“Zed is a worrywart.” Truth. “He knows I just got out of a bad relationship,” I fudged. More like a victim of a hit-and-run. “He wants to make sure I don’t do anything that might hurt me…or you…later.”
“You had a boyfriend?” He hurled the question at me, a stone skipping across the surface of a still pond.
Not exactly. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” His self-deprecating laugh jarred me. “I would have left you alone if I’d known.” He drew himself up taller. “I’m not that guy. I don’t bust up relationships, and I like to think I don’t linger where I’m not wanted.”
Faint music drifted from the park to cover the expectant silence full of things I didn’t want to say.
I’m not ashamed to admit I liked the way Enzo flirted with me, how he was so polite when males of my own species tended not to be. Before Lorimar was formed, before I was able to fight for my place under an alpha worth following, I had been acting the part of the submissive. I had done things in that role that haunted me. Things that made me want to scrub myself with steel wool then rinse off in rubbing alcohol.
Moore had been one of those things. He wasn’t a bad guy, not abusive or cruel, just entitled. I hadn’t been in a good headspace for a long time before he started creeping into my bed on lonely nights, a right assumed by many dominant wolves when it came to submissive pack mates unable to say no and mean it. Rebuffing his advances would have proven my strength and tipped my hand to Bessemer, who had only allowed my return to the fold on his sufferance.
Every time I looked at Moore, I saw a loss of choice, a loss of self. He was a glaring reminder of my own weakness, a mirror held to my face reflecting my mother’s history repeating. Most of the time, I was pretty sure it wasn’t him I hated with such acid-churning vehemence. No, I was pretty sure that honor was reserved for myself.
That’s why, in the early days of the Garzas’ pact with Bessemer, Enzo’s flirtations had been a welcome reprieve in a life that had been more bitter than sweet. His persistence had paid off. I had intended to say yes the next time he asked me to dinner, a movie, whatever. But that was before Bessemer ordered me out to the Garza homestead, before I found Cord strapped to that stainless table bleeding for the first time, before I understood that fate had played yet another trick on me.
A white knight Enzo wasn’t, and I had so hoped he might rescue me. That was before life taught me if I needed saving, I had to do it myself.
“It was complicated” seemed like the best answer, weak as it was, so I ran with it.
With a tight nod, Enzo escorted me to his car. He even held the door for me. I breathed in the rich scents of new leather and expensive cologne, which even my wolf grudgingly appreciated. The infotainment screen lit with a welcome message. Ambient lighting glowed to life in the floorboards, along the doors and in the console, and I gawked at bells and whistles that would have been more at home on a spaceship than a leisure vehicle. A soft purr shocked me into realizing he had cranked the engine with his key fob.
Lord have mercy, this was nice. Only a quick reminder of how he had paid for his wheels kept me from swooning.
Enzo slid into the driver’s seat and did a double take in my direction, as if he couldn’t believe I was really sitting there, like he was shocked I hadn’t bolted during the few seconds it took him to join me. “So… What’s good?”
“There’s a pizza joint, a Chinese place, a Waffle Iron that serves breakfast twenty-four seven, and there’s a Mexican restaurant that serves Italian on Wednesdays, cupcakes, and sells candied bacon by the pound.” That last bit earned me a raised eyebrow. “The owner’s a hob, one of the few fae left in town. Everything he serves is delicious, but there’s no rhyme or reason to the menu.”
Within seventy-two hours of the rift opening, Tim, the hob, had introduced himself to the pack. He’d heard it was open season on fae and didn’t want us confusing him or his family with “bad” fae. I respected his commitment to the community and admired his willingness to stick it out for as long as was safe.
A hesitant expression seized Enzo. “What do you recommend?”
“The Cantina has excellent guac.” The endorsement was honest, but ribbing him proved to be a temptation I couldn’t resist. Enzo wearing his fancy shirt, driving his fast car, and eating at a restaurant that couldn’t decide its nationality, let alone whether it was sweet or savory, tickled me. “Unless one of the other options appeals?”
“I trust your taste,” he said with a straight face. “The Cantina it is.”
After adjusting my seat to accommodate my long legs, I strapped in and enjoyed the smooth ride. Good thing cops were few and far between, since he treated the posted speed limits as laughable suggestions.
“Well, shoot.” We parked at the curb outside of a squat brick building with stucco tossed on in creative patches that might have looked southwestern in design if you stood on your head, stuck out your tongue and squinted at it. “The Cantina never closes early.” I pushed open my door and stepped onto the sidewalk. “I hope nothing’s wrong with Tim or the brood.”
The hotel manager’s warning popped into my head. Perhaps an electrical issue was to blame.
Enzo followed after his car chirped, lights flashing, as it locked.
A sign taped to the glass hung on by one corner dispelled my weather theory. Tilting my head, I read it out loud. “Out of beef.” I cupped my hands and peered inside the dim restaurant. “That’s a thing? How do you run out of beef?” And why did that prevent him from cooking chicken, pork or fish? I might have started out wanting to torment Enzo a skosh, but I’d had time for my stomach to decide it wanted one of the lemon meringue cupcakes Tim’s wife baked fresh each morning. “Guess you’ll have to be introduced to hob cuisine some other time.”
The tension washed out of Enzo’s shoulders. “How do you feel about pizza?”
“I can do pizza” is what I said. What I meant was “I can be merciful.”
Leaving the car behind, we strolled down one block and over another. The two eateries might be on opposite ends of the main drag, but that wasn’t saying much in a town the size of Butler. Neon lights curved into garish pizza pies greeted us at the front door of The Pie Barn. I held the door for Enzo like the gentlewoman I wasn’t, and led him to my favorite booth. The one in the back near the emergency exit. The barn employed only one waitress I’d ever met, and she was old enough to be my grandmother.
The sight of Peggy sashaying toward us sent a pang of longing for Meemaw rocketing through me, though the two looked nothing alike. My grandmother lacked the shellacked blond beehive hairdo for starters, and she had never worn an indecently short pair of black shorts in her life. On Peggy, even the polo shirt embroidered with the restaurant’s logo managed to be provocative. Blame it on the top being unbuttoned all the way and the fit three sizes too small. That didn’t take into account her love of platform heels, either. The glossy black numbers she wore today reminded me of polished horse hooves.
“Hello, gorgeous.” Matte lipstick a hair away from being orange bled into the cracks of her lips, which split into a wide grin when her gaze landed on Enzo. Sparing me a fraction of her attention, she nodded. “Hey, Dell.” Zooming her focus back to Enzo, she leaned a frail hip against the table. “What can I do for you?”
Taking refuge behind the menu, he gave his options serious consideration. “I’ll take a small sausage and onion pie with a Pepsi.”
“Small sausage?” She winked at him, not that he could see her. “Sure you don’t want to make that a large?” She plucked the menu from his fingers, her three-inch-long Creamsicle-orange nails brushing his hand. “Bigger is better, hon.”
Mottled red splashed his cheeks as he forced a smile. “I don’t want to bite off more than I can chew.”
“Oh, come on. Live a little.” She leaned forward, flashing him an impressive amount of cleavage considering she wore a polo shirt with a measly two buttons. The view made me wonder what brand of
pushup bra she was modeling. “You’re young. You can have anything you want.” She gave her shoulders a wiggle. “I do mean anything.”
Gone was the confident witch. In his place sat a young man eyeing the display window like an action movie star prepping for a stunt jump through the glass. What can I say? I’m a sucker. I took pity on him. “Peggy, he’s with me.”
“Girl, you’ve already got all those other young bucks chasing after you.” She jabbed me in the shoulder with her pen. “Can’t I have this one?”
The young bucks in question were my pack mates, not my boyfriends, but we did go to town in pairs often. Great. The locals probably thought I was some kind of floozy. Then again, that would explain the discount I got on groceries last week. I couponed like a pro, but I had argued over the total with Mr. Simmons, insisting I owed more, and still lost. I’d also found a blank receipt with his phone number in the bottom of the bag.
Ugh. Men were such…men.
“Sorry.” I placed my hand over his, which was larger than it looked and less manicured than I expected. “This one’s mine.”
Jumping into the narrative with both feet, Enzo linked his fingers with mine. I didn’t get the impression he was pushing my limits as much as he was grasping the lifeline I had tossed him.
“Oh, to be young and gorgeous again.” She sighed dreamily, gaze distant. “You want your usual?”
“Yes, please.” I waited until she was halfway to the kitchen. “Peggy? You’re still one hot piece of ass.”
Enzo choked on his own spit, eyes rounding with dire urgency not to make a sound that might draw her loving attention.
Peggy fluffed her hair and cocked one hip. “Right?”
She strutted through the double doors, which was all that saved her from hearing his near-death experience as his lungs forced him to grab oxygen. Lucky guy. Had she been there, she would have offered mouth-to-mouth.
“Sorry.” He withdrew his hand from mine before I got the chance to be uncomfortable. “And thank you.” His gaze drifted toward the kitchen. “I’m pretty sure I owe you my life.”
“Yeah, Peggy is a real man-eater.” I chuckled under my breath. “So how are things back, um, not home?”
Most of my life had been lived in and around the Villanow, Georgia area. Tennessee was where I hung my hat now, because it was where the pack was needed most, but a part of me still had Georgia on my mind.
“Meemaw is well.”
I flinched out of my thoughts. “I’m that obvious?”
“She’s family, and she’s not here with you.” He kept a wary focus on the kitchen doorway. “You’ve got to be missing her.”
“More than I ever thought possible.” I glanced away while my eyes prickled. “It’s too dangerous for her up here, and yes. She would bend me over her knee if she knew that’s why I keep putting off her visits.” I studied him as the implications of his comment struck me. “How do you know she’s well?”
“She sees Miguel for her arthritis now.”
Ice water sloshed in my veins, and a growl built behind my chest. The last thing I wanted to hear was that Miguel had been treating my grandmother, even if he was more qualified than most pack doctors thanks to his years of experimentation on wargs.
“I drive her to and from her appointments myself. I sit with her the whole time. Miguel only treats her ailments with known remedies, nothing experimental. I swear it.” Enzo linked his hands on the table and stared at them. “Abram left, and she had no one to turn to, so she turned to me.”
And he had taken on the burden of caring for Meemaw, which should have been my privilege, except I wasn’t there.
Abram leaving the old pack to join ours was bound to have repercussions, I got that, but I had assumed Bessemer would cash in a favor and get another doctor transplanted to his pack since the Chandler wargs numbered in the hundreds.
That he hadn’t replaced Abram yet sat uneasy with me. Or maybe that was the debt I now owed Enzo making me squirm.
“Thank you.” I bit the inside of my cheek. “She didn’t breathe a word of it to me.”
He massaged a wrinkle in the red-and-white checkered tablecloth with a finger. “She probably didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’m sorry for doubting your good intentions.” I managed a laugh. “We seem to be saying that a lot.”
“Miguel and I haven’t given you much reason to trust us.” His lips pressed into a flat line. “I understand why you’re concerned that Meemaw was left to our tender mercies.” He flicked his gaze up to mine. “I aim to change your opinion of me, if you let me try.”
“Why does it sound like you don’t support your brother’s methods?” The question popped out before my brain caught up to my mouth.
“I’m his apprentice.” He rubbed his thumbs together. “I surrendered the right to my opinion when I blood bound myself to him for a period of ten years.”
My breath left me in a rush. “Ten years?”
“Yes. A decade of servitude in exchange for a century of enlightenment.” His faint smile managed to be amused. “That’s why the selection process for mentors is strict. The bond can’t be broken. It’s locked in until it expires.”
I leaned back, recoiling from the implications. “How long do you have left?”
“Eleven months, twenty-eight days, and about twelve hours, give or take.”
I arched my eyebrows. “Not that you’re counting down the days or anything.”
“Have you ever been ordered to do something that…?” The words hung unfinished.
“Yes.” I didn’t have to hear the rest to understand. “I have, and I did it.”
He set his jaw. “Bessemer?”
“No.” I retracted the knee-jerk response. “Well, yes, him too. He wasn’t exactly winning any Alpha of the Year awards.” I tapped my stubby nails on the tablecloth while I screwed up the courage to admit, “I was thinking of my mother, actually.”
Enzo didn’t move a muscle. I recognized the behavior. I’d done it enough while stalking jittery prey.
“Pepsi and sweet tea no lemon,” Peggy called, barreling through the swinging doors.
I pushed out a slow exhale, grateful for the save.
“Food will be out in a minute.” She tossed me a straw while putting Enzo’s through a strip tease that ended with her thrusting it provocatively into his glass. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m good.”
“I bet you are,” she all but purred.
While he was good and terrified, I seized the opportunity for a subject change. “So…” I sipped my tea, which could have used a few more spoonfuls of sugar. “Where do you see yourself settling down?”
“I like small towns.” He gestured around the restaurant, careful to avoid including Peggy in the sweep of his arm as she toddled on her heels back into the kitchen. “They have their own charm.”
“They also don’t have a dry cleaner or a movie theater or any of the other niceties of—” Dang it. I almost said home. Again. “Have you considered Atlanta?”
“The competition there is too stiff.” The straw wrapper on the table folded itself into an origami crane. “I need to establish my own territory outside the state where my brother lives.” The paper crumpled when he noticed the wings flapping, and he linked his fingers to keep them from casting again. “I want out from under Miguel’s shadow.”
For the second time tonight, I found myself nodding in heartfelt agreement. “I know exactly what you mean.”
I would give my eyeteeth to escape Momma’s legacy.
Again, Enzo waited for me to expand on my comment. And yet again, I shut him down. My past was common knowledge in the pack, both the old one and the new one. Keeping him in the dark enabled me to keep his respect. I liked that he tried so hard to impress someone most wargs, a year ago, would have expected to flop on her back and spread her legs.
“Mind if I ask a personal question?”
My head jerk
ed up, the past shoved back in its box while I mentally skimmed all the sensitive topics that we had discussed and I had dismissed. I hesitated for so long there could be no doubt I didn’t want to answer. “It depends.”
“Why do you go by Dell?” The appearance of his dimples clued me in to the fact I was being played. “Adele is a beautiful name.”
“It was a nickname given to me in school. It stuck.” Relief at his kindness left me lightheaded. “Is Enzo short for something else?” Most folks’ curiosity stemmed from their own name or nickname trauma.
The divots in his cheeks smoothed. “It’s short for…” His mumbled admission failed to cross the table.
“What was that?” I leaned forward, forearms on the table. “I didn’t catch it.”
“Lorenzo,” he muttered, shoulders drooping. “As in Lamas.”
The laughter I kept hiding finally bubbled over my lips. “Was your mom big into soaps?”
Dot Cahill was a connoisseur of television drama. She walked me through the twisting plotlines of her favorite shows once, and I’d left her trailer with a headache, not really sure who the father of Anna’s baby was, except that it wasn’t her ex-boyfriend’s father or her current lover’s twin brother, who got drunk and stumbled into her bed one night. I decided on the spot I couldn’t watch television that required diagrams, so I stuck to HGTV.
“Yes.” He bowed his head. “Please, show mercy and tell no one.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” I crossed a finger over my heart. “I won’t tell another soul.”
“Hot pie,” Peggy called from across the restaurant. “Hands off the table.”
We both stashed our hands in our laps while she set two wide metal platters balanced on wooden coasters on the table then dished out plates and served up our first slices. I took a bite of my chicken alfredo and groaned in appreciation. “Delicious as always.”
Promise the Moon (Lorimar Pack Book 1) Page 4