Sunset Daydreams (The Wolves of Woodbine Hollow #1)
1. Shane
Chapter 1
Shane
T hough the late summer breeze offers little relief from the heat of the season, the wind against my face is as close as I can get to running free through the woods. No matter the weather it always reminds me why I prefer my motorcycle over other modes of transportation. It’s been a long week and I’m itching to take the edge off the call of tonight’s full moon with a cold beer and shower to rinse off the scent of the shop. Rounding the corner, I spy the familiar form of my neighbor strolling toward our building from the subway exit. She wears headphones and struggles with a framed canvas and tote bag as she fumbles for her keys.
I back my bike into the spot in front of our building, killing the engine and preparing to ask her if she needs some help, but she doesn’t look over as she yanks the door open and slips inside. I have to admit that I’m disappointed. This would have been a prime opportunity to talk to her. We only cross paths occasionally and haven’t shared more than cordial smiles and pleasantries in the six months she’s lived next door.
I hurry into the building, thinking I might catch her by the mailboxes, but she’s already a flight up. Taking the stairs two at a time, I catch up to her near the top of the second flight, hoping she doesn’t see me chasing after her.
“Need some help?” I raise my voice to be heard over whatever she’s listening to, while trying to not sound too eager.
I’m rewarded with the canvas swinging abruptly toward me as she spins on her heel, long hair swinging. Almost taking a three-foot wide canvas to the face isn’t how I expected to end my week when I locked up at the shop. But here I am, standing across from my beautiful neighbor, who clings to the cloth-wrapped wooden frame that nearly took my eye out.
I smile down at her, not remotely upset about the change of plans.
“Shit!” Realizing she didn’t just bump into the railing, she hastily pulls at her headphones which are now tangled in her hair. “I’m sorry! I didn’t even hear you back there!” Finally freeing her hair, she gives an adorably awkward wave and the canvas slips from her grasp. I grab it before it can plummet down the narrow stairs with what I can only imagine is an idiotic grin plastered across my face.
“It’s fine. No harm done,” I answer holding it out to her. If I moved a bit too quickly, she didn’t seem to notice. My fingers are still slightly greasy from work, and I cringe inwardly at the marks they leave on the clean, white surface. “Fuck.” I pull my hand back and rub it on my equally greasy work jeans.
Great, now I’m the one who’s sorry.
“No worries. If I hadn’t tried to knock you down the stairs you wouldn’t have had to grab it. The marks will get covered with paint anyway. Like you said, no harm done.” She smiles, still trying to balance her belongings without dropping anything else.
Standing awkwardly on the landing in front of our doors, I search my memory for the day she moved in, trying to remember when she told me her name in the hallway amidst a flutter of boxes and plants and movers.
It was something unique. With a C or a K, maybe?
I try and fail just as miserably to keep my gaze from roaming over her, admiring her toned legs bared by baggy cutoff shorts. She gives a little snort of laughter when she catches me, and offers a sideways smirk when my gaze returns to hers.
“Well, have a good night!” She gives another little smile, turning to unlock her door while I stand there like an idiot in the muted glow of the overhead bulbs.
“Are you an artist?” I blurt, louder than I intended. I mentally kick myself. Like the canvas isn’t answer enough, Shane. But I’ll use any excuse to keep talking to her now that we’ve started. I hope she’ll mention her name again so I won’t have to admit I can’t remember it.
A little chuckle escapes her, and she cuts her eyes over her shoulder with a sly smile, as if she knows what I’m doing. Once she has her door open and the canvas propped inside, she turns toward me again, arms crossed over her chest. “I am.” She glances at the canvas as if to say Obviously , then rakes her narrowed blue stare over me, brows raised in amusement. “Are you interested in art?”
I’m interested in you, I think. Hoping to mask that interest, I run my fingers through my hair and lean my hip against the railing of the landing before answering. “I wander by the galleries near my shop sometimes.”
She hums a little noise of approval. Looking down at my left hand, she nods toward the motorcycle helmet I hold. “And your shop? You work on motorcycles?”
“Yeah, it’s down near 84 th and Ironwood.”
“Well, if you ever make it to Red Lark Gallery on West 82 nd you should stop in to take a peek. Some of my work is on display there, but I have my first solo exhibition in just over a month.” Her eyes and smile sparkle with excitement. I’ve hit on the right topic.
“Maybe I’ll do that.” It’s the opposite direction from my drive home, but if I can use it as an excuse to invite her to ride with me sometime, I’ll make it a priority.
“Great, well…goodnight…?” The way she draws out the last word into a question and bites the inside of her cheek is a relief.
She can’t remember my name either.
“Shane. Shane McKinley.” I start to extend my hand but hesitate, remembering the dirty handprint on the canvas and cursing myself for not scrubbing them harder before locking up tonight. I just wanted to get home; I didn’t think I’d be trying to make a good impression on the pretty woman next door.
“Kaycia Durand. Don’t worry about a little grease,” she replies, holding her hand out to take mine. Colorful bits of paint dot her fingers. “I’ve got my own oil stains.”
Heat simmers through my blood when our skin touches, sending little lightning bolts up my arm and straight to my gut. I have to fight to keep from sucking in a breath at the sensation.
“Nice meeting you again, Kaycia. I’ll see you around.” I release her hand, trying to keep my voice even, and pretending I’m not affected by her nearness.
“I hope you do, Shane.” With a final quick smile, she steps into the dim interior of her apartment. The door closes with a click and then the tumblers of the locks follow suit.
Hearing the second lock click into place, I blow out a deep exhale, then unlock my own door, directly beside hers, and flip the switch to illuminate my waiting loft. I think Kaycia’s apartment is a mirror of mine, but I never took the time to snoop around after the old tenant moved out. Our kitchens share a common wall, then mine opens to a large, shared space for sleeping and living. It’s a small, quiet building with our apartments sharing the uppermost floor that was once an attic or servants’ quarters before developers tore through and remodeled the building and surrounding block. I’ve lived here for five years, and Kaycia is much more enjoyable to live next to than old Mr. Rexrode ever was. She keeps to herself and is quiet, for a human—she can’t help that my senses are heightened so that I hear her music drifting through the walls in the evenings.
Tonight was a pleasant surprise. On the odd days we run into one another, I can barely drag my eyes from her, watching her smile at the other tenants in the building or strangers passing by on the street. Until today I’ve only ever given a nod in recognition, not sure how to strike up a conversation or if one would be welcomed. I’ll take a bump to the face any day if it gives me an excuse to speak with her again.
Dropping my helmet on the entry table next to the pile of junk mail that’s collected this week, I shrug out of my jacket and unlace my boots, putting both in the tiny closet by the door. Then I snag a beer from the fridge and head out onto the balcony to watch the sun set and the moon rise.
It’s taken nearly a decade for me to become comfortable enough to be under the full moon without giving in to the urge to shift. I used to stay inside with the curtains drawn, prowling darkened rooms, wallowing in my memories. Now that I’m older, I spend these nights sitting on my wrought iron balcony toasting to the moonlight and wondering what my old friends—and enemies—are doing now. It’s nearly impossible for me to shift in the city without causing a stir. Wolves don’t typically stroll down city streets or dig for leftovers in alleyway dumpsters. When I had to flee my home, I hurdled into the unknown, assuming a city would be the safest place for me to hide. For years, I stayed a step ahead of anyone who may have still tracked me, moving from one major city to another to remain anonymous in the crowds of other people running from their pasts. No wolf would voluntarily live amongst the concrete, metal, and brick, so luckily no one familiar has crossed my path in years.
Finally, I decided to settle in Argent. The city of towering glass and silver skyscrapers is now home. I shelled out the deposit on this place, saved up to open my shop, and haven’t looked back.
Well, not often at least.
Still, the only place I’m fully confident I can shift without fear of being discovered is my vacation cabin in Snow Fern Tarn a little over an hour outside the city. Thinking about the cabin and its surrounding woodlands, wildness rises and prickles under my skin. The sensation swiftly overtakes the pleasant hum of longing I felt when I touched Kaycia. My wolf is aching to shift and run. I need to make a trip out of town soon.
As the light of the day fades, the breeze finally offers relief from the summer heat. I lean back in my chair, relaxing into the cushion and taking a deep swallow from my icy beer bottle. While the evening is beautiful, I find myself less interested than usual in the sun sinking behind the neighboring building in its orange and pink glory, and far more interested in the soft yellow glow of the windows just barely visible through the leaves of a lemon tree on the neighboring balcony.
Kaycia has managed to create a lush little green space on the balcony a few feet away — potted fruit trees, a riot of colorful flowers, and collections of fragrant herbs cover nearly every inch of her balcony, cocooning a table and chair hidden in the foliage. I’ve never seen her sit at it, but we don’t usually keep the same hours. Her sliding door opens and a hint of music drifts on the breeze, mingling with the sounds of traffic and other melodies of the neighborhood.
I don’t stay long enough to listen. I’ve made enough small talk tonight. With the shift so close to the surface it’s harder for me to concentrate, and Kaycia isn’t someone I want to make a fool of myself in front of. Silently, I slip out of my chair and slide through my door before she steps into the twilight.