Page 56 of Found by the Pack
“I agree,” Gabe says, but his tone’s still edged. “And for the record, I’m not chasing her. She doesn’t need that from me.”
Boone studies him for a beat, then nods. “Alright.”
I glance between them, making sure the tension’s actually bleeding out this time. Gus has settled at my feet again, tail thumping softly against the rug.
“Good,” I say. “Because whatever she’s been through, it’s not over just because she’s here. And if her old pack was the problem, we need to be ready for the possibility they might come looking.”
Boone’s gaze sharpens. Gabe’s expression hardens.
None of us say it out loud, but it’s there—the silent agreement that if anyone comes for her, they’ll have to go through us first.
CHAPTER 13
Sadie
The morning air is crisp enough that the coffee in my hand is still steaming, curling tendrils into the sunlight.
I’m barefoot on the front step, knees pulled up, mixing a base color in an old yogurt container. The rich swirl of paint clings to the stick in my hand, colors deepening in the open air.
My top is tucked up to keep it out of the way, the edge brushing just under my ribs. I’ve been so absorbed in getting the shade right that I don’t hear the car until it’s slowing at the curb.
I glance up, ready to drop the shirt and tug it down, my shoulders tightening—until I see who it is.
Boone.
He leans slightly across the steering wheel, window down, and lifts a paper coffee cup in greeting. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.
I should pull my shirt down. I should put the coffee aside. But for some reason, I don’t move right away.
He parks and steps out, his boots crunching over the gravel in front of my porch. The early light catches in his hair, the edges still damp from a shower.
He looks like he belongs in the sort of old-fashioned postcard they sell at the harbor—handsome in a way that feels… solid.
“You like coffee?” he asks, as if the cup in my own hand isn’t proof enough.
I hold mine up in answer. “Always.”
He offers me the other one anyway, and I take it because it’s warm against my fingers and smells like cinnamon.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Gabe told us about the bike situation. And the new arrangement.”
I blink. “The… new arrangement?”
He nods. “You working the Baxter’s wall before the fire station mural. Said you needed rides sometimes. Gabe had to be at the station, so I volunteered.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my bare feet, my top still tucked up.You could have given me a little warning, I think, but there’s no irritation in it. More like… confusion.
He looks past me at the paint jars, the sketch pad propped against the porch post. “You working already?”
I follow his gaze. “Just mixing a base color.”
His attention comes back to me, lingering in a way that makes the air between us feel warmer. There’s nothing overt in it—he’s not smirking or looking me over in some obvious way—but it’s… intent.
Don’t read into it, Sadie.
