Page 31 of Howl Lotta Love

“It’s the mission. Keeping her comfortable keeps her cooperative.”

“That’s the worst lie you’ve ever told me, and I watched you convince a federal judge you weren’t carrying a concealed weapon while carrying two.”

“I wasn’t lying to the judge.”

“You were absolutely lying to the judge. That’s not the point.” Roman set his fork down, all the teasing gone out of his voice at once. “The point is you’ve never once smiled at a mission in your life. Missions don’t do that. People do that.”

Diesel, who rarely offered opinions unprompted, offered one now. “You checked her wrist brace twice tonight before we even left the house. That’s not tactical assessment. That’s a man who can’t stop looking.”

“I check everyone’s injuries.”

“You checked Milo’s stitches once, six months ago, because I made you.” Diesel went back to his steak, matter settled as far as he was concerned. He let a beat pass before adding, without looking up, “For what it’s worth, boss, we like her. All of us. In case that mattered to the decision you haven’t made yet.”

Jace looked around the table—Roman still grinning, Diesel already back to his steak like he hadn’t just said anything remarkable, Tucker’s phone lighting up with what was almost certainly pool-related traffic, Milo’s thumbs still moving under the table—and found, for once, that he didn’t have an argument left in him worth making.

“My wolf recognized her,” he said, quiet, before he’d fully decided to say it out loud, and huffed a short breath at his own clumsy phrasing. “Not—it wasn’t some instant, both-sides thing. Mine did. The second she walked into me, before either of us said a word. I’ve never doubted it once since.”

Nobody at the table had a joke ready, which almost never happened around this group of men.

Roman didn’t make a joke. He set his glass down, reached over, and clapped Jace once on the shoulder—firm, wordless, saying more than any speech out of him could have.

“Yeah,” Roman said. “We know, boss. We’ve known for two weeks. We were only waiting for you to catch up.”

The moment held for exactly three seconds before Milo’s phone buzzed again, and he ruined it without an ounce of remorse. “Nora says Emma went quiet for a full minute and she thinks a breakthrough’s happening over there too. Do I confirm one’s happening here, or does that count as a security breach?”

“Milo.”

“I’m asking the real questions, boss.”

Emma Burke

Nora had a way of asking questions that turned silence into its own confession, which was, Emma suspected, the entire point.

The bar she’d picked sat two floors up from the street, all exposed brick and low gold light, the kind of place that wore its two-drink minimum as a personality trait. Nora had claimed a corner table before Emma finished taking her coat off, already flagging down a server with the confidence of a regular, though as far as Emma knew, she’d never set foot in this bar in her life.

“So.” Nora set two cocktails down on the small round table, claimed the chair across from Emma with the brisk authority of a woman taking a deposition, and got straight to it. “How’s the fake engagement?”

“Fine.”

“That’s not a real answer. Try again.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Also not a real answer. I’ve told you a hundred times, ‘complicated’ isn’t a complete sentence; it’s a hiding place.” Nora took a long sip of her drink, patient the way only a woman who’d interrogated grieving families at three in the morning could be, with absolutely no intention of losing to a forensic accountant with a wine glass. “I’ve watched you avoid this conversation for two weeks. I let you have those two weeks out of love. That love has an expiration date, and it expired approximately five minutes ago.”

“You gave me five minutes?”

“I gave you five generous minutes. I could’ve started the second you sat down. Consider yourself lucky I have manners.”

“You don’t have manners.”

“I have selective manners. They’re reserved for people who aren’t obviously in love and lying about it.” Nora pointed a finger across the table, triumphant. “Ah-ha. Saw that flinch. That was a guilty flinch.”

“That was a normal amount of blinking.”

“That was the blink of a woman with a secret.” Nora’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, grinned, and turned the screen around without ceremony—a photo Milo had sent of the boys’ table, Roman mid-toast, Jace visibly unimpressed in the background. “Milo says they’re forcing your fiancé into a reenactment of how you two met. I give it thirty seconds before Diesel volunteers to play you.”

“Diesel would make an excellent me.”