by Naima Simone
Before the words finished leaving her mouth, he practically leaped across the short distance between them and hauled her into his arms. He whispered nonsensical things into her hair. She didn’t cry, but God, he wished she would. The deep, almost unnatural quiet paired with the violent shivers that racked her body seemed worse.
How long they stood there—him embracing her, her burrowed against him—he didn’t know. Didn’t count the minutes. Because they didn’t matter. As long as she needed to borrow his strength, his warmth, he’d let her. Later, when he was alone, he’d analyze why his heart was in danger of cracking a rib or two at just the thought of why she had to borrow it.
Only when the shuddering in her body eased and her breathing quieted did he loosen his hold and slide a hand to the back of her neck to lightly squeeze.
“You good?”
She nodded against his chest. “I’m good.” Then, “I’m sorry.”
He leaned back, lifted his other hand to cradle the other side of her neck and shifted both until his thumbs nudged her chin up. Even with pink eyes and lids puffy from a previous crying jag and dried tear tracks on her cheeks, she was beautiful. More so because of it. Because of this vulnerability he suspected she hid from most people.
Sweeping his thumbs over her cheekbones, he murmured, “You have nothing to apologize for. Not with me.” Her gaze dropped from his, and he dipped his head, catching it again. “Look at me, baby.” Surprise flashed in her dark eyes. Whether at the endearment, although it wasn’t the first time he’d called her that, or the order. Maybe both. Hell, it echoed through him, too. “This.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “This.” He trailed his fingertips over her eyelids. “This.” He caressed the soft cushion of her bottom lip. “Isn’t a weakness. And I’ll never use it against you.”
She stared at him, silent, and he didn’t speak again. Didn’t try to convince her. And after a moment, she nodded.
So did he.
Then, even though the most primal part of him snarled a protest, he dropped his arms and stepped back. If she’d been any other woman, he would’ve continued holding her, but she wasn’t. And he was beginning to understand that there wasn’t another like Nessa Hunt. She might’ve had that moment where she’d allowed him to glimpse behind that impenetrable wall, but even as they stood there, the structure slid back into place, brick by brick. Her shoulders straightened. Her breathing evened. Her chin tilted to an angle that dared him to comment on anything he’d witnessed in the last twenty minutes.
Yet...she couldn’t do a damn thing about her eyes. The damp lashes couldn’t conceal the hurt lingering there. The confusion.
God, he had to look anywhere else but those beautiful brown eyes. They were going to be the end of him. Of his resolve to keep a distance. A resolve he’d already violated. Again.
Deliberately, he conjured an image, a memory of himself sitting in his darkened living room the day after Olivia drove out of Rose Bend. Alone. Broken. Wondering what he could’ve done differently. What he could’ve said to change her mind.
Why he hadn’t been enough to make her stay.
Complications. Hadn’t he thought that the first day he’d met Nessa? Nothing in their interactions had altered his impression. And today set it in wet concrete with the word etched in capital letters.
Getting tangled in Nessa would be a mistake of colossal proportions. And yet...he didn’t move.
Dammit.
“I guess I owe you an explanation,” Nessa said, and he managed not to wince from the hoarseness of her voice.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Thank you.” She paused, turned her head and stared off at the thick line of trees. And without meeting his gaze, she talked. And talked. About her parents’ deaths. About finding out her father wasn’t her biological father. About the estranged relationship with Isaac Hunt, only to find out he’d named her guardian of a sister she barely knew. Having to keep the secret of her paternity from Ivy. About this trip, and finally the letter she received this morning and her sister’s hurtful words.
By the time Nessa finished, Wolf struggled not to commit the monumental misstep that most men—sorry, to males everywhere—did. Make this about him and his need to fix this for her. That’s who he was—a fixer. But he couldn’t. Logically, he acknowledged that. And it wasn’t for him to do it, and that’s not why she’d shared this with him. Still...
He inhaled, ordered his caveman instinct to stand down and exhaled.
“What do you want to do?”
She jerked her head up, brown eyes intent on him. Again, surprise flickered in them.
“Whatever it is—whatever you decide—I’ll help, if you’d like me to,” he offered.
His savior complex in full fucking effect. But this time... This time, he acknowledged it, and could control it. He was offering to help a friend. A beautiful, sexy friend who hardened his dick, but she was leaving Rose Bend. She was as meant for this town as Olivia had been. As long as he kept that utmost in mind, he wouldn’t allow himself to reach for more. Imagine more.
And inevitably fuck it all up.
“I haven’t had time to think about it.” She tilted her head back, peering up at the sky. A moment later, she shook her head, huffing out a short, humorless chuckle. “I haven’t let myself think about who my biological father is since finding out the truth. I think it’s like wishing for a pony for your birthday, knowing it’s never going to happen. I didn’t allow myself to want that because I didn’t believe I could have it.”
“And now?” he pressed when she fell silent.
“And now—” she briefly closed her eyes before her lashes lifted “—now I want to know. I want to find out the truth.”
“Then we will.”
He held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation where she stared at his upturned palm, she accepted it.
And if that same primal instinct that’d urged him to protect her now screamed he needed to protect himself, well, he had it under control.
He could help a guest—a friend—with an important mission and still maintain an emotional distance.
Damn right he could.
Ten
WOLF SWITCHED OFF the lathe and set down the paring tool, studying the piece of walnut that had started out as a blank, but was now a beautiful table leg with wide, perfect grooves. All he needed to do now was round the grooves over with the chisel, and the last one would be done.
A sense of accomplishment swelled within him. When he’d returned home from the service, there’d been a year when he’d floundered in darkness. Between coping with Raylon’s death, PTSD and not knowing what the fuck he was going to do with his life, he hadn’t been in a good place. It hadn’t been until Cole’s first wife, Tonia, had asked him if he could take a look at her armoire and see if he could fix the door that he’d rediscovered his love of working with wood and with his hands. He’d never forget her and would always love her for that reason alone.
Carpentry had saved him. For a while, it’d been the only real thing in his life. The wood, the dirt, the dust, the creating—they’d grounded him in a way even the service hadn’t managed. Gradually, the peace carpentry and finding his purpose granted him—the solace, the space to be himself—reconnected him to his family, his community. No, maybe woodwork wouldn’t land him a promotion or make him rich. But he could be a part of people’s lives, could bring them joy, memories. That far exceeded seeing his name on an office door or having twenty employees under him.
Olivia hadn’t been able to understand that.
And he had a feeling Nessa, with her life in Boston, her expensive clothes and faint derision of small-town life, was cut from the same cloth.
A knock reverberated on the door of his workshop, and he looked up from the table leg and lathe in time to see his father enter. Wolf smiled, tugging off his safety glasses.
&nb
sp; “Hey, Dad. Tell me you brought—” His father held up a steel thermos. “Yeah, you did. Don’t tell Moe. But you’re my favorite parent.”
Ian Seamus Dennison snorted. “If you believe I don’t hear you tell your mother that every time she bakes oatmeal-raisin cookies, then there are two fools in this room.”
Wolf laughed, accepting the thermos his father extended toward him. He twisted off the cap and retrieved a mug from the built-in cabinet on the far wall. Pouring his dad a cup and handing it to him and then filling the cap up to the brim, he pulled up stools for both of them.
The next couple of minutes were spent sipping his mother’s delicious freshly brewed coffee in comfortable silence with one of his favorite people in the world. This was familiar territory for them. Several times a week, Ian ambled down to Wolf’s workshop and spent the morning with him, either sitting and talking while Wolf worked, or even helping him with a few odd things. Wolf loved this time with his father.
Hell, he just loved his father.
In his early fifties, Ian Dennison still maintained the tall, powerful frame that he’d passed down to Wolf. And unless you messed with his wife or kids, his gray-blue eyes usually sparkled with good humor. Where Moe was gregarious and outgoing, his father tended to be quieter and more of a homebody. They balanced each other perfectly. Where Moe had been the framework always sheltering this family, Ian had been the rock-steady, never-failing foundation it’d been built on.
“This for that North Carolina job?” His father leaned over and ran blunt fingertips over the table leg. “Beautiful work, son.”
Pride danced over his senses. “Thanks, Dad. And yeah. I’m not finished yet.” He studied the leg with a critical eye, too, but not as it was on the lathe. As it would be by Monday, when it was completely finished and ready to ship. “After Trevor sands and stains it, I plan to add the roses to the corners of the tabletop. I already ordered the glass, and Alvin will have it here Thursday.”
Ian nodded and sipped from his cup, gaze narrowed. “Your reputation is really growing, huh? This is the fourth out-of-state commission in a month, isn’t it?”
Wolf lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Word of mouth sells. The good part is I get to decide which jobs I take or turn down. The last thing I want is to become so overwhelmed with orders that I can’t deliver on time. Or at all.”
“I’ve been watching Trevor, and the boy seems to really enjoy working with you, no matter how he came to be here. Maybe he’ll want to join you full-time after school.”
“Maybe,” Wolf said. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought of that himself. “But he needs to find his own way. Like I did.”
“True.”
Ian took another sip of coffee, studying him over the rim, and Wolf straightened, recognizing that particular look in his father’s gaze. The I-have-something-to-say-and-you’re-going-to-hear-me-out look. Wolf smothered a groan. But he might as well not have bothered because his father arched a dark eyebrow as if Wolf had released it anyway.
“What?” Wolf asked, resigned. “What have I done now? And how much does Moe know?”
Ian mock glared, jabbing a finger at him. “Y’know, you, your brothers and sisters better be glad I don’t have much of an ego. Because if I did, it would be beat to hell that you are all way more terrified of your mother than you are me.”
“Aw, don’t be insulted, Dad.” Wolf smirked, patting his father’s denim-covered leg. “Let’s not pretend we haven’t seen you get scarce when she’s on the war path.”
“Boy, that’s utter bullshit and you know it,” he growled, but in the next instant, grinned. “Besides, I know how to get her out of her snit. All I have to do is grab her, take her upstairs and—”
“Holy shit, stop!” Wolf coughed, choking on his coffee and spraying droplets over his workbench. “Don’t say another word,” he wheezed.
“Are you okay?” Laughing, Ian stood and pounded Wolf on the back. Hard. “Need some water? You’re looking a little peaked there.”
“What I need—” Wolf waved his father away and dragged in air through his constricted lungs. When he could finally speak without sounding like he was suffering an asthma attack, he snapped, “What I need, old man, is for you not to traumatize me with that kind of talk.”
Still chuckling, his father settled back on his stool and picked up his mug again. But peering down into it, he sobered. “I ran into Carol Brandt this morning while I was downtown.” He glanced up. “She mentioned receiving a money order in the mail. There wasn’t a return address, but there didn’t need to be one for her to know who it was from. Especially since she’s been receiving them every month for the past six years.”
Wolf didn’t answer.
Ian sighed, and sadness darkened his eyes, making them appear more blue than gray. From one second to the next, he appeared older than his fifty-four years, and guilt sat heavy in Wolf’s gut like a boulder.
“Wolf.” His father dragged a hand down his face and the abrasion of his scruff grazing his palm rasped in the silence. “I didn’t know you still did that, son. You didn’t say...” He trailed off. “How long are you going to punish yourself for something that wasn’t your fault? She lost a son in the war. Carol would rather have you than your money.”
“That’s not true.”
“Wolf...”
“No, Dad.” He shook his head. His father didn’t know that when he’d returned home without Raylon, Carol had blamed him for not protecting her son. For letting her baby die out there. And she’d been right. “Raylon was my best friend besides Cole. And when I didn’t know what I wanted to do after graduating high school, Raylon followed me down to that recruiter’s office just because he didn’t want me to go alone. That’s the kind of loyal friend he was.”
And Wolf had failed him and his mother in the worst and most final way.
No, Carol would not rather have Wolf. And maybe she didn’t want his money either. But Wolf couldn’t take that money. He didn’t deserve it or her forgiveness, if she even offered it. But in lieu of bringing back her son, it’s all he had to give her.
His father softly cursed. “Wolf, I want more for you than an existence of guilt and loneliness. Any parent measures their success in life by how happy their children are. We aren’t whole, settled, unless you are. Especially these last couple of years. When Cole lost Tonia and afterward...” Ian bowed his head and stared into his coffee with a faint frown. “I feel like you were—you weren’t forgotten, but you got lost. Which wasn’t fair because you were grieving the loss of a woman, of love, too.”
Wolf waved off his father’s words. “It wasn’t the same. A broken heart doesn’t compare to the death of a wife, a son.”
What kind of selfish asshole complained about his girlfriend leaving him when his brother had to bury his family? No, he didn’t have the right then to intrude on Cole’s grief and he didn’t now.
“I’m sorry,” his father murmured.
“For what?”
“For whatever I did or didn’t do that led you to believe that’s true. Your circumstances are different from Cole’s—that’s true. But it was still the death of a relationship. Of a future you planned with the woman you loved. In a way, it was still the death of a woman—the woman you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with. And if we did anything to minimize your pain, then I’m so sorry, son.”
Wolf stared at his father and attempted a chuckle, but the sound lodged itself behind the tangled ball of love, gratitude and sadness in his throat. “Is this why you came out here this morning? Next time bring whiskey instead of coffee if we’re going to be doing male bonding. It’ll at least give me a heads-up.”
But his father didn’t crack a smile. “Just because one of my sons seemed to take all of my focus didn’t mean I worried any less about the other. Since Olivia left, you’ve closed off a part of yourself.”
Wolf
scoffed. “That’s not true. I’m the same person I’ve always b—”
“You can’t pick and choose which areas of your life to open your heart to, son. Shut yourself off to love and it leaks over into how open you are with family, friends. It affects how you trust yourself and your judgment. And that heart—” Ian leaned over and tapped Wolf’s chest “—is too big not to gift to someone. But more importantly, the man you are—you weren’t meant to do anything half measure. And that includes love.”
“Dad, you don’t need to worry. I promise.” Wolf gripped his father’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m fine.”
“You sure about that?” Ian pressed, not letting up, and he flipped their hands so he held Wolf’s in his still-strong grasp. “Not only is Olivia back in town, but I saw you with our guest yesterday. Nessa Hunt? You two looked...close.” His gaze roamed Wolf’s face as if searching for some clue into his thoughts. When Wolf didn’t offer up an explanation, Ian softly sighed, his grip on Wolf tightening. “She’s not staying, son. Yes, you’re thirty-one and probably telling me to mind my own business, but you’re never too old for me to be concerned about you. And I am concerned. I don’t want to see you hurt again like with—”
“I’m not.” Wolf shot to his feet but gently extricated his hand from his father’s hold. “Like I said, Dad, you’re worried over nothing. What you saw yesterday was a friend comforting another friend. There’s nothing more between us.”
Not necessarily a lie, but not the whole truth either. He had comforted her yesterday—but he didn’t have too many friends who he fantasized about tasting his name on their lips while they came apart around his cock. As a matter of fact, he could count the number of those friends.
Zero.
“If you say so,” Ian said, uncertainty coloring his voice.
“I love you, Dad.” Wolf cupped his father’s shoulder, then bent and kissed him on top of his head. “And thank you for loving me enough to be concerned. But I’m good, okay? With everything.” He clapped Ian on the back and moved toward the table. “Now, are you going to sip on coffee all day like a gossiping old man, or are you going to help me finish up?”