Page 57 of Fat Arranged Mate
Twilight bathes the cottage in blue shadows when I arrive home. Dylan isn't back yet—patrolling, searching the woods for the Guardians’ supply stores and hunting cabins. I move through rooms, flicking on lights against the gathering darkness, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.
A movement outside the kitchen window catches my eye—a flash of something near the tree line. I peer into the gathering dusk but see nothing definitive. Still, instinct raises the hair on my neck.
I'm securing the back door when headlights sweep across the driveway. Not Dylan's truck—this vehicle is larger, with the distinctive light bar of a police cruiser.
Sheriff Donovan. Making good on his promise to "stop by”.
Dylan's truck turns into the drive moments later, his timing either miraculous or calculated. Either way, relief floods me as he exits his vehicle, nodding a greeting to the sheriff with convincing surprise.
I meet them at the door, heart pounding beneath a carefully composed expression.
"Sheriff Donovan was just saying he wanted to welcome us properly to Pinecrest," I explain as Dylan enters, the lie flowing easily.
"That's mighty neighborly," Dylan responds, slipping an arm around my waist with natural possessiveness. His hand rests warm against my hip, thumb brushing the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up.
Donovan's eyes miss nothing, cataloging our interaction, our home, our reactions. "Just doing my duty. Looking out for our newest residents."
We perform the expected hospitality—offering coffee (which is declined), answering questions about our adjustment to town life, and laughing at the appropriate moments during Donovan's anecdotes about local characters.
Throughout, Dylan maintains physical contact—hand at the small of my back, fingers laced with mine on the couch, casual touches that suggest long familiarity. I lean into his side, head resting against his shoulder at one point, playing the devoted wife with convincing ease.
"Well, I should let you folks enjoy your evening," Donovan finally announces, setting down his empty water glass. "Just wanted to make sure you're settling in alright."
"We appreciate the visit," Dylan says, walking him to the door with the perfect blend of respect and casual confidence.
The moment Donovan's cruiser disappears down the drive, tension floods the cottage like oxygen rushing into a vacuum. Dylan moves to the window, checking to ensure the sheriff has truly departed before turning back to me.
"You were convincing," he says, voice rough with something I can't quite identify.
"So were you." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold without his proximity. The phantom pressure of his hand still burns against my hip, the weight of his arm around my shoulders a ghost sensation I can't shake.
"He suspects something." Dylan's expression is grim. "That wasn't a social call."
"I know," I explain the seminar, my questions, Donovan's veiled threats. "I shouldn't have said anything, but the misinformation was so blatant, so dangerous—"
"It's not your fault." He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "He's been watching us since we got here. Men like that don’t trust easy.”
The irony of the statement seems to be lost on him. I don’t bring it up.
Instead, I ask, “What now?"
"We continue as normal. But with extreme caution." His eyes meet mine, intensity burning in their depths. "If he makes one wrong move..."
"Dylan." I step closer, something compelling me to bridge the careful distance we've maintained since that storm-tossed night. "Promise me you won't do anything reckless."
"Define reckless." His mouth quirks in a humorless half-smile.
"You know exactly what I mean."
We stand facing each other in the center of the living room, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can catch the scent of pine and leather that's become inexplicably comforting. Neither acknowledges how easily we'd fallen into our roles as lovers, how natural it had felt to turn into his embrace, to fit against his side as if shaped for that precise purpose.
"I should check in with Silvercreek tomorrow," he says finally, breaking the electric silence between us. "Update them on Donovan's suspicions."
I nod, stepping back, allowing the moment to pass. But as he moves toward his room to make the secure call, the current between us remains unbroken—invisible but undeniable, frightening in its persistence despite every rational objection.
Like gravity, pulling us inevitably together even as we fight to maintain our separate orbits.
Chapter 20 - Dylan
