Match Made In Growl (Shifter Mates of Hollow Oak #7)

Chapter 1 Stephanie

STEPHANIE

Stephanie Ward had crossed the veil enough times to know the sensation by now of that split-second drag against her skin, like walking through a curtain made of static and memory.

The rental truck shuddered once, headlights catching the mist that hung low across the two-lane road, and then Hollow Oak opened up ahead of her like it had been waiting. Which, it probably had.

Spring rain slicked the cobblestone where the main road narrowed into town, turning everything soft at the edges.

Dogwood blossoms clung to branches in pale clusters, petals dropping into puddles that reflected the amber glow of streetlamps just flickering on against the early dusk.

The air smelled green, like wet earth, new growth, with something underneath it all that hummed against her molars like a tuning fork pressed to bone.

Deeply layered old magic.

Man, she had missed it.

Steph rolled down her window and let the rain mist her arm as she drove past the Hollow Mercantile, its windows warm with light, past the darkened front of the Book Nook, past the hand-painted sign for the Griddle & Grind that someone had updated since her last visit.

She’d first came here about eight years ago, and last trip had only been maybe two now.

But still, time had softened a few things and sharpened others.

New awnings. A fresh coat of paint on the gazebo near the square.

But the bones of the town were the same solid, watchful, and unapologetically strange, just as she had remembered.

The Hearth & Hollow Inn sat at the curve where Main Street bent toward Moonmirror Lake, its wraparound porch glowing with string lights that swayed in the breeze. Steph cut the engine and sat for a moment, hands still on the wheel, listening to the rain tap against the truck's roof.

You're here for the dig. That's it.

She grabbed her duffel from the passenger seat, the one with the broken zipper she kept meaning to replace, and shouldered open the door.

The rain had eased to a fine mist that settled on her dark curls and beaded along the collar of her canvas jacket.

Her boots hit wet gravel, and she stretched the highway stiffness from her back before hauling her field pack from the truck bed.

The inn's front door opened before she reached the porch steps.

"I thought I heard a truck." Diana Merrick stood in the doorway, honey-blonde curls pinned loosely back, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. Her smile was immediate and genuine. "Stephanie Ward. You look like you drove through three states and a rainstorm."

"Four states. Two rainstorms." Steph climbed the steps and accepted the one-armed hug Diana pulled her into. "You look good, Diana. The inn suits you."

"Miriam's doing, not mine. I just kept the curtains she picked." Diana stepped back and held the door wider. "Come in. I've got your room ready—the one in the back with the garden view. Miriam told me you always liked that one."

"She remembered that?"

"Honey, she remembers everyone's room preference." Diana took the duffel from her before Steph could protest and headed for the stairs. "Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?"

"Coffee, if you've got it. Black."

"I always have coffee. Rowan drinks it like water." Diana disappeared around the landing, her voice carrying back down. "Make yourself comfortable. Kitchen's still where it was."

The inn smelled like cinnamon and beeswax, with woodsmoke underneath from the stone fireplace in the front parlor.

Steph dropped her field pack by the coat hooks and wandered toward the kitchen, her boots leaving damp prints on the hardwood.

The countertops were scrubbed clean, a vase of wildflowers sat near the window, and a cast-iron kettle steamed quietly on the stove.

She had met Diana briefly when she had passed through, Miriam letting her know that she had taken over.

She hadn’t stayed then, but she knew she would be fond of her.

She poured herself a mug from the pot already brewed and leaned against the counter, warming her hands. Through the kitchen window, Moonmirror Lake was a dark mirror under the low clouds, its surface dimpled with rain.

Diana came back down with the easy efficiency of someone who'd turned hospitality into muscle memory. She poured her own mug and settled across from Steph at the kitchen island.

"So. The dig."

"The dig," Steph confirmed.

"Council approved it?"

"Liaison signed off two weeks ago. Emmett's office sent the permits through without a fuss, which either means they trust me or they want to keep me close enough to watch."

Diana laughed. "Probably both. That's how things work around here." She sipped her coffee. "You bringing a team this time?"

"No. Solo." Steph set her mug down. "The site's sensitive. Old wards, layered magic, the kind of thing that gets messy when too many hands touch it. I pitched it as a preliminary survey—just me, my equipment, and whatever the ground decides to show me."

"And the council bought that?"

"The council knows my work." There was no arrogance in it, just fact. She'd earned that trust over years of careful, respectful excavations and lectures at the learning center. Hollow Oak didn't hand out access to its history lightly, and Steph had never given them reason to regret it.

Diana studied her for a moment with that particular warmth she had, the kind that made people talk before they meant to. "You look tired, Steph. And not just road-tired."

"I'm fine."

"Okay." Diana didn't push. She topped off Steph's coffee instead. "The site's about a mile past the eastern tree line, right? Near the old stone ridge?"

"Just beyond it. There's a clearing where the wards are thinnest. Or at least, where they were thinnest last time I surveyed.

Could've shifted." Steph wrapped her hands around the mug.

"The ground out there remembers things. I could feel it during my last visit. Something buried deep and deliberate."

"Deliberately buried, or deliberately forgotten?"

Steph looked up. That was a sharper question than she'd expected from an innkeeper. But Diana had been in Hollow Oak for a while now, married to a wolf shifter, woven into the fabric of a town that kept its secrets close. She'd learned to ask the right questions.

"I'm not sure yet," Steph said. "That's what I'm here to find out."

A gust of wind rattled the kitchen window, and the string lights on the porch swung hard enough to throw shadows across the ceiling. The rain picked up again, drumming against the roof in steady waves.

"Storm's settling in," Diana said. "Supposed to rain through the weekend. Spring's been moody this year. Three big systems already and we're barely into April."

"Good for the dig, actually. Rain loosens topsoil, exposes what's underneath."

"Spoken like someone who actually enjoys being muddy."

Steph almost smiled. "Occupational hazard."

Diana set her mug in the sink and turned back with the kind of look that said she'd been holding something back. "I should tell you—Miriam asked about you last week when she heard you were coming. She still checks in, even from the cottage. She wanted to make sure you had everything you needed."

"Miriam Caldwell worrying about me? That's either sweet or terrifying."

"Little of both, honestly." Diana grinned. "She said to remind you that Hollow Oak's roots go deeper than any shovel can reach, and to be careful what you wake up."

"Noted."

"Also, Twyla's been asking when you're coming in. She's already got opinions about your love life, your diet, and whether you're sleeping enough. Fair warning."

Steph groaned. "I've been in town fifteen minutes."

"Twyla's network is faster than Wi-Fi." Diana squeezed her arm as she passed. "Get some rest tonight. The ruins aren't going anywhere."

Steph carried her coffee upstairs to the room at the back of the inn, the one with the window overlooking Diana's garden and, beyond it, the dark tree line where the eastern woods pressed close.

She set her mug on the nightstand and unzipped her field pack, pulling out her survey maps, her soil testing kit, and the leather-bound field journal she'd kept since graduate school.

She spread the maps across the quilt and traced the dig site with her finger—the ridge, the clearing, the estimated perimeter of the old wards.

Her notes from the preliminary survey were meticulous, every anomaly catalogued, every energy signature mapped.

This was what she was good at. This was what she could control.

The rain hammered the window glass, and somewhere out in the dark, the land hummed.

Steph pulled her phone from her jacket pocket. Two missed calls, both from the same number. She deleted them without listening to the voicemails, then set the phone face-down on the nightstand.

She unbraided her damp curls, kicked off her boots, and sat cross-legged on the bed with her journal open on her lap. The first blank page waited.

Field Notes — Hollow Oak Excavation, Day 1.

Arrived 6:47 PM. Rain. Veil crossing smooth. Inn secured. Site assessment begins tomorrow at first light.

She paused, pen hovering.

Ground is already talking. I can feel it through the floorboards.

She closed the journal and finished her coffee, listening to the storm move across Moonmirror Lake and the woods beyond. Tomorrow she'd be ankle-deep in mud and magic, exactly where she belonged.