walk to the kitchen with you,” Miriam added. “Promised the Council I’d let you breathe on day one.”
“Thank you. For the keys. For everything.”
“Keys are simple,” Miriam said. “People are the adventure. Call if the boiler sings.”
They hung up with the comfort of women who didn’t need to fuss.
Diana tucked the phone away and headed downstairs. The kitchen smelled of copper pots and old rosemary. A scarred butcher block bore decades of knife marks. Two mugs sat upside down on a towel, as if waiting for her. She found the good kettle Miriam had mentioned, filled it, and let it heat while she stared out the window at her new world.
Later, tea in hand, she returned to the desk and set it beside the ledger. “So,” she told the book, “you and me. We’re going to be organized and charming. Game nights. Story hours. Breakfasts people brag about years later.”
She flipped to a fresh notebook page. Headings appeared under her pen: Paint colors. Safety inspection. Bed frames. Contractor meeting.
Her empathic gift whispered again as she drifted into the parlor. It wasn’t sight or sound, more the echo of laughter pressed into wallpaper and grief made lighter by comfort. She stood in the center, closed her eyes, and whispered, “I want to keep whatever this is. I won’t scrub it out.”
A low wind picked up, rattling the shutters. Rain began to patter against the roof, soft at first, then steadier. Diana reached for her notes when a new sound joined the storm—a measured scrape above her, heavy footsteps moving across shingles. Her heart jolted.
Contractor. Rowan Baneville.
She turned to the door just as a firm knock echoed through the lobby, reverberating against cedar and cinnamon and every promise she had just made.
2
ROWAN
Rain ran off Rowan’s jacket in thin streams, dripping onto the inn’s porch as the storm pressed in around him. Old scars prickled beneath his shirt, the kind of warning that never lied. The storm had rolled in fast, autumn gray and sharp, but it wasn’t the weather that held him there. It was the light spilling from the inn’s windows, warm against the gloom. He’d meant to wait until morning. Instead, he knocked.
Just a job, he told himself, flexing fingers that wanted to curl into fists. Fix the core, take the pay, move on. Nothing to do with the town that once let him walk away. Nothing to do with the fact that he’d come back anyway.
The door opened, and his wolf went perfectly still.
Diana Merrick stood framed in the glow of the lobby. Honey-blonde curls caught the light like threads of gold, her cardigan dusted with flour or maybe cleaning powder, sleeves shoved to her elbows. She looked like someone who worked until the job was done. But it was her eyes that stopped him—amber flecked with gold, steady, curious, unflinching.
The wolf in him stirred, low and insistent. He crushed it back.
“Ms. Merrick.” His voice came out rougher than he intended. Rain tapped against the porch roof. “Rowan Baneville. Council sent me about the renovations.”
“Diana,” she corrected, stepping back. “Come in before you drown.”
