Bridget almost fell off her chair. “What?”
“She’s got a kid.”
“Where is he?”
“With her parents.” He could see the wheels in Bridget’s mind turning. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Like hell it isn’t. You have to accept that kid as your own.”
“I know. And I’m okay with that.” He shot her a look. “So you need to be too. Understand?”
Bridget held up her hands. “If you’re okay with it, then I will be too.” Her eyebrows bounced once in a ‘how about that’ expression. “Okay, back to you and your need for romance. Let’s take it one day at a time, shall we? If she’s making dinner, you should bring flowers. Not those awful limp things from the buckets in the produce section of the Shop & Save. Nice flowers. Go see Marigold over at the Enchanted Garden. She’ll fix you up.”
He hesitated. Marigold Williams was one of three sisters, who along with their mother, Corette, were the most well-known witches in town. Alice Bishop was probably the most powerful, but she worked exclusively for Elenora Ellingham and tended to keep to herself. “At what cost? I’m not giving her any of my hair or anything weird like that.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Not every bunch of flowers she sells comes with a witchy price attached to it. Just tell her what you need. She’s got a gift. With flowers. Now I have a bar to run and you have a woman to get home to.”
She laughed. “Wow, that sounds even weirder out loud.”
“It’s not that weird.” He opened the door.
“It’s totally weird. You haven’t had a girlfriend in how long? Since the Rangers? Bro, do your parts even work?”
“Don’t worry about my parts.” He frowned at her, but there was no denying he’d had a long dry spell. Deliberately. But Bridge didn’t need to know that.
“Why haven’t you had a girlfriend?”
“I’ve been busy.” Truth was, he’d never seen a reason to get involved, knowing that an arranged marriage would most likely be required of him as the pack leader’s firstborn. And so, instead of entangling himself in a relationship that would only come to a forced end when his father dictated it, he’d opted to avoid relationships altogether.
It was also a way to spare Bridget and Titus from having to sacrifice their happiness for the sake of the pack. If he was available to be married off, they wouldn’t have to be.
For a soldier, sacrifice was easy. Being sheriff felt very much the same. Long hours, hard work, sometimes unfavorable conditions, the willingness to be the first line of defense…it was what he did best. Who his father had raised him to be.
Bridget sighed. “Well, I guess you’ll have to find a way to be less busy now, huh?”
“I guess. Thanks for the advice.” He left and drove to the Enchanted Garden.
Not until he called out if anyone was there did Marigold come out from the back room. She had a leaf in her wild brunette hair and a piece of green tape stuck to the front of her work apron. “Hey, Sheriff, what can I do for you?”
“I need flowers.”
Her eyes widened a little. “Good thing you came here then. What’s the occasion?”
“Dinner.”
She nodded, leaning forward a bit. “With?”
He wasn’t ready to make the marriage pact public. “A woman.”
Marigold pursed her lips. “Is this a romantic thing?”
“Yes. Romantic.”
She tapped her fingers on the counter. “You’re not giving me a lot to go on.”
“I want her to feel…wooed.”
“Ah. All right.” She held up a finger. “Give me a few minutes.”
A few minutes passed and Marigold returned with what seemed like a bush in her hand. “What do you think?”
“That’s a lot of flowers.”
“It’s a medium-size bouquet. It’s not that many.”
Looked like a lot to him. “And a woman will like that?”
Marigold gave him a withering glance. “Most women I know would love this.”
“Good.” He whipped out his credit card, but held it just off the counter. “You didn’t put anything witchy in there, did you?”
“Did you want me to?”
“No.”
“Then you’re in luck. I charge extra for that anyway.”
“Good to know.” He dropped his card on the counter. “Could you send a bouquet like this to my house every day for the next three days? Not the same bouquet. Different. But similar.” Why was this so hard?
Marigold nodded. “Absolutely. You want me to send this one?”
“No, I’ll take that one with me.”
“You have a vase, right?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no idea if he had a vase.
She waved her hand. “If you don’t, call me and I’ll send one with tomorrow’s delivery. You want a card with them?”
“Is that what people do?”
“Normally, yes.” Her eyes narrowed. “Haven’t you ever sent flowers before?”
“No.” He and his siblings often sent flowers to his mother for her birthday, but Bridget always took care of the details. “What do you put on the card?”
“Whatever you want to say.” She pointed to a clear plastic stand in front of the register that held three rows of small, mostly white cards. “You can pick any one you like, but I’ll need three of them for the rest of the deliveries.”
He grunted. The cards all looked the same to him. He pulled out the first one.
She pushed a pen toward him. “You probably don’t want that one.”
“Why not?”
She pointed at the flowing script at the top. “This says In Sympathy. The woman in question might not feel too wooed if she thinks she’s getting funeral flowers.”
With a small noise, he stuck the card back into the holder.
Marigold lifted out another one. “How’s this?”
The card had a zebra-striped border outlined in bright pink. Very girly. And Ivy’s nails had been zebra-striped. “That one’s good.”
He grabbed the pen and jotted down the first thing that came to mind.
To Ivy, from Hank.
Not the most poetic thing he’d ever written, but the point was the flowers, not the card.
Marigold sighed. “Sorry, no.”
He looked up. “What?”
She pointed at the card. “Is that really what you’re going to say?”
He held back a growl. “You have a better suggestion?”
“Only like a thousand of them.”
He waited. “Such as?”
“You need to write from your heart, not your head. To and from are not romantic.”
Neither am I, thought Hank. He came up with something that didn’t make Marigold wince, then wrote three more like that, paid, took the bouquet she had made up and headed home, his head reeling like he’d been trying to understand a foreign language.
He parked his duty car in front of the garage. It was odd to come home to his own house and find it lit up. It was even stranger to walk inside and feel the hum of activity. He glanced at the clock on the dash. He was fifteen minutes late, thanks to the stop for flowers. He hoped Ivy wasn’t going to nag him about that.
His stomach rumbled as he approached the kitchen and the delicious smells of dinner reached him. He stopped just outside the kitchen, a little overwhelmed by the thought that it could always be this way.
Someone waiting for him.
That hadn’t happened since he’d been a boy living at home, and that someone had been his mother. Now, that someone was a very sexy, very beautiful woman who would soon be his in every sense of the word.
The reality of that sent a tingle of sensation down his spine and a sharp jolt of possibility into his bloodstream.
He held the flowers behind his back as he walked in. “Smells good in here.”
Ivy was at the counter, icing the chocolate cake. A plate near the stove held two steaks waiting to be coo
ked. She turned as he came in and smiled. “Hey, welcome home. How was your day?”
“Busy.” Not a word about him being late. He smiled. “I brought you these.” He pulled the flowers from behind his back.
Her face lit up as she took them. She stuck her nose in them and inhaled. “They’re gorgeous and they smell like spring.” Her eyes suddenly went liquid. “I don’t think anyone’s ever brought me flowers before. Thank you.”
“No one’s ever brought you flowers?” That angered him for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, but also gave him a sense of happiness that he’d been the first.
She shrugged, a sad smile bending her mouth. “I’m not that kind of girl, I guess.”
“You are now.”
She blinked and her smile lost its sad edge. “This is a good start to the wooing. Do you have a vase I can put these in?”
Apparently, vases were more important than he’d realized. “I have no idea.”
“You probably don’t, but I’ll find something.” She licked her top lip, the tip of her pink tongue impossible to look away from.
The tingle that had gone down his spine zipped to a new location. His mind wasn’t on the flowers anymore. Or dinner. Full moon or not, being around Ivy had a marked effect on him. He wanted her in a way that erased all rational thought.
She made shooing motions at him. “Go change, dinner’s almost ready.”
He stayed where he was. “Don’t I get something for the flowers?”
She tipped her head. “Like what?”
“Like a kiss.” He wanted more than that, but all in good time.
She bit her lip. “I think that’s fair.”
She put the flowers on the counter, her hands on his chest and went up on her tiptoes as she tilted toward him and pressed her lush mouth to his.
His hands settled on her hips of their own volition.
She kissed him tentatively, the pressure of her mouth soft, the movements sweetly hesitant. Then her hands rose to twine around his neck, and she leaned into him, a soft growl of pleasure rumbling from her throat.
He matched her growl with one of his own. His hands slid down to cup her backside, his palms filling with her firm flesh. He pulled her in closer until the line of their bodies meshed. Heat burned through him everywhere she touched him. The kind of fire only one thing would quench.
He broke the kiss and sucked in a deep gulp of air, but all he could taste was her. All he wanted to taste was her. “I’ll go change.”
The second Hank was out of the kitchen, Ivy pressed her forehead to the granite countertop in an effort to cool herself off. The man was like lava. Hot, delicious lava she wanted to ride like a brand new Harley.
And he was giving her dirty thoughts. No, the full moon fever was giving her dirty thoughts. At least it was partly full moon fever. It had to be, because there was no other reason for her to be so attracted to a man who not only came from the family that was her family’s sworn enemy, but a cop.
A Kincaid, hot and bothered over a cop.
No wonder her father had had such a big laugh over this whole setup. Not only was he getting rid of his disappointing daughter and her dud of a kid—her father’s words—but he was shifting their care and responsibility onto a man he couldn’t stand for a multitude of reasons. Merrow, lawman, bringer of flowers, respecter of women.
Exactly the sort of man her father loved to hate.
Exactly the sort of man she dreamed about because she’d never thought he could be real. Handsome Hank, the dream come true.
She stood up. The granite hadn’t cooled her off as much as she’d hoped, but they were going out for a run later, and that would do wonders. So long as they could keep it in their pants until the run. And after.
She grabbed the flowers, stuck them in an iced tea pitcher filled with water, then cranked up the burner beneath the grill pan. Hank might not do a lot of cooking, but his kitchen was well stocked with equipment. Maybe that was Bridget’s doing.
Hank came back downstairs as she was flipping the steaks. He was barefooted, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and his hair was damp. He must have showered. It was the first time she’d seen him out of uniform. She wasn’t sure which look she preferred. Both were unfairly nice. “Damn, those smell good.”
She returned her attention to the steaks. “I hope they taste as good.”
“I’m sure they will.” He went to the fridge. “You want a beer?”
“No, thanks.”
He gave her an odd look. “Wine? I have some of that too.”
“No, I don’t like to drink before a run.” Not her first run with him anyway. The hormones were already weakening her inhibitions. She didn’t need alcohol to help that along any further.
He nodded and put the beer back. “That’s a good idea.”
“Don’t not drink on my account.”
“I’m good.”
He came to stand next to her by the stove. The clean scent of soap and his natural earthy maleness wafted off him. She glanced up at him. Damp hair was a good look on him.
Hell, everything was a good look on him.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She smiled and poked at the steaks with the tongs just to give herself something to do. “You smell clean.”
“And you still smell like chocolate.”
She put the tongs down and turned, almost running into him as he bent toward her. Had he been about to sniff her hair? “Sorry. I tried to clean all the batter off.”
Gold haloed his irises. “Nothing to be sorry for. I like chocolate, remember?”
For a second she thought he was going to kiss her again. She was okay with that, but the phone rang and brought the moment to an end.
He went to answer it. “Hello?” He asked a second time, then hung up. “No one there.”
“Wrong number probably.”
“Probably.” He stayed on the other side of the kitchen. “You need help with anything?”
Getting her pants off. She took a breath. “Sure. You can get the salad and the dressing out of the fridge. I bought Italian and blue cheese. Whatever you want is fine with me.”
She put the steaks on a platter and brought them to the table to rest while she took the baked potatoes out of the oven. She brought them over as well, then loaded the biggest steak onto Hank’s plate. Lastly, she added the pitcher of flowers to the table. She wasn’t about to let his effort go unappreciated.
By the time they were done eating, they’d talked about cars, their families (mostly his) and somehow completely avoided the topic of the wedding only being three days away.
Three freaking days. It was hard to imagine that in such a short time she was going to be a Merrow. She prayed that was enough to make things better for her and Charlie.
Hank helped her clear the dishes and clean up. Based on what she knew about him so far, she had a good feeling about the future. So long as Charlie’s…disability was something Hank could accept. And Hank would forgive her for keeping it a secret until after they were married.
But what else could she do? Clemens had given her no other choice.
The woods behind Hank’s house were thick with trees, their branches dressed with the rich green leaves of early summer. Insects buzzed and an owl hooted in the distance, their voices carrying easily on the warm evening air. Ivy clenched and unclenched her hands, practically vibrating with the need to run.
Hank stood at her side. “You ready?”
“You have no idea. Anything I need to know? Territory wise? Or whatever?”
“I’m the alpha’s son. I can pretty much run where I want.”
A remote howl disturbed the calm, punctuating her thoughts. She put them into words. “We’re three nights from the full moon and clearly, this community is full of shifters. No matter who you are, we’re bound to cross another were’s path.”
“True. But that’s okay. The shifters in Nocturne Falls aren’t hard-liners. Keep a respectful distance and you’ll be fine. Plus, y
ou’re with me.”
“I’ll stick close.” Not so close his pheromones overwhelmed her and made her offer herself up like a tasty snack, but within reason.
“Then let’s go.” He leaped forward, his clothes becoming his fur as he shifted mid-air and landed several feet away as an enormous silver and gray wolf. He turned back to look at her. Even his markings were handsome. How was this guy not taken?
A thought for another time. She leaped like he had, giving herself over to the night. The change swept through her the moment she was airborne. She landed on all fours, the joy of being in her animal form intoxicating.
Caught up in the moment, she ran toward Hank and stuck her muzzle in his neck. She pulled away a second later, pawing at the ground like she hadn’t just done that.
His lips curled in a wolfy grin and he lifted a paw, then trotted deeper into the forest. She joined him, staying a few paces back and to his right flank. Their communication was limited to body language and some vocalizations, but that’s how most weres communicated anyway. If they bonded at some point, they might be able to share thoughts. It happened only to those with strong bloodlines and a true connection.
She didn’t hold out hope for that. Not in an arranged marriage. But that didn’t matter now. All that mattered was the ground beneath her feet, the wind in her fur and the loamy scent of the world surrounding her. The freedom of the moment. The exhilaration of the run.
Hank glanced back, saw she was at his flank and woofed.
She woofed back, ready to run.
He dipped his head and took off, his massive paws digging into the soft earth and flinging clumps of mossy dirt. She sped up to match him, pacing him as they tore through the woods. Here and there, more howls filled the night. Other shifters reveling in the release of the wildness that had been building with the waxing of the moon.
How long they ran she wasn’t sure, but it was good and long and when they finally slowed, they were near a waterfall. They panted with the exercise and the thrill of the run. Her blood thrummed with the joy of it. Hank bent to drink and she joined him, staying a few feet downstream, even though the embarrassing urge to nuzzle him again was almost stronger than the urge not to.
The Werewolf Meets His Match (Nocturne Falls Book 2) Page 7