Kara immediately sits next to me, even though her coat is on the chair across the table. Jude doesn’t miss a beat. He simply moves her coat to the back of the couch and takes the seat across from us.
“I hope it’s okay,” Jude begins, “that I opened the wine you brought, Kara.”
“Of course. That’s why I brought it.” Kara smiles tentatively at Jude. “Dinner looks amazing.”
He grimaces. “Liam did the hard part. I just plated it.”
“No, you sauteed the green beans,” I say, pouring wine into each of our glasses.
He shrugs and helps himself to some chicken.
The conversation is stilted at first, but then everyone relaxes. As usual, Kara does most of the talking, but she’s polite to Jude and doesn’t talk over him. He loosens up after a couple of glasses of wine and smiles more. My heart warms watchinghim. After the events of the day, he must be feeling lost and worried, but he’s doing his best to hide it. I’m proud of him. I know him well enough now to realize socializing with Kara is probably draining him.
Once dinner is over, Jude goes into the kitchen and starts doing the dishes. I start to join him, but Kara grabs my hand and pulls me into the living room. I’m guilty that Jude is stuck doing the dishes alone, but also know he’s probably happier that way. If I join him in the kitchen, Kara will follow.
Kara snuggles against me on the sofa, and I try to focus on her. But I’d be lying if I said my mind isn’t also on Jude. This is his first night in my home, and the evening didn’t go as planned, that’s for sure. Before Kara showed up, I’d hoped maybe Jude would want to shift later and go for a run with me after dinner. That would help him relax. There’s no way that’s happening now. Not with Kara here.
At one point, I glance over at the kitchen and find it dark and empty. Jude has slipped upstairs without a word, leaving Kara and me alone. I’m not sure why I feel so dissatisfied. I should be thrilled with how the evening turned out. My bed won’t be empty tonight. Kara will be in my arms. I should be over the moon happy.
But all I can think about is Jude upstairs, alone and probably scared about his future. I have the strangest desire to go to him. To comfort him. To let him know I’m here for him no matter what. That impulse scares the hell out of me. I ignore that urge. Of course I do.
Instead, I focus on Kara and her needs.
Because Jude is just my partner at work and maybe my friend.
But that’s all.
Chapter Nine
Jude
Living with Liam is easier than it should be. And it’s troublesome. I don’t want to get overly attached, but I fear it’s already too late. I not only crave him physically, but I also truly like him as a person. He might be the first real friend I’ve ever had. I’ve definitely never felt this connected to another shifter. Ever.
Two weeks in, we’ve fallen into a rhythm that feels disturbingly natural. At least once a week we shift and run together at night. It doesn’t seem to matter how tired we are or how brutal the shift was, we still find ourselves out there in the dark, paws on frozen ground, breath misting in the cold air. Each time we run together, our unspoken connection grows. During our runs is the only time I truly let loose and give into my need to be by his side.
Through dense stands of pine where the branches hang low and heavy with snow, he leads and I follow, trusting him completely. We explore along ridgelines where the valley opens up below us, silver under the moon. Sometimes we run hard, pushing each other until our lungs burn and our muscles ache. Other times we move slow, winding through the quiet forest, pausing to drink from an icy creek or track a scent on the breeze.
We never talk about the night runs. I’m afraid to bring them up in case I spook Liam and he stops going with me. I’d hate that. It’s the only time it’s just us like that, our wolves set free, nothing held back. So I keep my mouth shut, and Liam never brings them up either.
In the morning, Liam usually wakes first. Most days I come downstairs and the coffee is already brewed and the kitchen smells like whatever he’s decided to make for breakfast. When I lived on my own, I was lucky if I had the time or energy to open a ready-to-drink protein shake. But on most work days, unless we grab a breakfast sandwich at Happy Grounds, Liam cooks real food. Scrambled eggs with chives one morning. French toast with cinnamon the next. Pancakes and bacon on another day. He’s a domestic marvel.
My contributions to the mornings are less impressive. Should I sometimes get up before Liam, I do make the coffee. But I don’t try and cook us breakfast. I’m not even a little domestic. Scrambled eggs are a challenge for me, I wouldn’t dare attempt French toast. But I do make a point of doing the breakfast dishes before Liam can get to them.
In fact, I do the dishes whenever Liam cooks. I also keep the guest room spotless and stay out of his way when Kara comes over. I’m determined not to create issues between the two of them. I already know she’s not thrilled about me living with Liam. She’s perfectly polite to me when she comes over, but I catch the troubled glances. She doesn’t like me. I don’t think she even knows why, but something about me makes her uneasy.
This morning, I’m at the breakfast bar eating a bowl of cereal when Liam comes downstairs in his flannel pajamas. He slept later than usual, and his dark hair is rumpled and his warm skin smells of the woodsy cologne he wears. He’s hard to ignore because underneath the crisp cologne is the deep, earthy base note that’s uniquely him. His scent pulls at something primal in me, which I try to ignore by shoving a spoonful of cereal into my mouth.
“Cold cereal?” He eyes my bowl with disdain as he passes behind me. “Didn’t we talk about this?”
“I don’t remember a talk exactly. I vaguely remember you lecturing me about nutrition and me ignoring you.”
His sigh is exaggerated. “There are eggs in the fridge. And bacon.”
“I don’t want eggs and bacon. I want Frosted Flakes.” That isn’t exactly true. I’d kill for bacon and eggs, but I’m too lazy and intimidated to try making them.
He shakes his head, like I’ve personally wounded him, and starts making his own breakfast. Within minutes, the kitchen smells like butter and sautéed onions. He’s making an omelet and it smells amazing.
“Show off,” I mutter, staring down at my soggy cereal.
