Prayers for the Prickly (Heat, Prey, Love #6)

Chapter 1

Gregor

Inhaling, I let my eyes close as I breathed in the cool sea breeze flowing through the open windows of my workshop. No candle, room spray, or air freshener, hell, nothing humans had ever designed smelled as good as wood shavings and the rolling ocean outside.

If this was what people meant when they talked about easing into the day, it was definitely something I could get behind. A soft word to the smart speaker soon got my list of old school grunge and alternative started, low enough that I could still hear the waves crash against the shore.

Driftwood of varying shapes and sizes rested on the workbench that lined the far wall, each destined to be something, once it gave up its secrets. I’d never considered myself to be a craftsman, that implied creating something out of nothing. No, what I did was coax the spirit of the wood to burst forth from beneath weathered layers, once I’d harvested it from its sandy grave on the beach.

Rubbing calloused fingers in lazy circles over the smooth surface, I caressed it to the beat of the song as I waited for the piece to tell me what it wanted to be. Nothing could happen until it did.

Over the years, I’d tried yoga, I’d tried meditation, I’d even tried goat yoga and discovered I was allergic to the adorably bleating things, a fact that hadn’t helped control my legendary temper. It always seemed to work out that way for me. Even when I discovered something that I enjoyed immensely, something always came along and ruined it.

At my most reflective, I could admit to expecting the worst right from the very beginning, and when I really did a bit of soul searching, I recognized that there were times when I self-sabotaged, too, wanting to get the inevitable over with.

My old man had laughed when I’d first opened the shop and point blank asked if I was dreaming up new ways of racking up charges.

It had rankled, but I’d choked down the urge to remind my pops of the empty garage that now housed odds and ends that were destined for the local thrift shop, once he grew board of listening to his wife and mother-in-law harp about him forgetting to take them.

“Seriously, Pops, Mom’s threatening to put radishes in everything from the pancakes to the chocolate cake until you load up the truck and haul everything away.”

“Are you forgetting that I happen to love radishes?”

“No one likes radishes in their pancakes.”

“It’s palatable.”

“Seriously? What’s the real reason you won’t clear the mess out of there and go donate it?”

“Because I know your mother,”

his old man replied. “The moment that garage is empty, she’s going to get after me to turn it into a pantry and a pottery workshop and then where the hell am I supposed to go to tinker the next time I get it in my head to restore some old beauty I come across?”

“Let’s be realistic, Pops. It would get more use as a pottery studio. Mom always has plastic and clay covering the kitchen table these days and half of the dining room table is littered with the pieces she’s been painting. In all the years that you’ve lived there, you’ve brought exactly one car home, and it literally took from the time I was seven until I turned sixteen for you to get it fixed and out of the garage.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m done restoring things. I’m just pacing myself.”

“Well Mom’s pace is faster, by a lot,”

I pointed out. “And didn’t you just finish overhauling Pacey and Paul’s room to turn it into the den you’ve always wanted? Mom said the flatscreen takes up an entire wall and that you put in a bar with a hibachi and mini fridge so you didn’t have to come out to eat if you didn’t want to.”

“Which also means that she doesn’t have to cook if she doesn’t want to.”

“So not the point.”

“Look, kid, when you find a mate and you live with them for twenty-five years, then you can tell me what the best course of action is when it comes to how to run your household, because mine has been rolling along just fine for decades.”

“If you say so, Pops. Gotta run.”

“You just remember what I said, when you get arrested in your own shop for threatening to tie an anchor to a customer’s leg and drop them off the jetty.”

“I’m not worried about it.”

“You should be.”

“Already been taken care of.”

“How, you stash away another bail fund I’m gonna need a treasure map to locate?”

“Nope. I hired Olly to deal with the customers for me.”

Now here we were, seven months later, with the latch on the front door snapping open right on schedule. Olly was never late, and he never hurried customers out at the end of the day. From eleven until six, he kept the showroom open and dusted while the customers chatted and sipped homemade lemonade from the cart he kept beside the counter. Somehow, he kept my creations flowing out the door and the money flowing in, to the point where we’d started turning a profit after the second month.

I was in my element here, finally having found the one thing that kept me from snarling and snapping my way through every day, pissed the sun was shining and even more pissed when the moon came out to announce that the day was through.

Turning the wood, I studied it from every angle before standing it on one end. The three clawlike limbs protruding from it made an awesome base. Now that I had claws on the brain, I couldn’t unthink it. The more I studied the driftwood I’d harvested earlier that morning, the more I could picture the tips of those three limbs sharpened to points, each wrapping around a polished stone. The shape of the wood, and the way it was subtly twisted, formed the perfect base for an eagle’s leg.

Or a dragon’s?

Decisions, decisions.

Lay it down, caress it more, let the image form in my mind.

If I went with scales, I could add resin inlays, with stone chips to match the stone it held. Maybe I’d add some silver flecks to it, or goldleaf, depending on the color of the stone I choose. It would definitely need to hang, and the jagged angle of the neck would give it character, especially if I dipped it in molten steel and forged a crossed ring mount for it and dual chains, to make certain the weight was evenly distributed and wouldn’t come crashing down on someone’s head.

While it was tempting, I didn’t want to turn this one into a light fixture. Adding a bulb would ruin the effect of the stone. It would look awesome in front of a window, though, especially if I chose something with a marbled effect, so the sunrays would highlight the different hues. Something more translucent than solid, like rose quartz, or amethyst, or even a light smoky with clear quartz ribbons spun through the gray.

And I knew just who to see for a stone the size of the one I was thinking, as well as the length of wrought iron chain that would be needed to support it. The more I studied it, the more I could see the dragon’s claw taking shape.

Definitely dragon.

There would be little I’d have to do to the actual wood, aside from the inlays, and the sharpening of the claws. Pleased that the wood had revealed its hidden truth so easily, I began to assemble to materials I had, so I could make a list of what I needed. I never started a project until I had every component in hand. There was nothing more vibe wrecking than reaching for something I didn’t have and would have to stop and go get before I could move forward. Leaving my workshop took preparation, and not just in the form of lists and itineraries. Mentally composing myself to be able to deal with people presented its own set of challenges.

I hated leaving my workshop. Peopling was not my thing, even on the best of days. My demeanor was too gruff, and my scowl put people off. I was a wolverine, for fuck’s sake. What the hell did people expect from me?

More, apparently.

Olly was forever after me to smile more, rather than walk around wearing what my youngest brother called my resting bitch face.

He should be happy I wasn’t snarling as I stormed down the street. What others considered brusque and even rude, I saw as expedient. What was the point in making polite conversation when I had shit to do and nothing to say? No interest in what they had to say either. Not when most of it was useless gossip. I didn’t poke around in other people’s business and I didn’t need them poking into mine. If folks would just learn to mind their own gods be damned business and keep their thoughts and opinions to themselves, the world would be a much better place.

Muttering beneath my breath, I turned to grab the notepad I’d thrown on my work bench, nearly colliding with Olly, who as usual, had a big, cheerful smile on his face. My brother was the most charming wolverine I had ever met, especially on our old man’s side of the family. Having witnessed Olly’s mother’s spectacular array of shittiness over the years, I could say with all certainty that he hadn’t gotten his disposition from her, either.

Everyone said I took after Uncle Ransom, who took a greeting of good morning as both a personal threat and an insult, often snarling back who said I want it to be.

“Sorry,”

Olly said. “I’d have said something, but your lips were moving so I figured you were talking to yourself again.”

“I was, thanks for not interrupting,”

I replied. “What did you need?”

“Got a customer looking for something very specific. Is it okay to bring them back or do you want them to wait until you bring the new pieces out onto the floor?”

Olly asked. “I’ll tell him whatever you’d like if you don’t want him back here.”

“I know, that’s why I appreciate you being here,”

I told him, trying to smile, because it always made my brother smile more. “You can bring him back. I’ve got to take off and pick up a few things once they’re finished. Want anything for lunch?”

“Fried clams?”

“You and your damn fried clams,”

I grumbled, chuckling a little. “You’re gonna turn into a clam one day, I swear, and you know what will happen then.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll toss me in the pot with the rest of the ingredients for a clam broil and that will be the end of me,”

Olly replied, giggling all the way back to the front.

He returned a few minutes later with a man wearing the brightest ensemble to enter the shop since we’d opened. A sweet scent wafted my way when the man offered his hand in introduction.

“Thank you so much for letting me come back here,”

the man said. “I’m August, and this place is fabulous.”

“I…”

For a moment, I forgot my name. Between the sunny yellow shirt, yellow shorts with thin pink pinstripes, yellow socks and pink sneakers, August reminded me of my favorite candy. Strawberry lemonade twists, extra sour. August’s hair was even streaked with vivid shades of pink, yellow and lavender, and dammit all, he smelled like candy. That sweet, sweet smell was coming from him.

“He’s Gregor,”

Olly said while I stood there blinking. “Sometimes he forgets how to form words, but that’s okay, because his hands never forget what they’re supposed to be doing. He’s really good with them.”

While my mind tried to process if Olly had really said what I thought he said, August giggled, slapping a hand over his mouth while his eyes lit up so bright they practically sparkled. The moment Olly realized how his words could be taken he started giggling, too, while I snorted and suddenly found myself chuckling as well.

What the hell?

Now that I started, I couldn’t stop, which just seemed to fuel their giggles, creating an endless loop of laughter. I was just glad that no one else was in the shop to see or hear the chicanery, or they might have called for a welfare check, to see what Olly and August had done to one of the town’s snarliest wolverines.

“I-I can’t stop looking at his hands now,”

August choked out, which made Olly snort and laugh harder.

Snarling, I shoved my hands behind my back, immediately taking offense, until August’s eyes went wide, and his laughter evaporated. Desperate to salvage the mood, I feigned a cough, which turned into a real one when I leaned too close to the workbench and inhaled a bunch of sawdust. Doubling over, I tried not to hack up a lung, while Olly pounded on my back until I flapped my arms, desperate to wave him off.

Groaning, I pinched the bridge of my nose, chuckling at the absurdity of it all. “Sorry, wood dust.”

“I can see where it would get dusty in here,”

August replied, grinning.

For some reason, it felt good to have put the smile back on his face.

“So, Olly says you’re looking for something specific,”

I said, trying to swing things back to a more businesslike tone.

“Yes, actually, for my sister’s birthday,”

August explained. “It’s next weekend and she loves whales, but most specifically, humpbacks. She’s been fascinated by them since we were kids, and Olly said you have one or two back here.”

I had almost interrupted, hell, I scowled at Olly because there were two narwhals, an orca and a sperm whale out in the shop already, but the humpback pieces, newly finished and not even priced yet, were on the upper shelf in the corner. Olly just grinned in the face of my scowl and wiggled his eyebrows at me.

Okay, fine, there was nothing to forgive. This time.

“I have a few pieces,”

I declared and went to get them down.

One by one I set them on the workbench beneath the window, where they gleamed in the sunlight as August crossed the room to look at them. One was a humpback with her baby by her side, frozen in motion, like they were majestically swimming beneath the waves. The other was a large humpback, breaching, flippers extended in mid backflip with resin sea spray all around it.

“Oh, oh wow, they’re magnificent,”

August said. “I’d like to purchase both.”

“You don’t even know how much they are,”

I sputtered.

“So, tell me, so I can pop over to the ATM if I don’t have enough on me,”

August said. “Either way, I want them.”

“Four hundred,”

I blurted, while Olly’s eyebrows shot up before he blinked and studied me like he’d never seen me before.

Yeah, I knew that I could have gotten three just for the breaching humpback, but I liked the way August smelled, and those colors on him made me want to spend long hours licking him from head to toe.

Holy shit, where the hell had that come from?

“No problem,”

August said, while I breathed a sigh of relief and turned to find bubble wrap.

The quicker we wrapped things up, the better. Thankfully, Olly led August to the front and the register to ring him up, while I carefully wrapped the sculptures, and fit them in foam padded boxes. The fact that August had come prepared to pay that much, and maybe even more, showed that the man had an appreciation for artistry. I had lost track of the number of times someone had gotten indignant with Olly when they were quoted a price of more than forty or fifty dollars, like they could just walk into a supercenter and purchase one-of-a-kind driftwood art right off the shelf.

“I’ll carry them out for you,”

I offered, and watched my brother’s eyebrows shoot up again, disappearing beneath his bangs.

I did not need shocked looks from my brother to tell me I was acting out of character; I knew the moment I made the offer. Hell, my words shocked me, too. Like with the discount I’d uncharacteristically given, I’d been unable to help myself. There was just something about the scent of him that made me want to jump through hoops just to make him happy.

“Thank you so much,”

August said, lunging and catching me in an impulsive hug that left me frozen as I was surrounded by that sweet, sweet candy scent.

Even after August had driven away, windows open in his sky blue SUV allowing the echo of Pearl Jam to escape, I just stood there staring as his taillights rounded the corner, grinning at the thought of him lookin’ like a bag of Skittles while rocking out to “Even Flow.”