Chapter 4 #2
I gripped the phone so hard the casing creaked. “The fuck? Maybe she should try fixing it herself.”
He chuckled, low and dark. “You know the drill. Get it done, Gunner.”
The line clicked dead before I could answer.
I washed up this time. Changed into a fresh shirt, pulled my boots back on, and grabbed the toolbox.
On the way across the road, I caught my reflection in the shop window.
The circles under my eyes were darker, my hair wild, but my jaw looked set hard enough to crack stone.
I didn’t know how long I could keep this up.
When I got to the porch, the sun was dropping behind the pecans, painting the house gold and pink. The geraniums had wilted, and the screen door hung even lower than before. I knocked once, harder than necessary. Again, Nanette’s car was not in the driveway.
This time, she opened up right away. The same shorts, the same tank, but now she wore a bandana tied around her head, blue and gold. There was a smear of graphite on one cheek, like she’d wiped sweat away with the back of her hand while sketching.
“Wyatt Earp,” she said, voice deadpan. “Back for more?”
She did it on purpose, using a bullshit cowboy name. I felt the tick in my jaw, the pulse jump in my neck.
“Door still sticks,” I said. “Alpha says to fix it. Don’t understand what’s happening here. It was fine when I left.” I eyed her accusingly.
She grinned, slow and infuriating. “Well, come on in, Wyatt. I wouldn’t want to get shot for insubordination.”
“Enough of that. Earp wasn’t a cowboy. Don’t confuse him with me, sweetheart.” I brushed past her to the back door.
The kitchen was brighter now, evening light slanting across the counter and turning the lemon glass on the windowsill to gold.
The back door was closed, but I could see from ten feet away what the problem was: the wood frame had swollen with the humidity, bowed out so the latch didn’t line up.
It wasn’t the kind of job you could fix with a screwdriver.
I’d need to shave the edge down, plane it, maybe even reset the whole hinge.
Hell, the entire door frame might need to be replaced.
Brie was already in the next room, perched on the edge of the old upright piano bench, bare legs dangling. She held a sketchbook, but her eyes were on me, not the page.
I got to work, running my hand over the frame, feeling for the worst of the swell. I pulled a tape from the box and measured, made a mark with a carpenter’s pencil, and then set the door loose from its hinges.
She watched, silent, for a minute. Then: “You always this… competent?”
“You have no idea, honey,” I said, not looking up.
She made a little noise, part laugh, part huff. “Must be nice. Knowing what you’re good at.”
I took the door outside to the porch and laid it across two sawhorses.
The house was quiet except for the creak of floorboards and the low hum of the old fridge.
I ran a block plane down the high edge, the thin curls of wood falling in neat spirals onto the porch.
The rhythm of the work calmed me, or maybe it just numbed everything else.
She came out after a minute, barefoot, still holding the sketchbook.
“You like working with your hands?” she asked, sitting cross-legged on the step.
I shrugged. “It’s a living.”
She studied me for a beat. “You don’t talk much. Are you like that with everyone or just with me?”
“Guess it depends on my mood,” I said.
She nodded, like she understood, and started to draw. I could hear the pencil scraping the page, the quick, nervous lines. I focused on the door, on the feel of the grain and the bite of the blade.
When I finished, I brushed the edge with my hand, checked the smoothness, then hefted the door up and set it against the wall. She watched me every step, not even pretending to sketch now.
“You’re strong,” she said. “Shit.” She whispered to herself. “Guess you already knew that.” She wasn’t usually so awkward. It was kind of adorable.
I ignored her and went back inside, propped the door in the frame. It slid in easy now, perfect fit. I set the hinges, screwed them tight, and tested the swing.
It was good work. I took a step back, wiping sweat from my forehead, and realized she was right behind me, standing close enough that I could feel the heat off her skin.
“Barely even broke a sweat that time,” she said, eyes locked on my hands.
I tried to move around her, but she didn’t budge. “You’re in the way.”
She smirked. “What if I want to be?”
The air got thick, like a storm rolling in. My wolf paced, restless. I could smell her now—lemon, sweat, and something else. Hunger, maybe.
She set the sketchbook on the counter, arms folded. “So, why do you hate me, Finn Walsh?”
It hit me square in the chest. I stared at her, searching for a lie, but there wasn’t one.
“I don’t hate you,” I said, flat.
She stepped closer, crowding my space. “You act like you do. Like I’m a problem to be fixed, or a job you got stuck with.”
I let the toolbox drop to the floor, the clang loud in the quiet house. I stood my ground.
“You don’t want the truth,” I said. “Trust me.”
She laughed, sharp. “I want something. Not sure what, but I want it.”
I tried to look away, but she grabbed my wrist, fingers small but strong. “Say it. Whatever you’re holding back. You’re not scaring me.”
I didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, slow, like dragging a confession out of a stubborn dog, I said:
“You’re not ready. You think you are, but you’re not. You act tough, but you’re just a little girl playing grown-up, and I don’t have the patience to break you in.”
She jerked her hand back as if I’d slapped her. Her eyes flashed, teal-blue and wet with rage. “Fuck you.”
I nodded once. “Yeah. That’s about what I expected.”
I turned to go, but she moved faster than I thought possible, darting in front of me and blocking the hall. “Don’t you dare walk out. Not after that.”
“Move,” I said, voice low.
She shook her head, and the bandana slid out of her hair, causing it to fall wild around her face. “No. Make me.”
I could’ve walked around her, could’ve shoved her aside, but my hands wouldn’t move. My body felt like it was filled with static, every nerve on fire.
She stared me down, daring me. “Go on, cowboy. Fix it. Or fuck it up. But stop running.”
Something in me snapped. Maybe it was the weeks of wanting, the nights of not sleeping, the way she kept worming into my head even when I tried to drown her out. Maybe it was my wolf’s incessant chanting, “Mate, mate, mate.”
I grabbed her by the arms, hard enough to leave marks, and pushed her back against the wall. She gasped, not in fear, but in something closer to excitement.
I leaned in, mouth at her ear. “You want to know why I can’t stand you, Maverick?”
She looked hurt for a fleeting moment, then laughed, breathless. “Enlighten me.”
I tossed my hat off and kissed her, all teeth and anger, and she bit back just as hard. Her legs locked around my hips, her arms pulling me closer. I could feel every part of her, soft and tense and wanting.
She dropped her legs and clawed at my shirt, tearing it loose from my waistband, her hands hot on my back. I shoved her harder against the wall, lips on her throat, her jaw, her mouth. She didn’t shy away. She met every move, fierce and wild.
I could taste salt and sweat and the sharp tang of lemon from her skin.
She dug her nails into my waist, drawing blood, and I growled low, animal.
I owned every inch of her mouth, my tongue memorizing every taste.
There was no other sound in the room, just the sound of breath and skin and the occasional tap of her head against the drywall when I pinned her too hard.
When I pulled away, we stood there, chest to chest, hearts hammering.
She was the first to speak, voice rough. “Still think I’m not ready?”
She might have kissed like a fucking woman on fire, but when I looked at her, I saw a spoiled brat.
I pulled back, looked her in the eyes. “You’re trouble, Maverick. That’s what you are. You’re reckless and have no discipline. You think everything is a game, and you’re the one moving the pieces across the board. I got news for you darlin’, this isn’t a game I’m interested in playing.”
She grinned, lips swollen, still thinking she was in control. “What does that mean?”
I let her go, put my hat back on, and picked up my toolbox. She watched, smug and triumphant.
“It means you’re still not ready, little girl.”
I left, the sound of her confused gasp following me home.