CHAPTER FIVE
∞∞∞
One of the best things about the kind of work that Turner did was also one of the worst things: essentially, if you couldn’t find something to do, you weren’t trying hard enough. He’d actually been on his first vacation in more than a year when he got called up to help with the Maisey situation.
The truth was that he was grateful. When you filled your days keeping track of wandering antelope herds or trying to institute a trap, neuter, release program for feral winged cats, there was always something to do.
If he was dark about the state of the world or his romantic prospects, he could always lose himself in the work.
Right now, though, the tried and true solution wasn’t working, and, even as he checked and rechecked the birthing stall to make sure that it was warm and comfortable for when the time came, his mind kept turning to the woman who was currently in his kitchen, his fated mate, the woman who his heart had known from the moment he met her…
the woman whose name he still didn’t know.
His wolf was unconcerned. His wolf just didn’t understand why in the world he was moving bales of hay around and checking on the heater to make sure that it wouldn’t fail at a bad time.
Your mate is right there. Your mate is two doors away. Why aren’t you with her? Why are you doing anything besides holding her, touching her, kissing her…?
Because she asked for space. Because after a moment of pure joy, she looked spooked. She deserves her time. She deserves everything in the world, and he was, by God, going to give it to her.
Turner yelped when something shoved his shoulder hard.
He spun, just barely ducking under Maisey's horn, and he found himself staring into her large dark eyes. Unicorns in paintings and statues tended to look adorable and winsome—in person they were exactly as charming as horses or goats. There was the beauty inherent in all living things, but, at the same time, you couldn’t escape seeing a certain weird dorkiness in the wide-set eyes, the long skinny legs, and, in Maisey's case, the sausage belly.
“Hey honey. What can I do for you?”
He didn’t expect an answer. It wasn’t like she was a dog or a cat, something with thousands of years of getting along with humans. He was surprised when she tossed her head towards the house, and, when he proved slow to figure out it, she took hold of his jacket with her teeth, giving him a tug.
“What? You want me to go get her back? You and me both, baby, but—”
She took another firm tug on his jacket, and then she made that huffing whistling sound that was the lead-up for a demanding scream.
“Okay, okay. It’s only been forty minutes, but I can see about bringing her back out. Calm down.”
At the door, Turner wondered if he should knock, and then remembered with a bit of chagrin that it was his place.
He let himself in and then blinked because he realized that even the loudest knocking wouldn’t have been heard over the racket.
It sounded like his fated mate was a fan of holiday music, and underneath the music was a whir that sounded more like a machine shop than any kind of baking he had ever done.
Turner wasn’t sure what he was going to find in the kitchen; but he was unprepared for the chaos—the kitchen table turned into a floury battleground; containers of flour, sugar, and butter mounded up like forts; and two pots bubbling away on the stove.
Over all of this presided his fated mate, her hair wrenched up in a knot to reveal the sweetness of her features and an actual white smock covering her clothes.
She was just turning away from the door, so she didn’t see him enter, and he watched in fascination as she switched off the machine that was making all the racket, removing a silver bowl from its stand to dump into another bowl nearby.
This she wrapped in plastic wrap and stuck into the fridge, all accomplished with such an economy of motion that it was the next thing to dance.
For a second, Turner was captivated by her grace, her body so competent at her chosen work, and then he was jerked back to reality when she yelped with surprise.
“It’s you!”
“It’s me,” he said with a wince, holding up his own empty hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to scare you.”
“It’s okay, I just didn’t expect to see someone right then, hang on a sec.”
Her phone was propped up on the shelf over the sink. As Turner watched, she leaned in close with her face, and the music shut off.
“Did you just kiss your phone?”
No, do not be jealous of that phone. Do not be that guy.
“Tip of my nose,” she said with a slight smile. “Otherwise I’ll get flour everywhere. Is everything okay?”
“Just fine, but I was wondering if I could convince you to make an appearance. Maisey's being really good, but you should never depend on the good behavior of any animal about to give birth.”
“I was helping my cousin when her kid was born. You shouldn’t expect good behavior from humans in that situation either. I can come in just a sec.”
“Thank you. Er. Can I ask what that thing is?”
She blinked at him, and, when he pointed, she burst into laughter. It made him smile in response, and she shook her head.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to make fun of you. But you mean this?”
She patted the sleek machine as affectionately as he might pet a dog, and he nodded.
“Come here. I’ll show you.”
He watched as she stopped by the stove to turn off the heat under the pots and then dumped a mound of dry ingredients into the machine’s silver bowl, following it with a bowl full of something liquid.
With the flick of a switch, it hummed to life with the mechanical sound he had heard earlier.
The steel attachment mixing the dough spun with a spiraling motion so hypnotic he had to tear his eyes away, and his mate laughed again, more gently this time.
“It got you, huh? It’s not just you. If I’m really tired, I can just stare into the batter ‘til the dough’s been ruined. What’s worse is if you try to stick your hand in there.” Her eyes grew serious. “Never stick your hand in there.”
“I’ve worked with heavy machinery, I know better,” he promised. “But is that all it is? A big blender?”
She gave him a faintly scandalized look.
“It’s a stand mixer, and it can do a lot of things, among them, blending, but this one’s equipped with a paddle attachment. It handles cookie dough like no one’s business, case in point.”
She switched the machine off, and showed him the dough, which looked, to be fair, like cookie dough to him. Briskly, she dumped it into a clean bowl, covered it with plastic wrap, and shoved it in the fridge where it joined another three bowls similarly wrapped.
“I twisted my shoulder really badly a few years ago,” she said, almost embarrassed. “These things are like magic for me when I have to do big batch baking.”
“Which shoulder?” Turner asked without thinking, and, when she gestured to her right, he reached for her instinctively and then hesitated.
“Can I?” The thought came to him that it was too much, too soon, but with her eyes never leaving his, his true mate nodded.
His hand lit down gently on her shoulder, closing with care. Underneath his hand, he could feel her shift, and he marveled at the play of muscles there—his wolf made a pleased sound in his head at his mate’s strength.
She sighed when he tightened his hand experimentally, rolling his fingers in light circles and then more firm ones.
Her eyes drifted shut, and there was a moment when the pink tip of her tongue slipped between her lips and she became the next thing to irresistible.
He might have kissed her again right there, but eyes closed, she whispered, “don’t stop. ”
“I won’t, honey, not ’til you tell me.”
That earned him the smallest, softest whimper that shook him straight through the core, and she leaned against him as he worked, finding the knot underneath the muscle and trying to prise it loose.
In another moment, she leaned her forehead against his shoulder, and his arm came up around her.
He could smell her sharp, minty shampoo; he could smell the butter and sugar she had been using; he could smell her skin underneath it; and he must have made a sound because she sighed with soft agreement, pressing closer.
“I want,” she started, and when she cut herself off, he pressed his cheek to the top of her head.
“Go on, baby.”
“I want to kiss you again. But it fries my brain, and I don’t want that right now.”
He expected his wolf to howl at that one, but instead it only made a satisfied sound.
Our mate knows her mind. Good.
It was, and, a moment later, she pulled away.
“I’m sorry.”
“Never be. But I do have a favor to ask, if that’s all right.”
“You can always ask. I want you to,” she said, sounding a little surprised at herself. “If you’re okay hearing no, you can always ask.”
“I am always okay hearing no. But please. Tell me what your name is?”
She blinked at him, and then for some reason, she started laughing. This wasn’t the soft laughter he had heard before, it was a full-body laugh, and then to his surprise, she threw herself into his arms.
“Okay, I don’t mind this in the least, but what’s the big joke?”
“Me. You. All of this. You’re really trying, aren’t you?”
“Every day of my life,” he joked, which won him another laugh “Yeah. I absolutely am.”
“Thank you. I mean it. And I’m Ilona. And I think you’re handsome, and, oh God, this is really happening, huh?”
“It is.”
“All right,” she said, decisively dusting off her hands. “You’re my fated mate, your name is Turner Cole, you turn into a wolf (which I very much want to see again), and we’re going to go visit a unicorn. Let’s go.”
She grinned at him, and for a moment, nothing in the world existed for Turner but her eyes, her lips, and her joy.