Page 21 of Clashing With The Grumpy Wolf
Julia stares at me for a long moment, uncertainty warring with determination in her expression. Finally, she nods.
"This might be the stupidest thing I've ever done," she mutters, following me to the door. "And I once accidentally booked a clown for a funeral, so that's saying something."
Despite the tension of the situation, I find myself fighting a smile.
"I'll try to be less traumatizing than a funeral clown."
"See that you are, Sheriff." She brushes past me into the hallway, leaving that tantalizing vanilla-cinnamon scent in her wake. "Because if this blows up in our faces, we'll both have a lot more to worry about than just a missing tiara."
As I lock my office door behind us, the weight of what we're attempting settles on my shoulders. This plan is risky at best, disastrous at worst. Pretending Julia is my mate when my wolf is already showing clear interest in her is playing with fire.
But as I watch her stride ahead of me, shoulders squared with determination despite her fatigue, I can't bring myself to regret the suggestion. There's something about Julia Schroeder that calls to me on a level I'm not ready to examine too closely.
For now, I'll focus on the practical benefits of our arrangement: solving the case, appeasing my mother, restoring peace to Saltford Bay.
And if my wolf has other ideas about where this fake relationship might lead… well, that's a problem for another day.
Chapter 7
Julia
Thisisridiculous.I'mpretending to be mated to a werewolf I barely know to save my career while hunting for a stolen tiara. My life has veered so far off-plan that I can't even see the roadmap anymore.
Adrian’s truck rumbles as we drive through the darkness, headlights cutting through the dense fog that's settled over Saltford Bay. My overnight bag sits between us on the bench seat like a physical manifestation of the boundary I need to maintain. I'm hyper-aware of Adrian beside me, of his large, powerful frame, of theway his hands grip the steering wheel with casual strength, of how the leather and pine scent of him fills the enclosed space.
The silence stretches between us, thick and weighted. Adrian clears his throat.
"We're almost there," he says, his deep voice vibrating through me. "It's just past this bend."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I welcome the distraction. It's a text from Courtney.
I may have found a supplier for Vanda Coerulea. Sending info to your email.
A small burst of hope blooms in my chest. At least one thing might be going right.
"Good news?" Adrian asks, glancing at me.
"Possibly. My assistant might have found a supplier for those rare blue orchids Seraphina wants."
He makes a noncommittal grunt, turning the truck onto a narrow dirt road barely visible in the darkness. Trees crowd close on either side, branches scraping against the windows.
The truck's headlights finally illuminate a clearing and Adrian's home emerges from the darkness. It’s a two-story cabin nestled among towering pines. His home is rustic but well maintained, with a wide porch wrapping around the front and picture windows opening to the glorious nature surrounding it.
"Home sweet home," Adrian mutters, killing the engine.
He grabs my bag before I can reach for it and leads the way to the front door. The porch steps creak under his weight as I follow close behind. He fumbles with his keys for a moment, then pushes thedoor open, motioning me inside with a slight bow that make my belly squeeze.
The moment I step inside, his presence envelops me. The interior smells of pine and leather and something musky and wild. The cabin is cozier than I expected, with an open concept living area dominated by a large stone fireplace. A worn leather sofa faces the hearth, with a thick wool blanket in earthy tones draped over the back.
"Sorry for the mess," Adrian says, moving past me to deposit my bag at the foot of a wooden staircase. "I wasn't expecting company."
I glance around, noting that despite his apology, the place is fairly tidy. Everything is clean, and the furniture has a worn-in, warm look to it. The decor lining shelves and walls is simple and personal, with what I assume are family pictures and vintage paintings.
The space is masculine, but not aggressively so.
"Very alpha lumberjack chic," I quip. "I expected more dead fish and guns mounted on the walls."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and it does strange things to my stomach. Strange things I have to force myself to ignore. The man is too beautiful for my own good.