Chapter 11
Brie
When I woke, the world was all haze and slight muscle ache, like I’d run a triathlon in my sleep and finished last in every event.
The sun through Gunner’s bedroom window was already up and aiming for my eyes, so I rolled away from it, straight into the dent in the mattress his body had left.
The sheets still held the ghost of last night: sweat, heat, a little dried blood where his stubble had abraded my thighs raw.
I stretched and immediately regretted it—my ass was still bruised, my thighs sore in ways that told a story without words.
My wolf healing made it better than it might have been had I been human. Boy. That said something.
I felt wrecked and reborn. I felt… content.
The first thing I noticed was the emptiness.
The space beside me was cooling, his scent fading into cotton and air.
I clutched the sheets, half expecting to find a note pinned to my chest saying, “Thanks, but this was a one-time special.” Instead, there was a literal note on the nightstand, written in neat, slanting blue ink:
Church with officers at 7. You looked too perfect to wake. Help yourself to food and coffee. Clothes in the hall.
Be back soon. -FW
I stared at it, the F and W mashed together in the signature like he was trying to economize his handwriting for speed. I ran my finger over the edge of the paper. It felt heavier than it should.
Underneath, there was a pen and a single Advil gel cap, left for me like a communion wafer.
I popped it without water and pushed myself upright, letting the blanket fall.
My skin was a disaster—fresh bruises mapped out on my thighs, the sweep of my ribs, and yes, that special bullseye on my right cheek.
My wolf purred at the sight, smug and possessive.
I wrapped the sheet around myself and padded out of the room, heart hammering for no reason at all.
The hallway was painted a warm, lived-in tan, with family photos hung in a lopsided trail leading to the kitchen.
The faces in the frames were all Gunner—taller and skinnier at first, then with the stubborn edge to his jaw fully set by college.
A high school graduation photo with a brother and sister at his side, both younger, both with that same wild Irish smile.
His mother, holding a pie. His father, enormous and craggy, wearing a black hat and a grin you could see from Mars.
There were no women, no ex-girlfriends, no ghosts. I checked.
In the kitchen, the light was soft and gold, slanting through the window and glancing off the clean lines of the countertops. The place was tidy but not precious. There was a note on the counter—Aspen’s handwriting, curly and looping:
Eat, or I will know.
Beside it, a white box tied with pretty blue and white twine. Inside the still-warm cinnamon rolls she’d made famous. The smell hit me like a home invasion—sugar, butter, a hint of citrus. The coffee maker held a carafe of still-hot coffee, next to a mug with “World’s Okayest Rancher” on the side.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I tore into a cinnamon roll with my hands, and let the frosting paint my lips. The caffeine sizzled through my system. By the time I finished the first roll, I felt almost human.
I slunk back to Gunner’s room, found the duffel bag in the hall, and dug out the clothes he’d left: a pair of gray joggers, two sizes too big, and a t-shirt with the logo for the Amarillo Livestock Auction stretched across the chest. I held the shirt up to my nose and inhaled.
It was pure Gunner—sun, leather, the memory of him holding me down and making me call him Sir. I shivered.
As I got dressed, my wolf started up again, low and insistent: Mate. Mate. Mate.
Last night, I’d let myself believe it was just sex—epic, world-ending, rewrite-the-dictionary sex, but still just sex.
Now, the word “mate” was stamped in every cell.
My body recognized him before my mind did.
The bond pulsed behind my sternum, not just a string but a steel cable, a lifeline and a shackle all at once.
I tried to slow my breathing. This was what I wanted.
Right? To be claimed, needed, possessed by someone who made me feel strong and small at the same time.
But the finality of it pressed against my ribs, a weight I wasn’t sure I could lift.
What if I weren’t enough? What if he saw the cracks and changed his mind?
What if being “mate” meant being perfect, and I was still the mess I’d always been?
I tugged the waistband of the joggers up over my hips. They were soft and well-worn. The shirt hung to my mid-thigh. I looked ridiculous. I looked…right.
I stood in front of his bedroom mirror, squinting at myself in the daylight. My hair was a tangle, the blue tips standing out like war paint. My face was splotchy but alive, lips still red from biting. I brushed my fingers over the bruises, then touched the skin above my heart, where it hurt most.
We’re going to be okay, I told my wolf. We just have to try.
The wolf licked its paw and settled in, smug and at peace for the first time since Paris.
I went back to the kitchen, made another cup of coffee, and sat at the table to wait. I didn’t know what the day would bring, or what Gunner would say when he got home. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was running. I felt claimed, and it was the best kind of terrifying.
I finished the second cinnamon roll, licking sugar off my fingers, and looked out the window.
The ranch stretched forever, fields and fences and a line of pecan trees dark against the sky.
I tried to picture myself here—a gallery in town, dinners at this table, a life that felt rooted instead of borrowed.
It seemed impossible. But I wanted it.
That was the beginning.
Downtown Dairyville was five blocks of nostalgia posing as progress, and our new building was smack in the middle—a two-story brick-and-mortar leftover from the days when people did their shopping on foot and not by algorithm.
I parked the Lexus (Harper’s, but she’d let me drive today) in front of the curb, next to a battered feed truck and a golf cart loaded with someone’s groceries.
The fresh paint on the facade gleamed in the Texas sun, a kind of midnight blue that made the old brick pop like a before-and-after shot on a reality show.
The awning above the front windows read “Tierney-Davenport Building” in chunky serif, and I made a note to one day swap it out for something less geriatric.
The architect Chantel was pulling away just as I’d pulled in.
She’d been more hands-on than I’d thought she’d be, regularly checking on the construction crews.
She wanted to be sure her designs and blueprints were being followed to the letter.
It had been a few weeks, and things had really started to take shape.
Harper was already inside, talking to the construction foreman.
I could hear her laugh through the glass, bright and insistent, even over the whine of a power saw.
She wore high-waisted jeans, a sleeveless blouse, and a pair of Blundstones—her “I’m not here to mess around” outfit.
Her hair was up in a bun, but stray pieces fell out, framing her face in the kind of deliberate chaos you’d pay $200 for at a salon.
She saw me through the window and waved, then pointed to her watch in a way that said “you’re late, but I forgive you. ”
I hustled across the sidewalk, ducking past a pair of construction guys in matching orange t-shirts, and let myself into the cool, echoey space.
The ground floor was already gutted to the bones, dust swirling in sunbeams. Rows of bare bulbs hung from the rafters, and the smell of fresh paint and sawdust was so thick you could taste it.
There were two ladders, three folding tables covered in blueprints, and a stack of drywall leaned against the far wall like dominoes waiting to fall.
Harper called out, “You’re here! You brought coffee, right?”
I handed her the drink carrier—Aspen’s again; I’d grabbed extra cinnamon rolls for the crew. “You’re lucky I didn’t eat all of these on the way over.” I tossed her one, nearly missing her head. She caught it one-handed, then gave me a squinty, up-and-down look, noticing my small wince.
“Gunner the cause of that?” She asked, eyebrows up.
I flushed. “Combo situation. I started it. He finished it.”
She just grinned. “Oh girl, there’s a story there that is dying to be told. When you’re ready, I’ll be ready to listen.”
We walked together to the back, where the new dividing wall was going up—metal studs already set, insulation peeking out like pink cotton candy. The forewoman, a short woman with inked arms and a permanent scowl, met us there.
She gestured to the wall that would divide our spaces. “We’ll have this up by Thursday. Drywall done in a couple of days. Office doors after that. Your side’s got the better light, by the way.”
Harper smirked. “Told you.”
We did a walk-through of the space. The ground floor was divided into two large sections.
On one side, the future studio for Harper’s dance classes; on the other, my gallery, with an open floor plan, a reception area and small office at the back.
The ceilings were high; the ductwork painted matte black; and the floors were original hardwood, sanded and sealed.
Upstairs, a catwalk circled the open atrium, leading to my office and a storage room.
I stood in what would be my gallery, picturing it full of paintings and sculptures and people who didn’t see Dairyville as a dead end. “It’s perfect,” I whispered.
Harper nudged me. “You’re going to crush it here. You know that, right?”