Page 3 of Fetch Me A Mate
He crossed the threshold, careful not to brush her shoulder. The inn wrapped around him like memory: cedar beams, stone hearth, the faded rug where he’d once sat as a boy listening to Miriam’s stories. The smell was the same too—cedar and cinnamon, threaded now with chamomile and something sweeter, honey or vanilla.
Focus. He forced his attention to the room. Water stains marred the ceiling. The front window rattled against its frame. The third floorboard sagged near the desk. The bones were speaking already.
“Miriam said you’d be coming,” Diana said. She’d moved behind the reception desk, one hand resting on an open notebook. “Though I wasn’t expecting anyone in this weather.”
“Storm doesn’t wait on convenience.” Rowan shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the coat tree. His flannel underneath was damp but serviceable. “Better to see what we’re dealing with before it gets worse.”
She nodded. Her gaze lingered on his forearms where scars cut pale against tanned skin, old marks from claws and construction alike. Most people looked away. Diana didn’t. She studied them like they were a story she wanted to understand.
“How long have you lived in Hollow Oak?” she asked.
The question slid in sideways, too casual to be harmless. “Left for a while. Came back.”
“Recently?”
“Recent enough.” He brushed his hand along the banister. Solid oak, but the third step sagged. “Mind if I look around? Get a feel for what needs doing?”
“Of course.” She grabbed a flashlight from the counter. “Lead the way.”
They climbed the stairs, her light steps following the weight of his boots. The hallway carried the scent of lavender and dust, doors open to rooms that hadn’t held guests in too long. At the far end, a bucket caught water dripping steady from a warped window frame.
“That’s been going on for weeks,” she said. “Miriam thought it was manageable, but?—”
“It’s not.” Rowan crouched, checking the spread of water damage down the wall. “If we don’t get into this soon, the frame will rot. Might need replacing.”
Her arms folded tight across her chest. “Expensive?”
He glanced at her. She bit her lip, eyes sharp but worried. Something in his chest tugged hard, protective instinct he had no right to feel.
“Depends how deep it goes,” he said. “Could be a day’s work, could be a week.” He stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Won’t know till I strip the siding.”
“And you’ll handle it?” she pressed. “The Council didn’t just assign you to write notes?”
“I’ll do what needs doing.” His voice came out firm, more promise than he’d meant.
She studied him for a beat, then nodded, tension easing from her shoulders. “Where do we start then? Roof or rot?”
The practical question hit deeper than it should have. The way she saidwelanded heavier still, like he was already part of her plan. Like she trusted him, and trust was a thing Hollow Oak had never given back easily.
“Roof,” he said. “Storm’s not done, and you’ll want to be watertight before the real weather sets in. After that, we’ll see what the bones tell us.”
“The bones?”
“Every old building has a story. You just have to listen to hear what it needs.”
Diana tilted her head. “And what’s this one telling you?”
Rowan’s gaze moved over the place. He’d run these halls as a boy, carried trays for Miriam, memorized which groans were harmless and which spelled trouble. The inn had been a sanctuary once, back when he’d needed one.
“That it’s been waiting,” he said finally.
“For what?”
For you,his wolf whispered. He clamped down on the thought. “For someone to care for it properly again.”
Her smile was soft, unguarded. “I can do that.”
His throat tightened. He turned, cleared his voice. “We should check the porch.”
