Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
“‘Men,’ said he, steadily turning upon the crew, as the mate handed him the things he had demanded, ‘my men, the thunder turned old Ahab’s needles; but out of this bit of steel Ahab can make one of his own, that will point as true as any.’
Abashed glances of servile wonder were exchanged by the sailors, as this was said; and with fascinated eyes they awaited whatever magic might follow...”
— HERMAN MELVILLE , MOBY-DICK
H ave you ever cast a motivation spell?
Tucked sprigs of mint and thyme, basil and rosemary into a jar? Held it as you invited energy and clarity, courage and confidence into your life right now if you could please hurry up, Universe, that would be great?
And then five minutes pass. Followed by five hours, five days, five hundred years? And you’re just as tired and unenergized as before?
Me, too!
After a week of shooting with no days off, I’d bailed on waiting around for the jar spell to work. I was pretty sure I would not be manifesting more energy any time soon, so instead I’d opted to sneak away before anyone could remind me of the billion things I needed to do before I was due on set later today.
It was hiking time!
Better yet, I’d done my sneaking so well that I’d shaken my security team. Now I was deep in the woods, phone out, ready for some mushroom foraging and social media content creation.
I was part woodland creature, was I not? Never mind that many of my followers liked me for my TV show and were a mushroom-optional crowd. This was for me.
I’d brought along the cutest wicker basket to hold my forest finds. I’d collected several deliciously fruity, late-growing chanterelle mushrooms, and then I’d started scanning tree trunks for Laetiporus sulphureus , the chicken of the woods.
It was a tasty fungus (that did indeed taste like chicken) and suitably ghoulish for October: it grew on the base of dying hardwood trees. I’d been mentally writing great Instagram captions for my corpse-eating mushroom when I realized that—yet AGAIN—I’d misplaced myself on the mountainside.
The woods were as delightful as always. Ferns and hardwoods with wonderfully floral names like Tulip Poplar and Eastern Redbud. I’d walked, collecting spell ingredients, wandering here, there, and most definitely off the path...which was a common theme in my life, wasn’t it?
“Snickerdoodles and sunbeams!”
Thanks to my un-Chaneque-like (and all-round terrible) sense of direction, I usually stuck to well-marked paths. Something about Tennessee, however, had me making exceptions.
I squinted at the trail blaze painted on the tree trunk on my right. Maybe it was a trail blaze? Or had a red-bellied woodpecker taken an enormous dump on the bark?
I hated not knowing exactly where I was.
I blamed my mazeophobia on the vast quantity of unsupervised movie watching I’d done growing up.
The Chaneque side of my mother’s family lived in a remote and mountainous part of Mexico. They had a big place there with enough space to house multiple generations of the family. Mami’s abuela ran a day spa in Bernal, a colonial village at the foot of one of the world’s largest monoliths, Pe?a de Bernal. Her abuelo took hikers rock climbing and headed up the local search and rescue. They put in a lot of hours and weren’t often home, but they’d always dropped what they could during my summer visits.
I’d had a lot of alone hours, though, and my brother and sister had to step up and keep an eye on me. I’d helped them help me by learning how to turn on the TV. I’d loved stories even then, and the TV was my read-aloud buddy. I’d come home from my summer at the abuelos in love with my shows.
The first time I’d stumbled across a horror movie shot in the woods, I’d been hooked. I’d squeezed my eyes shut through the parts where innocent hikers were set upon by cannibalistic mountain men and mutant trees. I’d spent days wondering, What kind of supernatural creature would do that? Eat people? And would we do the same thing?
Spoiler: no.
Chaneques would get you lost.
Maybe we’d hide your socks or your car keys and giggle while we did it.
We were not the monsters I watched on TV. Papi had spent a weekend pruning tree branches back from the windows of our house after I’d seen Poltergeist. Presumably even my Fae relatives weren’t into people-eating.
But right now, stomping through the Tennessee forest in the backend of nowhere, my imagination came up with a new scary backwoods script.
I was good and lost and it was not even my fault this time. I’d done all the due diligence. With Eric, the head of my security team, hovering in the background like a Miss America chaperone, Wyatt had driven me around the mountain throughout the week, pointing out trailheads.
I’d downloaded maps.
I’d bought honest-to-God paper maps—and I’d committed them to memory.
I had pictures of said maps on my cell phone.
I had my scrying mirror with me in case all else failed and I needed rescue.
I was READY.
Hiking outside by myself was a treat after a week working on my book from sunrise until after midnight. I’d answered emails, posted on social media, and paraded back and forth between Nashville, Memphis, and Knoxville because I needed to be visible and promote All The Things. And then I’d come back, and Wyatt’s house was stuffed to the gills with my security team.
Who I couldn’t call for help now because my phone was dead. AGAIN. It would have to be the mirror and that meant my sister, who would absolutely hold it over my head that I’d needed rescuing. It was in the big sister code.
Frustrated, I picked a random squiggle of dirt. It led downhill, and I was almost certain that the TV set was downhill, or downhill adjacent.
Twenty minutes later I discovered a crappy wooden lean-to built haphazardly by the side of my path. This proved that I was on a trail, which meant it had to be on my map, right?
Wrong.
So, so wrong. Neither the lean-to nor my trail was on my useless, out-of-date map.
Bonus: just below the lean-to, down a very steep slope, was a road. Seeing as how it lacked both street signs and asphalt, it did not help me determine where I was, although it was proof that this location was not entirely unknown to people.
It was lost and found spell time, and if that failed, then I’d resort to the mirror. Last chance, magic! Help me out here!
One of the things Mami had taught me was to ground myself. You take your shoes and socks off, hija . Get your toes into the ground.
Be ooooonnnnne with the earth, my snotty six-year-old self had teased. But it worked. I’d sighed, complained, and secretly acknowledged that Mami was a synonym for right .
I slipped off my shoes and socks and stood there with my feet planted on the earth. Wiggled my toes like worms on a hook. Come here, magic. Here magic, magic, magicmagicmagic.
Did I sound like I was calling an invisible pet? Sure, but it worked.
I imagined the charge running down my legs, through my ankles, and out my feet. There was a connection growing there between my feet and the earth. At first it was like a trickle of water dripping out of a leaky tap, but it grew.
I inhaled deliberately, filling my lungs with mountain air. My bladder waved hello, demanding attention. And was that an itch on my nose? And under my bra band?
The magic was pushing up through the ground and into me, filling me up, a warm, happy tingle that spread throughout my body as it took root.
“Bring back what’s lost. That which was misplaced is now revealed.”
I repeated the phrase over and over, concentrating on my car. The magic flowed through me, wrapped itself around my words, did its thing.
The car would come back to me. The path would open up.
I was finding my car.
It was finding me.
It was right?—
The sound of an engine broke my concentration, and my eyes flew open. A familiar-looking orange truck trundled its way up the road at a nice, safe twenty-five miles per hour. There was a bemused smile on Professor Maverick’s gorgeous face as he got out of the truck and spotted me barefoot and hovering overhead like an exotic bird in a tree.
Plot twist! the magic squealed gleefully.
Also, really? On the upside, sometimes it was fun to deviate from the plan.
His hazel eyes looked almost gold as they held mine, glowing with heat and interest. One large, battered finger reached up to tip his hat at me. He was every bit as hot and handsome as the first time we’d met on the mountain, but he was so much more than a pretty face and a pair of broad shoulders. This man had a backstory now, and I knew things about him. As if we were replaying that first meeting, he once again asked, “Ma’am, do you need assistance?”
Yes, yes, I did. Heat trickled down my throat, pooled in my belly, then rushed to my southern regions at the sound of his rough, growly voice. Wolfish. Alpha. Absolutely certain of himself. Despite the sexual warmth that was not part of my morning plans, I leaned over the edge for a better look. “Cupcakes and caterpillars,” I blurted out. “Not another rescue.”
Maverick folded his arms over his broad chest and tilted his head back to maintain our eye contact while he mulled over my oddball conversational reply.
“Gadzooks,” he offered solemnly. “Galloping gadzooks.”
A dimple dented one chiseled cheek. I was doomed.
“This is not what it looks like.”
Which reminded me to check my glamour. Fortunately, it was still on and dialed up to everyday levels. What would he do if I dropped it? If he saw me as I really was, without the human skin? Would I still get dimples from him? The magic sighed as I put my shoes and socks back on.
He nodded. “From where I stand, it looks like a cute lady with an adorable laugh and a mischievous smile. One who is absolutely and indisputably not in need of any rescue. This is a rescue-free zone. DIY only.”
I grinned down at him, unable to help myself. I appreciated a compliment as much as the next person, and he was good at it. He hadn’t called out my face or my boobs. I did not want to hide in a sack and bemoan his creepy sexualization of my person. His words warmed me up better than cocoa, yet they seemed heartfelt.
Maverick was a sincere kind of person. Confident, as well. Maybe it was the wolf side he hadn’t told me about, but he seemed at home out here in the woods in a way that I envied.
I flashed my own dimples and shamelessly dropped my eyes to his mouth because it merited a second look. It was too bad I couldn’t admire those lips and stare into his beautiful eyes at the same time, because there was a whole lot of Professor Boone that was admiration worthy.
“So, you are not a white knight or a noble rescuer?”
He shifted on his feet, planting his boots more firmly on the ground. “Nor am I a volunteer firefighter or a caped hero. I have done no rescuing in years.”
“Is there a lack of fair maidens in these parts?”
His eyes twinkled and his dimple almost gave him away. “There have been maidens. Just none that I’d like to rescue as much as I’d like to rescue you.”
I snorted. “Are you up for some good, hard rescuing, Professor?”
“Rescue-free zone,” he said solemnly. “I gave you my word. And please call me Mav.”
“Not Professor?”
“Professor is not my name, Suzette.”
Uncomfortable ethics moment, ahoy! Suzette was not my name.
The twinge of discomfort I’d felt at not correcting him when he’d misheard my name had grown into something large and even more uncomfortable.
He had not recognized me as a celebrity, and I had not enlightened him. Our miscommunication the other day had been an accident, but now I was outright lying to him.
I really was not a liar.
Before I could tell him the truth, however, he held up his arms to me. “Unless you are Rapunzel, can I interest you in coming down?”
Oh. His big, warm hands were rock solid, steady, and sure. He would not drop me. I was totally, one-hundred-percent safe with him, and so his gold-and-green eyes assured me.
I was not generally big on trusting people, and certainly not large men who had not signed iron-clad personal security contracts with my management team. And yet...I was somehow leaning forward, my hands fluttering in the air above his.
He flashed me an exceptional grin, one that made my long-dead romantic dreams explode like a phoenix from the ashes of my past relationships. “I must admit that I like hearing Mav from you. Seems a shame to waste our time together when you could be hollering my name instead.”
He tipped his head at his upturned palms. I had no idea that hands could be so sexy. Why was his calm acceptance, his willingness to wait, so attractive?
“You could also say other things,” he offered. “I would like to hear whatever you want to tell me, although I would prefer it if you include my name.”
A kaleidoscope of butterflies landed in my stomach. They swarmed and fluttered, agitated by the low, sure rumble of Mav’s voice.
Mustering my powers of concentration—which had been overwhelmed by his sexiness—I leaned down and set my hands on his. “You are the most charming flirt I’ve ever met.”
“Am I?” His eyes warmed beneath the brim of his hat, his smile deepening. He did not seem to take any umbrage at the label.
“Yes. I am a world-class expert on flirts. I’ve lived in Hollywood, their natural breeding ground, and I’ve met tons. You could give a master class in charm, and I would happily leave you a five-star review. Thumbs up. I love it.”
He stared at me for a long moment, during which I curled my fingers around his.
We were barely touching. It was entirely, unfortunately platonic.
I’d had airline stewards and drivers touch me like this, and yet he felt so good.
He was close enough for me to imagine the ways in which we could be even closer. All I would have to do was lean down, lean into this moment, and my dream would come true.
His eyes were a masterpiece. They twinkled up at me, full of good humor and heat. So. Warm. They invited me to come out to play, to respond to his sexual invitation. He’d gently hit the ball into my court, and I wanted to serve him so hard.
Biceps bunching, Maverick lifted his arms. My world tilted as he tugged. For a second—maybe two—I fell for him, and then his arms wrapped around me, steadying me.
Huge, warm hands settled on my hips. He spread his fingers, brushing a sliver of exposed skin where my shirt rode up. I held him back, planting my own hands on his thick, wide shoulders—balance was so important—and then I let go and simply trusted him to have me.
I landed on him and he caught me and held me up. My feminism card was one-hundred-percent revoked because, dear Lord in heaven, I felt dainty and feminine in his big, manly arms. His eyes sparkled at me, not backing down or looking away. He was here and present even as he gently, carefully set me down on the path.
He kept his hands on my curvy hips, and I wished he’d taken longer to put me on my feet. That I’d leaned in for just a moment more, taken shameless advantage of my chance to feel every hard inch of him.
Hazel eyes swept over my face, lingering on my mouth.
Yes, please.
It was deeply unfortunate that I was late for work. Clearly, the professor knew what he was doing. He might be a cinnamon roll of a man, but he totally owned his bakery.
And I was really, really hungry.
Nevertheless, I took a reluctant step back.
“I hate to fast forward through the part of the rescue where you literally sweep me off my feet and clutch me against your muscled chest, but I need to be at work soon. Can you help me with that?”
The corners of his mouth turned up in a devilish smile. He did not pout or protest at the space I’d put between us. Just accepted that our sexy rendezvous was over and done with. He was so... mature .
Maverick nodded, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “Let me just text my lab.”
Right. Wyatt had mentioned last week that Maverick had a federal research grant with Rue, a science hottie engaged to Maverick’s sister, and who had single-handedly set Maverick back on the path of ethical uprightness and moral virtue.
While Maverick tapped out a small screenplay—or a novel—on his phone, I politely stared off into space.
Okay, busted. I stared at my hot professor friend.
I COULD NOT LOOK AWAY. Who had laid a spell on whom?
Any witch would have stared. He was hotter than Prince Charming dressed up as a lumberjack for Halloween. Thick lashes framed his eyes, and his dark beard was lush and imminently pettable. It framed his lips. Come sit right here , his beard crooned. It advertised a lovely, comfortable place to park my fanny.
He no longer felt like a stranger.
Probably because Wyatt had overshared about the guy’s personal life. And yet, he didn’t know the first thing about me, seeing as how he thought I was a Suzette and not a famous celebrity.
The anonymity was amazing.
Usually everyone I encountered was certain that we were best friends. Not only did my glamour predispose people to like me, but they were quite sure that they actually knew me—from my books, from my social media posts, from the quality time they’d spent staring at me on their screens. They snuck peeks at my life on their work breaks and when they were procrastinating. They told me how they felt about my writing and my outfits and whether or not I really should have gone into that dark basement when I’d been hunting vampires in season two of the TV show.
It had gone viral on TikTok. Check out #WhatWouldSonnetDo.
But back to my present.
This man had no idea who I was.
It was nice to be the one keeping secrets.
But knowing all those details about his life did not sit well. The stranger playing field was not level or even. It was not even fair. Knowing that he was a reformed bad boy and a family guy colored my thoughts and how I reacted to his actions. Worse, I’d gotten my information about him secondhand, and now I was proceeding as if that gossip were scientific fact.
Maverick’s text exchange was nowhere near long enough for me to resolve my moral quandary. He tucked his phone back into his pocket before I’d gotten any further than WRONG.
“Where do you work?” he asked, turning us both around to face his truck. Normally I was not a fan of people steering me, but I could get used to having his hands on my body.
“Specter Springs.” The springs were a natural area with a waterfall that spilled into a rocky, shallow creek. It got its name from a derelict mill where my character was investigating a haunting. In real life, it was one of many tiny springs that were found around the small town of Moonlight Valley.
He frowned. “Where they’re shooting that TV thing?”
I should have been more specific with my spell. I started rewriting it in my head. Bring back what’s lost. That which was misplaced is now revealed but don’t ask me any personal questions? That did not have quite the right ring to it.
“Are you...” He took another inventory of my features, his eyes widening slightly. “You’re an actress.”
The hand pressed against my back dropped away.
Honey buns.
Feeling unexpectedly awkward, I prevaricated. “I’m a writer.”
As soon as I said it, I regretted it. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. Why, exactly, didn’t I want to confess to who I was?
“Wow.” Maverick opened the passenger-side door of his truck for me. He was looking at me with the sort of interest I reserved for rolled ice cream or a new book from my favorite author. “Did you write the script for this TV series? The one being shot here in Moonlight Valley?”
“Yes? I write TV scripts? And books that become TV scripts? It’s a chicken-and-egg situation.”
Which I was scrambling.
Nevertheless, Maverick looked impressed. Which, in this case, meant his wolfy eyes got all cute and round and his lips parted. This made me think of kissing, not scripts. Noooo. I should come clean, not debauch the man with my excellent imagination.
I chewed on that while I clambered into his enormous truck. Unlike last time, he did not wait around to offer me a hand or close my door. Those gestures had made me feel like a princess, and I was still not sure how I felt about that. I could get into a motor vehicle and close my own doors; I was not a member of the British royal family. Of course I didn’t miss those little marks of his attention.
He slid his big, flannel-covered body into the driver’s seat and looked over at me expectantly. “What made you want to become a writer?”
He picked up a charging cable that was neatly coiled on the center console. It looked like the iridescent green snake we’d met in the woods on my first day in Moonlight Valley. “For your phone.”
I slipped the free end into my phone and clutched it like a lifeline while I considered my answer.
“I entered a contest my senior year of high school.” This was not untrue, although it had been a shock to get the news that I was a finalist in the middle of gym class.
“What kind of contest? One for writing TV pilots?” Maverick positioned his own phone in the cupholder between us and started the truck.
“No. It was a playwriting contest. They flew the finalists to New York City and staged our plays with actual actors and actresses.”
It had been an intense and fascinating experience. I’d stayed with an actress in her loft apartment, and I’d walked the handful of blocks—alone—to the theater. For the first time, I’d been peppered with questions about why my characters did and said what they did. I’d spent a not inconsiderable amount of time sitting alone in the hall outside the small rehearsal stage, rewriting lines. I had not won the contest and my play had not been chosen for the book they printed, but I had learned some things. The first was that theater acting could be financially limiting (the lead in my play had announced his intention to take a break and then audition for TV commercials because he was tired of being broke). The second was that I loved telling stories.
“You’re a scriptwriter.” He smiled at me. He had the best smile: warm and genuine, crinkling up the corners of his beautiful eyes. Given his werewolf side, especially the urge to shift at the full moon and what was undoubtedly a carnivorous bent, I was amazed at how laidback and nice he was. Plus, his teeth were straight, white, and not at all fang-like.
When I looked at him, I did not think about bloody steaks or lupine rampages or even my very favorite paranormal romance, where the heroine is chased by an entire pack of amorous wolves and falls happily into bed with all of them (as a writer, I was impressed by the author’s ability to keep all those similar pronouns straight).
No, I thought of sweet things, of cocoa and cinnamon rolls, of cozy nights tucked up by a fireplace full of wood my man had chopped. Maverick would never, ever, buy fireplace logs at the grocery store.
I had to be upfront with him, but I did not want to give away my superstar secret. “Well, the contest was for teenagers. We wrote plays, things for off-Broadway, and angsty dystopian dramas. I dressed all in black and glowered everywhere. But it gave me the writing bug. And I had that taste of almost-success, and I wanted more. So I started submitting to agents, and things went from there.”
This was all true, except I did not mention that my first book led to a bidding war between publishers and that it had spent a respectably long time on the bestseller lists. It had been optioned, and the TV network executives wanted me to play the witchy lead. They had been very insistent.
Not that I had wanted to refuse. I’d been a broke, unemployed English major. Starring in a TV series was a major step up from scanning leasing documentation for a bank (which had been my only other job offer). Picking staples versus speaking lines? Yeaaaah, option number two, por favor.
Maverick turned us back onto the main road, which had an actual street sign and all. He kept taking quick peeks at me, working up to asking another question. But I wasn’t in a question-answering mood.
Why would a woman who was supposed to be laying it all out deflect?
I didn’t want to say. There was no acceptable reason. There was my inexplicable interest in this man, interest involving his good looks and sweet nature and the way his broad shoulders filled out his flannel shirt. He was funny. And nice. And no one I should be thinking about romantically. Not because I was against casual sex, but because Wyatt had been very clear that Maverick was not the type to hook up outside of a relationship. Maverick would demand a commitment. He’d insist on getting to know me .
I was not a relationship star. In fact, I was learning right now that I was a big chicken and that forthright and honest also meant vulnerable and might be rejected . I redirected the conversation. “That was six years ago, and now here I am. Wandering around the Tennessee mountains while working on my next project.”
“You need to watch out for the local wildlife.” His smirk did wicked, wicked things to his dimples.
“I would hate to be eaten by a black bear. I could meet all sorts of animals. Mountain lions, cougars, so many choices.” I patted his arm. God, it was muscled. My patting turned into stroking. “This neck of the woods is awash in people-eating critters.”
“And wolves. We’ve got lots and lots of wolves in these parts.”
Wow. He had gone there. I smirked at him. “Do y’all have a wolf problem?”
“Not a problem, no, but I’d be happy to eat you up myself.”
Oh, I just bet you would. I rested my chin on my palm. Winked. Tried to ignore the spontaneous combustion happening in my nether regions. “Are you a bear?”
“No, ma’am.” He grinned easily, flashing his dimple. “I am not an animal.”
I leaned over and bumped his shoulder lightly with mine. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
FYI, he had a beautiful shoulder. Hard. Warm. Mount Rushmore worthy. He bumped me right back, and for a moment it was more that we were leaning on each other. Such a small piece of skin, the shoulder, but the effect was incendiary.
But I had to draw the line. I could hardly tell him that I knew his little werewolf secret, plus he’d offered to give me a ride in his truck, not a ride on his dick. I reached for my phone, needing to hold something less manly and fun. “You are such a charmer. I feel like you could teach me tons.”
“About being charming?” His voice was sort of growly now, the kind of mock-irritated tone you’d use when your cat has drunk out of your water glass.
“You bet. You could be a hero in a romance novel. You’re tall and you’ve got great hair. In books everyone wants the hero to be a grumpy Gus who the heroine wins over to the sunny side. But in my stories—paranormal romantic comedy stuff—you guys get to be funny and charming. Cinnamon roll men that we just want to lick up.”
Maverick wouldn’t allow me to elaborate. The most adorable pink flush had crept up his cheekbones. He was horrified, or so I interpreted by the hand he held up. I knew a universal stop right there gesture when I saw one.
He shook his head. “I am not a pastry guy, although I am open to the idea of licking.”
Laughing once more because I couldn’t help it—this guy was fun —I curled up in my seat and looked him over. “I would not know where to start. You are a total buffet.”
“I could make some suggestions.” Now his grin was downright devilish. “Or, better yet, I could demonstrate on you.”
His laugh started low, rumbling out of him. It was a very bear-like laugh, rough and warm, burly and delightful. It made me feel safe.
I loved this. LOVED. It.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d flirt-chatted with a guy who had no idea who I was. Usually, if the guy wasn’t an actor, producer, or some other established Hollywood type, he had aspirations—and he thought that dating me would be a shortcut to achieving fame and fortune. My dating life had taught me several painful lessons about users.
Even if my date was already a celebrity, dating was hazardous and often competitive. Was I famous enough, pretty enough, liked by enough people that he could justify his interest in me? Or was there someone better that he could be seen with? I was an accessory, a prop. And even though those guys never knew about my glamour, they still asked me to change my appearance to suit their own brand and style.
Even before I’d sold my first book, I stuck to the dating slow lane. I did not open up quickly, nor was it easy for me to get to know a guy. Writing romance novels had been natural for me because I’d always been that girl who rehearsed her conversations before she made a call or went on a date. Really, all I’d had to do was write them down and add a sprinkling of orcs and Fae. BOOM. Ready-made books.
With Maverick, however, things felt easy. I did not know what he—or I—was going to say next. There was no script, no perfect lines. We definitely had moments of silence. And yet it was fun. I loved it, and I wanted an encore. This man was a forever man and a keeper.
Naturally, I could not keep that awkward thought to myself. Nope. I blurted it right out. “I’ve named our kids.”
Not missing a beat, Maverick responded, “Did you read Consumer Reports too? Our daddy picked our names out of that magazine. Guess he didn’t want to waste all the research he’d done on a new truck.”
Despite the good-humored way he’d turned my admission into a cute personal revelation, I still felt weird. Why did I say these things? This was worse than the time on a press tour that I’d kissed the hotel manager’s cheek when the poor guy had just been going in for a handshake.
This was awkward and I was awkward. I had zero social game. I was used to charming the people I met, making them feel important and seen. I doubt there was a magic eraser for conversations, but I wanted one. Or maybe a nice forgetfulness spell or a memory charm? Instead, I started rewriting our conversation in my head.
I’m so happy to see you.
It’s like the universe is throwing us together!
Are you free for coffee?
“Is there a part for me?” Maverick eased the truck to a nice, slow stop for a red light.
“Excuse me? In what?” Had I missed something he’d said? Elena had compared the inside of my head to a soundproof vault on more than one occasion. Once I got to thinking, my ears shut off.
He shifted in his seat so he could face me, looking at me as if I weren’t awkward, as if he still wanted to eat me up. “You’re curled up in that seat, talking to yourself about something. I’d like to participate.”
“Well...” I tweaked a line or two in my head, and then went off script. “I guess I decided that I’m the queen bee of awkward. After less than sixty minutes in your company, I’ve offered to have your babies. That’s awkward.”
He shrugged, unfazed by my reproductive urges. “It’s not awkward. I’m excellent genetic material. Japanese crepe cake?”
I blinked. “Cake?”
He tipped his head to the right. “If we go right, we can hit up the bakery that does Japanese crepe cakes. They’re the best. It’ll take five minutes to get there. But Specter Springs is in the other direction, which means we must detour for cake. Do you have time for that?”
“Uh.” The sudden topic shift had me off-balance. I had offered him heartfelt personal vulnerability, and his response had been to offer me dessert. On the other hand: cake. “I’m super late already.” But would it hurt to be a few minutes later?
Maverick signaled to turn left.
“They stay open late. We could go later.”
I nodded enthusiastically, my mind seesawing between cake and baby making. “Yes. Later.”
“How about tonight?” he asked, his voice light.
“Tonight? You want to eat cake with me tonight?”
He was the king of confidence. And of plans. Surprises, too. Because I had not seen this coming and I didn’t know what to say. I quickly reminded myself that I had work. Responsibilities. That I was not experiencing a delirious little bubble of joy because my wolfman had asked me out on a cake-eating date.
“Yeah. I could get you after you finish work and take you back to the house via the bakery. It wouldn’t take any time at all.”
I was pretty certain that time did not work that way, even if it did seem to stretch like bad taffy when I was stuck in the line at the DMV.
“Alright, it would take time, but it would be time well spent.” The smile he shot me was soft and bright. “But I’d be saving time as well, seeing as how I would not have to chase you all over the mountain. If you let me drive you to and from the set, you’d be on time and not lost. And I wouldn’t have to spend my time looking for you.”
I bit my lip, trying to hold in the laughter. His cheesiness was endearing, and he got an A for effort. “I’m sure you have better things to do than drive me all over the fine state of Tennessee.”
“There is nothing better than looking after the mother of my future children.”
My face was on fire. It was the fiery color of a cardinal. “Can I convince you to forget that I said that?”
He chuckled, but it was a good-natured sound. I wasn’t sure this man had a mean bone in his fine body. “Here’s the deal. You let me take you back to Wyatt’s place tonight and pick you up in the morning. If it takes too much of my time or you don’t like it, we won’t do it again. But if our driving arrangement pleases us both, then...”
Then what? I needed him to finish that sentence.
He did not. Le sigh.
“But what’s in it for you?” I fanned my face, seeing as how I had already lost any chance of seeming glamorous and cool in front of him. “I get a free chauffeur. But I’ll be in town for twelve weeks. Do you want to save me from the evil torments of my rental car and its stick shift by driving me hither and yon for that long?”
The glance he gave me was soft and playful. It warmed as his eyes moved over my face. The fire in my cheeks migrated lower.
I wished I could see myself through his eyes always.
His voice was rough when he said, “I will hither and yon you for as long as you will let me.”
His next glance was less soft, and it got his . . . point . . . across just fine.
Maverick Boone had some sexy plans in mind for us.
And for once in my life, I was too awkward and caught off guard to say anything. I did not have the perfect line ready. I was not directing this scene. Because now I was thinking about going places with the good professor, and those sexy possibilities made me hot and bothered.
So, so hot.
I looked at him, saying nothing, because for once I was just going to let the next thing happen in my life without trying to script or plot it. The rest of the short drive to Specter Springs was quiet, but it wasn’t awkward. It was tense. Erotically tense. The I can’t wait for tonight and can we skip all the daylight hours tense.
My wolf was such a charmer.