2. Max
CHAPTER TWO
Max
Apile of boxes has been sitting in the middle of my new living room for nine days.
Not that I’m counting.
The cardboard flaps remain firmly taped closed while I remain firmly planted on the lumpy pill-bottle-orange couch that came with this pre-furnished rental.
The thing sags in the middle and smells like sunscreen no matter how many times I open the windows and let the place air out, but it’s comfortable enough.
People unpack after a move.
The unsolicited comment comes from the same place all shifters hear their animal—the quiet corner of my mind that’s equal parts instinct, intuition, and pain in my ass.
I drag a hand through my hair and stare harder at the nearest box as if my glare alone might frighten it into unpacking itself.
“I’ll get to it.” The words sound weak even to me.
Said that last week.
“I’ve been busy.”
Busy avoiding.
A muscle in my jaw jumps. He’s right, but I’ll never tell him that.
The cottage is quiet except for the rhythmic creak of the ceiling fan overhead.
Sunlight spills through the front windows, catching dust motes that drift through the air.
From here, I can’t see the ocean, but if I listen hard enough, I catch the distant crash of waves and the call of seabirds riding the breeze.
It’s the kind of peacefulness that could lull a person into a false sense of security.
My gaze slides back to the boxes.
There aren’t many of them.
There never are.
Moving every few months growing up taught me the difference between things you need and things that weigh you down.
Nothing’s worth getting attached to. That’s always been my motto. The only rule that’s never changed.
The house smells good.
I huff out a laugh.
“That’s not a reason to stay.”
Ocean. My fox says, convinced this alone is a compelling argument.
I lean my head back against the edge of the couch and stare up at the ceiling fan. “Since when are you into swimming?”
My fox ignores the question.
These neighbors bring food.
A reluctant grin pulls at my mouth. That one actually gives me pause.
The day I moved in, I hadn’t even finished unloading the handful of boxes from the back of my truck before Crescent Cove’s official welcome wagon rolled up my driveway complete with an actual polished and gleaming bright red wagon overflowing with enough food to feed a small army.
Mayor Wren had been the one pulling it. His husband walked beside him carrying a plate heaping with watermelon wedges.
Mrs. Abernathy trailed behind them like a tiny but fierce gray-haired general, while Neve, editor-in-chief of the Crescent Cove Chronicles—which explained the pen tucked behind her ear—balanced three more covered containers and a notepad.
My fox practically blacked out from happiness.
Meanwhile, the four of them launched into a pitch about community involvement, summer traditions, and how the Frosting Queen competition needed a tie-breaking judge.
I’d been halfway through a loaf of fresh baked sourdough before I realized they were asking me to do something. My enthusiastic agreement to be involved had left my mouth before my brain fully processed the ask.
That was the best chowder.
“You’ve got me there.”
My phone rings, vibrating across the coffee table. Gran’s face glows up at me from the screen, loosening the restlessness building behind my ribs enough for me to take a full breath.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite troublemaker,” I say with a smile.
Gran’s delighted laugh fills the cottage. “And my favorite grandson. Though I’ll deny it if you ever tell your cousins.”
Wrinkles crease around her eyes as she smiles.
Silver curls puff around her face like soft storm clouds, framing rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes.
She’s always reminded me of Cinderella’s fairy godmother.
If instead of bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, she hustled her grandchildren at card games and knew when they were lying before they’d even opened their mouths.
Even now, hundreds of miles away, she squints at me for all of three seconds before asking, “Why are you sitting there staring at boxes instead of unpacking them?”
“How do you even know that I found a place?”
“Emmeline told me. Although, she and West will never be able to plan a trip to visit with how often you move about.”
“My cousin is a traitor.”
Gran’s laugh warms my heart. “She also said you used that Pack Lark charm to talk your landlord into a month-to-month rental instead of investing any kind of time or energy into this new town.”
“Emme talks too much.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I stand and begin pacing with the same itchy, fidgety energy that I only know how to soothe by shifting into fox form and finding a soft place to land. Only, in this world, the soft spaces are few and far between.
“That sound contains a massive amount of judgment, Gran.”
Her smile softens. “Maxwell.”
I groan. Gran only says my full name when she’s about to say something annoyingly insightful.
“It’s time.”
I stop pacing, and my shoulders tense. I know exactly which conversation we’re about to have. Again.
“No.”
“Maxwell,” she sighs.
“No.”
“You’re twenty-seven.”
I run my hand through my white-blond waves. “Last time I checked.”
“It’s time to stop living out of boxes.”
My gaze drifts toward the pile occupying the center of my living room.
When I moved in, I unpacked a duffel bag with enough clothes to see to my minimal needs and a toiletry kit that’s been accompanying me around the country for years.
The cottage came furnished. The kitchen came stocked with most of the basics. Plus, I’ve never needed much.
“Maxwell, it’s time to put down roots.”
I can’t bring myself to look at her.
Most people hear put down roots and think of gardens, community, home. I hear it and think about loss. About planting something and watching it grow, only to tear it out of the ground before it has the chance to bloom.
“Gran—”
“You’ll feel better settled.”
“I am settled,” I say far too quickly.
She raises one frosty white eyebrow. “You can make friends.”
I bristle. “I have friends.”
“Friends who live within five miles of you? Even fifty?”
I open my mouth and close it just as fast.
Gran tilts her head to the side, studying me. “Perhaps you’ll even find your mate.”
My fox practically bolts upright beneath my skin.
Mate! Yes, agreed. Mate.
“Let’s not get carried away.”
“Give yourself a chance to grow into a place.” Her voice softens. “Into yourself instead of running.”
My chest tightens, and I start pacing again. This time the movement doesn’t help—nothing helps—because she’s shining a spotlight directly at the thing I spend my life trying not to look at.
“You’re old enough now to face it, Maxwell.”
I stop beside the front window. Outside, the street stretches between rows of brightly painted homes, their white picket fences nearly disappearing beneath explosions of cosmos and hollyhocks and clusters of daisies and lavender.
It’s so perfectly picturesque it makes staying seem possible.
My fox presses closer to the front of my thoughts.
Pretty.
Movement catches my eye, and I can’t tell if he’s talking about the neighborhood or the brunette at the far end of the street who’s carrying a giant basket
“You aren’t your parents. You know that, right?”
At Gran’s words, I suck in a breath and nearly choke on my own spit.
“You didn’t choose that life,” she continues gently. “You didn’t choose to move every few months. You didn’t choose to leave people behind before you were ready.”
My throat tightens.
“You’re grown now. You get to make your own decisions. So, Maxwell, sweetheart, what do you want? What does your fox want?”
People who know us. A couch that’s mine. Someone waiting for us. Someone who stays. A home. My fox pushes in, answering before I can stop him and longing hits so suddenly it steals my breath.
I swallow hard.
And a cat.
“Anyway.” My voice comes out frayed, and I clear my throat. “You’ll be pleased to know that signed up for a summer volleyball league. I’ve even joined a community event.”
Gran’s face brightens, and I push on before she can start planning more of my future.
“You’re looking at the newest judge of the Frosting Queen summer pageant competition…thing. I’m a little foggy on the details.”
“Well, it sounds wonderful. I’m so proud of you for taking this first step.”
My chest tightens all over again, and I rub the knot that feels lodged behind my sternum.
“Yeah, soooo,” I say, dragging the word out, “I should probably get back to unpacking these boxes.”
Neither of us believes that I have started or am planning to continue unpacking anything.
“You’ll call me next week and tell me more about this Frosting Queen pageant thing?” she asks with a knowing smile.
“Of course.”
“And you’ll give Crescent Cove a chance?”
I rub the back of my neck.
“Sure.”
“Maxwell.”
My full name sounds like a foghorn through the speaker. I try to hold out but end up caving like a sandcastle at high tide.
“Yes, Gran,” I sigh. “I’ll give Crescent Cove a chance.”
The laugh lines around her eyes crease when she smiles. “I love you, sweetheart.”
My throat tightens. “Love you too, Gran.”
The screen goes dark, and it’s suddenly too quiet inside.
We need to run.
For once, my fox and I agree.
I yank my shirt off over my head and toss it onto the nearest box. The silver fox pendant around my neck is cold on my chest as I head for the front door, fox stretching beneath my skin as I shove my feet into my running shoes.
I don’t give myself time to think about the boxes or putting down roots or calling someplace home.
I don’t let myself think about the hollow chasm that opened in my chest when Gran asked what I wanted.
I definitely don’t admit to myself that I’m not running toward the ocean and am, in truth, running away from everything that wise old woman just made me feel.
The fake rock sits beside the front steps, and I retrieve the key, lock the cottage, and slide it back into the weathered plastic shell even though my short time in Crescent Cove has already shown me that locking my door is mostly due to habit.
The citizens are too busy being overly welcoming and generally pleasant for me to worry about any real threats. I’m not even sure their police force has much to do besides put up barricades for the next parade.
The thought almost makes me smile.
I plant one foot on the bottom step and lean into the stretch, rolling my shoulders as I listen to the distant crash of waves. I straighten, press one earbud into place, and turn toward the street.
Then freeze.
Two women are speedwalking toward my house.
The brunette I spotted through the window earlier is carrying a basket roughly the size of a Labrador.
The thing is overflowing with ribbons, flowers, and every few steps the cellophane catches the sunlight and sends white flashes across my vision.
The blond following at a short distance behind is balancing a three-tier cake.
My fox immediately abandons all interest in the run.
Cake. Cake!
The women get closer, and the brunette reaches my front walkway first.
She’s undeniably beautiful. Long dark hair spills over her shoulders. A pale pink dress skims her narrow curves, and a rhinestone tiara glitters on her head.
“Hey there, Maxwell,” she chirps and flashes me a bright smile.
I search my memory, but I don’t recall running into her. And she’s someone I would remember.
“Candi Honeycutt,” she supplies smoothly, reaching out a slender hand for me to shake. “Candi with an I and reigning Frosting Queen.”
The tiara makes more sense now.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, taking her small hand in mine. “And call me Max. Only my Gran uses my full name and usually only when I’m in trouble.”
“I’m Lila! Hart. Lila Hart.” The introduction arrives in a breathless rush as the blond practically screeches to a stop beside the brunette.
Hair tumbles from her messy bun, falling into golden strands that frame her flushed cheeks.
Curves soften the lines of her body, lush and feminine beneath a dress that sways around her thighs in colorful stripes of coral, yellow, turquoise, and purple.
The fabric dances in the breeze, the bright colors suiting her perfectly.
Her lips are full and pink and parted as she catches her breath.
She’s sunshine filtered through stained glass. A meadow of wildflowers at the peak of summer. Everything about her feels warm and bright and stunningly alive.
The cake she’s carrying is considerably less put together.
Clumps of lavender frosting are smeared down one side of the tiers along with flower petals and bits of glitter. Not to mention the fact that the whole thing leans ever so slightly to the left.
The cake wobbles, and a startled squeak escapes her as she lunges forward, steadying it before it topples onto the sidewalk.
The sudden movement sends her scent rushing toward me.
“Lila…” All coherent thoughts leave my head.
My fox slams against the inside of my skin so hard it almost hurts.
More.
I inhale so deeply I’m lightheaded. Or maybe that’s just her buttery, birthday cake sweetness filling every inch of my lungs. My mouth waters as the scent settles into places inside me I didn’t know were empty. Every restless part of my body goes still, and my fox practically melts.
Lila.
The word vibrates through my chest, and I have to force myself not to purr.
Mate.
The certainty behind it sends a shock of electricity down my legs.
Lila tightens her grip on the stand, the pulse in her neck quickening. A delicate flutter beneath sun-kissed skin that warms her sweet scent and sends another tantalizing cloud of vanilla and buttercream and sunshine to envelop me.
My fox rubs against my skin, trying to get closer.
Trying to get free. The urge to move to her, touch her, breathe her in, bury myself in her soft, warm curves and figure out why every instinct I possess is suddenly pointing toward this woman hits me so hard, each muscle in my body locks to keep me in place.
Beautiful. My fox purrs. Most beautiful, best smelling woman in the world.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say, the words leaving my mouth before my brain catches up. “Beautiful.”