I don’t bother turning on the lights; I can see just fine with my night vision, and there’s no clutter to trip over anyway, unlike at Sophie’s place. I sure miss Zosia though, whom I visit a couple times a day when I need a short break from the remodeling; Sophie has even returned her cottage key to me, just so I can spend some quality time with the little white fluffball.
But I miss Sophie even more, despite the fact we’re together all day long. We had a breakthrough on the beach today when she took my hand, and later in the bakery when she threw herself into my arms, although that probably doesn’t count. I was the only available source of comfort when she learned her mother was in the hospital; Sophie probably would’ve been satisfied with any pair of arms in that moment.
Even so, my heart leapt as I held her against my chest, and I planted a tiny kiss on top of her lustrous brown curls; I was so gentle she didn’t even notice. I adore that gorgeous, impetuous faerie, and each day it becomes more of a struggle not to tell Sophie about the mate bond, but it’s obviously so one-sided that sometimes I find myself rubbing the spot over my chest where my heart aches with yearning.
Unfortunately Sophie’s not very discerning about other people, especially other men, and she doesn’t like asking for advice or help, trusting in her own judgment more than she ought. I’m pretty sure the werewolf who sent those texts is the same guy she called her “prospective boyfriend” not that long ago. At least she realizeshe’s bad news, but that knowledge alone isn’t enough to keep her safe.
I wish I could tell Jake, but that would mean admitting I was snooping through Sophie’s phone, which makes me sound almost as creepy as the other guy. I didn’t intend to invade her privacy, but I couldn’t stop myself from scrolling when I saw that unsettling message on her screen,You shouldn’t be holding his hand, Sophie. That’s not right.
Turns out he’s the same guy she went on that sunset cruise with, the one she’d called a turkey. He must have some connection to the vampire couple getting married later this summer, but what was he doing in Riddle Hill today? The werewolf obviously isn’t local. Where’s his pack located?
I peel off my clothes, slip on my sleeping pants and a clean tee, and tumble onto the sofa; it has a pull-out bed, but I’m too exhausted and upset to bother with it tonight.
On top of trying to get Sophie’s bakery ready in time for her grand opening—which I’m going to miss entirely because it coincides with the full moon—now I’ll be helping her at the restaurant and keeping an eye out for this lowlife, who’s bound to turn up again.
Yawning, I close my eyes, and despite all the worries swirling around inside my head, I fall instantly asleep.
I knockon the café’s back door early the next morning, and Sophie pulls it open. Her glorious waves are pulledinto a bouncy ponytail, and she’s wearing a black apron over a lavender tee and blue jeans. She ducks her head, probably so I don’t notice the dark circles beneath her eyes. I need to confess now, before I lose my nerve… and because she can’t just ignore this problem named Rafe.
“Let me show you around,” she says, turning away, but I tap her on the shoulder. Sophie pauses but doesn’t glance back at me.
“I’m sorry, but I read those messages—all of them—from a creep named Rafe,” I whisper quickly. “Jake should know there’s a strange werewolf hanging around you.”
Sophie spins around, pinning me with a hard glare. “You had no right to scroll through my personal texts, even if I handed you my phone; it was wrong and you know it. This situation with Rafe is my business, and… and besides, I’ve already handled it.”
My stomach churns, because I have a sneaking suspicion Sophie probably sent him a message that will only provoke him further. “How did you handle it?”
Sophie hesitates and then pulls out her phone, holding it up so I can see the text she sent Rafe a short while ago. “We went on one date, Rafe, and I can assure you, there won’t be any more. You have no right to spy on me, threaten my employee, or lecture me about whose hand I can hold. If I see you in Riddle Hill again, I’ll report you to the local pack alpha, who happens to be my cousin. Don’t bother replying to this message.”
My gut twists when I read it, because Sophie just blasted an unstable werewolf with the cold, hard truth. It’s like poking a grizzly with a hairpin. And yet I have toadmire this gutsy spitfire of a faerie; Sophie Spellman Brownlee takes no prisoners.
I reach for her hand, but she snatches it back. “I’m still mad at you,” she hisses.
Of course she’s mad at me; what else is new?
“Fine, you’re mad. I get it,” I say softly so her father, who’s clanging pans in the kitchen, doesn’t overhear us. “But I think you just made matters worse.”
Sophie’s eyes cloud over with fresh worry, but then she shakes her head, her pretty, chestnut-colored ponytail swishing behind her. “I think you’re wrong, but we don’t have time for second-guessing now. We’ve got to get ready to open the café. Come on.”
Sophie hands me a black apron like hers, with Sit for a Spell embroidered in golden thread across the top. After I pull it over my head and tie the strings in back, she hands me a scrunchie. I hold it up, wrinkling my nose. “What’s this for?”
She rolls her eyes and points at my hair. “You need to pull it back into a ponytail like mine.”
I scowl at the scrunchie. I’ve never tied my hair back before; I prefer to leave it loose.
“It’s the law,” she adds firmly, waiting for me to comply.
“Fine,” I grumble. “Is there a mirror somewhere?”
“Oh, just turn around; I’ll do it for you,” grumps Sophie.
She snatches the scrunchie from me and then runs her fingers through my hair several times to smooth back all the strands; each time I nearly moan in pleasure at the glorious sensation. It seems to be taking Sophie longerthan necessary to finish the task, and now I’m gritting my teeth so I don’t make any awkward noises.
Finally she’s done, and I wipe my brow, which is moist with perspiration. Nash sticks his head out of the kitchen long enough to give me a friendly nod as we pass, and then he disappears to continue his meal prep.
We enter the dining area, and I’m immediately drawn to the portraits on the walls, which must be Sophie’s ancestors. A lady in a purple gauzy gown smiles down at me, flaps her wings, and plays a chord on her harp, while an admiral with a hook for a hand glowers at me; nearly everyone else waves and nods, although a few remain sleeping.
I’m anxiously awaiting the arrival of Miss Dragonfly’s portrait, which the faerie undertaker will ship as soon as he confirms her ghost has taken up residence. Although unalive supernatural ancestors sleep most of the time, I’ll be able to converse with Miss Dragonfly when she’s awake; I can’t wait to tell her I’ve joined a pack again… and that Sophie is my fated mate.
