Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SHIFTED HEART
J eans. Sneakers. Be ready at seven. These are the only instructions Lars gives for tonight’s date, causing me to imagine we’re doing something woodsy.
I just had to write a book about a lumberjack werewolf from the Pacific Northwest. Why hadn’t I written a sexy tech genius turned entrepreneur do-gooder who enjoyed sharing mushroom risotto and playing Uno at his grandfather’s hospital bedside on a Thursday night?
That’s who elicits the flip in my stomach as I stand in front of the mirror and brush my dark tresses up into a high ponytail.
Because that’s what you do with your friends.
You toss and turn all night, your skin still on fire, imagining what it would be like to snuggle close to your friend.
Those thoughts do no good for anyone. Friendship is all that can happen with Davis.
Even if my witchcraft consultant undoes this mess I’ve created, there’s no guarantee that Davis will still want me.
Like he said, it may never be the right time.
I’m not foolish enough to think he’ll just wait around for me. Between now and when I fix this, a million things could happen. He may realize that I’m too much for him. He may meet someone else.
“Hey,” I say as I open the front door.
“Rabbit.” Lars leans his massive frame against the door jam, his gruff timbre low and violet eyes seductive.
At least that’s what I think he’s going for. It comes off more playacting than panty-dropping, causing me to snort.
“That’s not the normal reaction I get,” he mutters, his face twisted into a pout.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat and meet his half-perplexed, half-annoyed gaze with batted eyelashes. “I mean, hello Larsy .”
Groaning, he straightens. “God, you never reminded me more of Jackson as you do right now. You’re both smartasses.”
“We are siblings, after all,” I sass, slipping my cell phone into my back pocket and grabbing my keys.
“Don’t remind me.”
“Why so grumpy, Larsy-poo? Did Jackson give you the whole hurt her and I’ll kill you talk before you headed this way?” I tease, shutting the door behind us and locking it.
During my date with Owen, he shared that Jackson gave him quite the talk. My younger brother may be playful, but he’s just as protective as Rem.
“No.” Lars’s mouth flattens into a firm line. “He just grumbled for me to have fun before he left for work this morning.”
Strange. My head tilts, remembering that the only text exchange with Jackson today was to provide instructions for the date. The day of my date with Owen, Jackson had sent several cheeky messages about sexy cinnamon rolls.
“I see you got my message about appropriate attire for tonight.” He gestures at me.
If I’m going to do something woodsy, I’m going to look cute doing it.
I’ve paired hip-hugging, dark wash jeans with white Skechers.
My swept-up hair allows me to show off the silver teapot stud earrings that Hope got me last Christmas.
A flannel, in shades of purple in a plaid design, is tied at my waist over a pink tank top that both accentuates my shapely figure and covers my snack pouch.
One can love their body as it is, but still want to cover their jiggly bits.
“Just tell me we’re not killing anything. Blood stains are a pain to get out,” I say, taking the stairs.
“I don’t intend for us to kill anything, but I make no promises about blood.” His low chuckle teases.
The waivers we sign at Andersen’s, a local pub that specializes in axe throwing, make no promises about blood.
In fact, they aren’t liable for any injury.
After a quick tutorial from the bar’s axe consultant, we square off in front of the targets.
The bar has a one drink maximum for any axe throwers, so we opt to take our turn and then imbibe after.
It’s more fun than I expected. The bar has customers compete against each other, and then puts the scores on their leader board. At the end of the night, the top scorer wins a Kiss My Big Axe T-shirt and a free beer.
“This isn’t what I expected, but it tracks with something you’d do for a date night.” I laugh, tossing my axe, which smacks into the board just on the edge of the target.
“What did you expect?” He aims his axe, releases, and we watch it sail right to the bullseye.
“I thought you’d chase me through the woods or something.”
He leans close, his grin inches from mine. “The night’s still young, rabbit.”
With a laugh, I tut, “Back in your designated box or I’ll tell our axe consultant you’re breaking the rules.”
Lars’s flirtation is harmless. It’s more the playful banter between friends than anything akin to romance.
We have zero sexual tension, like what I have with Davis.
Also, Lars doesn’t exhibit any intentions like James.
I’m not sure what James’s intentions are.
His swift mood swings back and forth yesterday morning gave me pause.
“Nice job, rabbit.” Lars lets out a loud whistle after my axe makes contact with the target instead of the plywood surrounding it.
“Thanks.” I high-five him and step back to snap a quick photo of my target, so I can show Hope later.
It’s not surprising Lars is destroying me, but I’m pleased with my performance. Pride surges in my chest at how well I’m doing. It’s only my third toss, and I’ve already hit the target. Maybe I am an athletic girl, after all.
That thought causes my mouth to curl up at the memory of my not-so-cute first date with Davis. What I perceived as a snide dig about my weight is just his matter-of-fact way of speaking. He says what he thinks. There’s no underhandedness or hidden meaning to suss out.
“Pumpkin cider,” Lars says, placing my pint in front of me. “I’ll never understand the Lanes’ obsession with pumpkin. Jackson has three different types of pumpkin ale in his fridge.”
He takes the chair across from me at the two-person high-top we’ve claimed. The table offers a perfect view of the designated axe throwing zones on the other side of the bar.
A smirk slants my mouth. It’s the fifth time Lars has brought up Jackson.
The different running trails they hit each morning before Jackson has to get ready for work.
Their game of fetch with Wentworth last night at the park which turned more into them playing catch while my dog slept under a tree.
How Jackson puts ketchup on his eggs, which Lars insists is an abomination.
“And they say werewolves are monsters,” he’d grumbled as we walked from my place to Andersen’s.
Throughout our date, he’s woven my brother into the fabric of our conversation.
“I hope living with Jackson hasn’t been too tough.” I sip my drink.
“Not at all. I enjoy being with Jackson—” face scrunched, he shifts in his seat “—I mean, he’s fine. It’s fine.”
Interesting. I arch one brow. “Do you miss home?”
I know Owen and James do. Both have admitted it in their own ways.
Owen misses Selena but accepts that he may not get back to her.
James mourns being part of a world he understands.
At least, that’s what he shared yesterday morning.
I may think this is hardest on him, because the world he inhabits is so different than this one, but all three are far away from everyone they know and love.
For a woman who’s never lived away from her childhood home, outside of college dorms, I can’t imagine what this might be like for them. Oh god, I’m thirty-two and still technically live at home. Rem is right, I may need to move. One life crisis at a time, Georgia.
“At times,” he admits quietly.
My head tilts. “At times?”
He scrubs his hands down his face. “At home, I’m alpha. I’m responsible for my entire pack. Their safety. Their needs. Everything. Here, I just get to think about myself. What I want. What I need. Not what I’m supposed to do.”
It’s how I wrote Lars. He has such big, broad shoulders because he carries the weight of everything on them. My werewolf may be snarky and flirtatious, but he’s also deeply grounded in caring for others. Until now, I had no idea the toll that burden has on him.
“I never thought of how hard all that responsibility would be on you.” My apologetic gaze meets his.
Lars’s story arc is about letting go of that responsibility.
The push and pull between Ivy and him is about his reluctance to step away out of fear of what would happen to his pack.
The idea of that responsibility’s pressure on him never bled into my narrative, nor is it in my character study for him.
“I’d imagine you can relate to the pressure.” He juts his chin toward me.
“Hardly, I’m not the alpha. I’m just me.”
He huffs a dismissive laugh. “Just a woman who takes responsibility for ensuring everyone is happy but herself.”
“Excuse me?” I scoff.
“I know you plan to pick whichever one of us you think would be least impacted, so the others can hopefully get back.” He picks up his bottle of beer and takes a long pull.
“How?” Eyes narrowed, I point at him. “Owen.”
“The baker can’t keep a secret to save his life.”
“Does James know?”
“Just me.” He places his hand on his chest. “And as honest as I am, I can keep secrets. I assume you don’t want your brother to know that you’re willing to sacrifice your happiness for us. To let him believe this little charade that one of us is meant for you.”
“He worries enough.”
“I know.” His mouth curves down. “You both have such big hearts. It’s why he’s so invested in you finding someone. Not just for the wedding, but for the long haul. He’s hopeful that if you’re always going to focus on everyone else’s happiness, there will be one person that focuses on yours .”
“Ugh,” I groan, tossing my head back. “To take care of me? How did my feminist mother raise two sexist men?”