Chapter 2 #3
Michael laughed, and the sound did something complicated to my insides. Made my wolf sit up and pay attention in a way that was becoming harder and harder to ignore.
A knock at the front door saved me from having to examine that feeling too closely.
“Food's here,” I said, already moving.
“I gathered that. I may be sleep-deprived but I can still recognize basic cause and effect.”
I opened the door to find not a delivery person but Jonah standing on the porch, holding bags from Martha's and grinning like he knew exactly what he'd interrupted.
“Alpha,” he said cheerfully. “Heard you were playing handyman. Thought I'd bring the provisions.”
“Martha called you.”
“Martha calls everyone. It's her superpower.” He thrust the bags at me. “There's enough food in there for six people. She said, and I quote, 'that Harrington boy needs feeding and Daniel needs to stop hovering like a worried hen.'”
“I'm not hovering.”
“Sure you're not.” Jonah's grin widened. “Need anything else? A chaperone maybe?”
“Goodbye, Jonah.”
“Going, going.” He threw a wave toward the interior of the house. “Feel better, Mr. Harrington!”
“Thanks!” Michael called back. “And tell Martha I said thank you for the food and to stop gossiping about my eating habits!”
“Will do!”
I shut the door on Jonah's retreating laughter and carried the bags to the kitchen. Michael was already there, pulling out containers with an expression that was half hungry, half overwhelmed.
“She sent pie,” he said. “She sent three different kinds of pie.”
“Martha takes feeding people very seriously.”
“Apparently.” Michael opened the container of tomato soup and inhaled deeply. “That smells amazing. I forgot food could smell amazing.”
“Eat.”
“Still bossy.”
“Always.”
We ate at the kitchen counter because the table was covered with construction plans and sawdust. Michael made it through a whole bowl of soup and half a grilled cheese before his body seemed to remember it was supposed to be hungry.
The color came back to his face slowly, gray giving way to pink, and by the time we got to the pie, he looked almost human again.
“I have a confession,” he said, scraping the last of the apple pie from his plate.
“What's that?”
“I lied earlier.”
“I know.”
His eyes met mine. “It happened with Anna. It happened fast and brutal and I wasn't ready. So I thought if I just didn't let anyone close again, it couldn't happen.”
“That's not living,” I said quietly. “That's just surviving.”
“I know. I'm starting to realize that.” He was quiet for a moment. “Thank you. For showing up. For not letting me push you away.”
“You're not very good at pushing.”
“I'm excellent at pushing. You're just stubborn.”
“Pot, kettle.”
Michael laughed again, and I realized I could get used to that sound. Could get addicted to it, if I wasn't careful.
“I should let you get some rest,” I said, standing. “You look like you might actually be able to sleep for more than two hours tonight.”
“I feel like I might.” Michael stood too, started gathering the empty containers. “Thanks for... all of this. The food. The help. The aggressive concern for my wellbeing.”
“Aggressive concern is my specialty.”
“I noticed.” He stacked the containers by the sink, movements slow but steadier than they'd been hours ago. “What am I supposed to do with all these leftovers? There's enough pie here to feed a small army.”
“Eat them. That's generally how leftovers work.”
“Helpful.”
I should leave. Should let him rest, give us both space to process whatever this was becoming. But my wolf had other ideas, and before I could stop myself, the words were out.
“The mill needs an accountant.”
Michael turned, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”
“Callahan Lumber. We've needed someone to handle the books for months.
Our last accountant retired to Florida, and I've been doing it myself, which means it's a disaster.” I kept my voice steady, like this was a perfectly normal business proposition and not an excuse I was building brick by brick.
“Flexible hours. Decent pay. Mostly paperwork and keeping me from making financial decisions I'll regret.”
Michael stared at me. “You're offering me a job.”
“I'm telling you there's a position open. What you do with that information is up to you.”
“At the lumber mill. Where everyone is a wolf.”
“Where most of the workers are pack, yes.”
“And you want me there. A human. Handling pack business.”
“I want someone competent handling the books so I can stop pretending I understand profit margins and tax codes.” I held his gaze. “The fact that you're human doesn't factor into it.”
That was mostly true. Mostly.
Michael was quiet for a long moment. His fingers drummed against the counter, restless, thinking. I could practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes, weighing the offer against his pride, his grief, his stubborn need to do everything alone.
“I don't need charity, Daniel.”
“It's not charity. It's a job offer. You're a trained financial analyst with skills I need and, I'm guessing, time you need to fill with something other than beer and drywall.”
“That's...” He shook his head, but there was something almost amused in his expression. “You're not subtle, you know that?”
“I've never claimed to be subtle.”
“No. You really haven't.” Michael leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, studying me like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. “Can I think about it?”
“Take all the time you need.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you say no. No hard feelings. The offer doesn't come with strings.”
“Everything comes with strings.”
“Not this.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, searching for something. I don't know if he found it, but some of the wariness in his expression eased.
“I'll think about it,” he said finally. “That's all I can promise right now.”
“That's enough.”
We stood there in the doorway, the evening light turning gold around us.
Michael's heartbeat had steadied. His hands weren't shaking anymore.
He looked tired still, bone-deep exhausted in a way that wouldn't fix itself overnight.
But he also looked... better. Lighter. Like some of the weight he'd been carrying had shifted, just a little.
“Get some sleep,” I said.
“Get some yourself. You look almost as tired as I feel.”
“I'm an Alpha. We don't get tired.”
“That's the most obvious lie you've told all day.”
Probably true.
I headed down the porch steps, made it halfway to the truck before Michael called out.
“Daniel?”
I turned back.
He was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the warm light of the house behind him. The house he was rebuilding with his own two hands, one nail at a time.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked. “There's a lot more trim that needs doing. And I apparently can't be trusted with a hammer.”
My wolf did something that felt suspiciously like joy.
“Same time tomorrow,” I agreed.
Michael smiled. Real and warm and just for me.
I carried that smile all the way home.