Chapter Three #2
“No.” I will not be a charity case. And he will be compensated for his work.
His jaw flexes. “It’s not charity.”
“It sounds charity-adjacent.”
“It’s mate-adjacent.”
My entire body locks and Daniel closes his eyes for half a second. “That came out wrong.”
“I hope so.”
“I meant...” He exhales slowly. “I meant I want to help because I care what happens to you. The bond is part of that, but it isn’t all of it.”
The bakery disappears for a heartbeat. The counter between us feels too wide and too thin at the same time.
I hate how carefully he says things, how he stops when he gets it wrong and corrects himself instead of bulldozing through. My first mate never corrected himself. He never needed to. Men with power rarely think they owe language any kindness.
Daniel looks like he wants to reach for me, but he does not.
I close the folder, my fingers trembling just enough that I hope he does not notice, but we both know he does.
“Lunch,” I say abruptly, and he blinks. “I have thirty minutes.”
His face changes. Not smug or victorious. Just pleased, warm in a way that makes my wolf sigh like a dramatic idiot.
“Okay,” he says.
“Don’t look that happy. It’s suspicious.”
“I’ll try to be miserable.”
“Thank you.”
I grab the brown paper bag and head toward the tiny table in the corner near the window. It is technically for customers, but I own the place, so customers can cope.
Daniel follows, and Maisie gives me a thumbs-up from behind the counter. I show her one finger, and she beams like I have blessed her.
Daniel pulls out the chair across from me, then pauses like he’s not sure whether the gesture will annoy me. It does, but it also does not.
I stare at him for a second, then sit. “Don’t make a thing of it,” I say.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You’re absolutely dreaming of it.”
“Every man needs a dream,” he says softly.
“Dreaming is a terrible quality in a man,” I counter.
“Noted,” he deadpans.
He sits across from me, and the table suddenly seems too small. His knees almost brush mine underneath. Almost. That word is becoming a theme, and I don’t appreciate it. He opens the bag and pulls out containers.
Chicken salad. Fresh rolls. Fruit. Two slices of chocolate cake.
My gaze snaps to his. “Where did you get cake?”
“From the diner.”
I stare at him in horror. “You brought diner cake into my bakery?” I hiss in accusation.
His eyes widen. “Was that wrong?”
“That is like bringing a stray cat into a wolf den!”
“I didn’t know.” He looks chagrined.
“It’s dry, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t tried it.”
“It’s always dry. That cake tastes like sadness and poor choices.”
He slowly pushes the cake aside. “I apologize.”
“You should.”
“I’ll do better.”
“You will not bring outside cake into my house again.”
“Your house?” he asks with a quirked brow.
“My bakery. Same thing.”
His gaze moves around the space, taking in the shelves, the chalkboard, the jars of cookies, the window boxes full of lavender. When he looks back at me, his expression is quieter.
“It feels like you,” he says.
I pretend to be very busy opening a container. “You don’t know me.”
“I know.”
“Then how would you know what feels like me?”
“I don’t know all of you,” he says. “But I know this place is warm, stubborn, pretty, and a little dangerous if handled wrong.”
I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth, and my heart does that flipping thing again.
Rude damn organ.
“That was almost smooth,” I say.
“I’m improving.”
“Don’t get cocky.” I point my fork at him.
“I make no promises.”
We eat, and it’s shockingly easy. That bothers me.
I expected awkwardness. I expect the bond to sit between us like a panting wolf with no manners. It is there, of course. I feel it every time Daniel reaches for his drink, every time his fingers flex around the fork, every time his eyes linger on my mouth.
But he talks about normal things. The porch swing he fixed for Mrs. Bell. The library door that sticks when it rains. The fact that Mr. Phelps pretended not to need help carrying feed bags, then nearly fell into the display of garden gnomes at the hardware store.
I laugh more than I mean to. Daniel is funny in a dry, understated way. He does not perform for attention. He says ridiculous things like they are facts and lets me decide whether to smile.
It’s unfairly effective.
“So,” I say after a while, because letting him ask all the gentle questions feels too vulnerable. “Why a handyman?”
His shoulder lifts. “I’m good at fixing things.”
“That sounds like a line.”
His smile fades at the edges. “I moved around a lot. Packs always need someone who can repair a roof, wire a barn, rebuild a fence. Being useful gets you fed.”
The words are casual, but the scent beneath them is not. Loneliness has a scent too. Not like pity. Not sour but more hollow. Like cold air moving through an empty room.
My chest tightens. “You don’t have a pack?” I ask.
“Not anymore.”
“Is that by choice?”
“Mostly.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” he says. “It’s an answer that needs more time.”
That’s fair. I gave him less than that yesterday. So I nod and don’t push.
The silence that follows is not uncomfortable even if it should be. But it settles between us like something alive and careful.
Then I ruin it. “I meant what I said yesterday.”
His gaze sharpens. “About?”
“The bond...” I gesture between us with my fork, because emotional conversations should always involve cutlery. “Whatever this is.”
“This is lunch with paperwork.”
“And suspicious flowers.”
“Can’t forget those.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
The humor leaves him, and suddenly all I see is the wolf under his skin. Not threatening. Not demanding. Just present, powerful, and waiting.
“I won’t rush you,” he says.
My throat tightens. “The bond might.”
“I’m not the bond.” The words hit harder than they should.
I look down at my hands. There’s flour under one nail and a tiny burn mark near my wrist from a tray last week. These are my hands. My work. My life. Mine.
“I need to know you want me,” I whisper. “Not just because your wolf decided I smell nice.”
Daniel is silent for so long I force myself to look up. His face is open, raw. “I do like how you smell,” he says.
My lips twitch despite myself. “Daniel.”
“I’m getting there.” He leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, but still leaves space between us.
“The bond wants you because you’re mine.
My wolf knows it. My body knows it. But I want to know you because you’re Holly.
Because you yell at appliances and name ovens.
Because you threaten people with baked goods and pretend not to care when you care too much.
Because you laugh like it surprises you, and every time you do, I want to earn the next one. ”
Oh. Oh, that is very bad. My chest aches in a way I don’t know what to do with.
I stare at him, and he stares back. My wolf presses against my ribs, quieter now. Less frantic. Like even she understands this is important.
“You can’t say things like that,” I whisper.
His brow furrows. “Why?”
“Because I might believe you.” The confession slips out before I can stop it, and Daniel’s expression softens.
“I’d like that,” he says. “Eventually.”
My eyes sting. Absolutely not. I refuse to cry over chicken salad and a man who brought criminally dry cake into my bakery.
So I stand abruptly. Lunch is over. Mostly because I’m a coward. Daniel stands too, slower, careful not to crowd me.
“Thank you for lunch,” I say, very businesslike.
“You’re welcome.”
“And the estimate.”
“Also welcome.”
“And the flowers.”
His mouth lifts. “Not terrible?”
I glance at them on the counter. They are cheerful and ridiculous and sitting in my bakery like they have always belonged there. “Moderately acceptable.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You should. It’s the highest praise I offer.”
“I’m honored.”
I walk him to the back door because sending him through the front means dealing with Maisie’s face, and I’m not emotionally prepared for whatever shape her eyebrows are making.
At the door, Daniel pauses. The alley behind the bakery is quiet. Afternoon sunlight spills over the brick wall, catching in his hair, turning the darker blond strands gold.
He looks too good standing there. Too solid. Too patient. Too much like something I might want to keep.
“Well,” I say, because apparently I have forgotten all words not spoken by awkward grandmothers. “Bye.”
His lips twitch. “Bye.”
Neither of us moves. The bond hums, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Mine drops to his, and the air changes instantly, filling with heat, awareness, and a pull so strong my fingers twitch at my sides.
One step. That is all it would take. One step and I would know what his mouth feels like. Whether he kisses soft or hungry. Whether his hands shake when they touch me. Whether that restraint he wears like armor would crack if I whispered yes.
Daniel inhales slowly, then he steps back.
Not away like rejection. Away like respect. The difference is so clear it nearly hurts.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, voice rough.
I nod because words are currently unavailable.
He turns and walks down the alley, and I watch until he disappears around the corner. Only then do I press one hand to my chest, right over the warm, terrifying glow of the bond.
My wolf sighs, and I close my eyes. “This is still a bad idea,” I tell her.
She does not believe me, but neither do I.
When I go back inside, Maisie is standing beside the counter holding the little flower card.
Please don’t run away. I brought carbohydrates.
Her eyes are wet.
“Oh, shut up,” I tell her.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re about to say something sentimental.”
“No.” She sniffles. “I’m about to say you should marry him.”
I throw a dish towel at her head. She ducks, laughing. I laugh too, despite myself, and the sound fills the bakery, warm and strange and not nearly as terrifying as it should be.
Outside, somewhere in town, Daniel is walking away because I asked for slow. And for the first time in a very long time, slow does not feel like being abandoned. It feels like being given a choice.