Page 11 of Fetch Me A Mate (Shifter Mates of Hollow Oak #1)
DIANA
T he Hearth & Hollow’s parlor smelled of lemon oil, old books, and the cinnamon-laced scones Twyla had delivered that morning with a conspiratorial wink.
Diana arranged mismatched teacups on a lace doily, her hands moving with a purpose that belied the nervous flutter in her stomach.
A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm, inviting glow over the worn armchairs she’d dragged into a loose circle.
It wasn’t perfect—drop cloths were neatly folded in one corner and the scent of paint primer lingered—but it was a start.
“They’ll come,” Miriam said from her place of honor by the fire, her knitting needles clicking softly. “This town runs on curiosity and baked goods. You’ve provided both.”
Miriam was right. First came the eccentric Tansley brothers from the mercantile, Rufus and Edgar, who brought a tin of enchanted tea leaves that changed color with the mood of the drinker.
Then came Freya, her arms full of fresh mint for garnish.
Soon, the room was filled with a soft murmur of conversation as a dozen townsfolk settled in, drawn by the promise of tea and memory.
Visible through the parlor doorway, Rowan worked on the main staircase, the steady rasp of his sanding block a rhythmic counterpoint to the chatter. He hadn’t said a word about the tea hour, but he hadn’t left, either. He just worked, a solid, brooding presence at the edge of the light.
“I remember when Henry and I first bought this place,” Miriam began, her voice capturing the room’s attention. “The parlor was a disaster, but the hearth drew a perfect draft. Henry said any house with a good hearth could be a home.”
That broke the ice. Edgar Tansley recounted a story about a traveling warlock who’d tried to pay for his room with a cursed pocket watch, and the parlor filled with laughter. The tea in Diana’s cup swirled a happy, golden yellow.
She was refilling a cup when the front door opened and Maeve Cross strode in. The lioness shifter moved with a sharp, contained energy, her short black hair framing a face that missed nothing. She carried a large, empty glass jar, which she set on the mantel with a decisive thud.
“Donation jar,” Maeve announced to the room, her voice carrying an edge of command. “This place costs money to fix. Let’s see what your memories are worth.” A few people chuckled, but several of the men reached for their wallets.
Diana smiled. “Maeve, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Make it worth my while.” Maeve’s sharp eyes swept the room, pausing for a fraction of a second on Rowan’s broad back before landing on Diana. She lowered her voice. “You’re doing good work here. The place feels like it’s breathing again.”
“I’m trying.”
“Trying’s good.” Maeve leaned in a little closer, her scent of spice and something wild cutting through the sweetness of the scones. “But a word of advice, from one business owner to another.”
Diana waited, sensing this was more than a casual suggestion.
“Watch the wolves, sweetheart.” Maeve’s gaze flicked deliberately toward Rowan, who continued to sand the banister, seemingly oblivious. “Especially the ones who look like they’re trying to outrun a storm.”
Diana managed a light laugh, though the warning landed with a peculiar weight. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Maeve gave a curt nod and moved off to pour herself a cup of tea, leaving Diana to puzzle over the remark. Twyla saw a fated mate who needed a reason to stay. Maeve, whose gaze was as sharp as her claws, saw a man running from something dangerous.
The tea hour was a success. The jar on the mantel held a respectable collection of bills by the time the last guest departed, and the parlor felt warmer, imbued with fresh laughter. Diana cleaned up in a haze of contentment, the quiet hum of the inn a comforting presence around her.
That night, she lay in bed with the inn’s blueprints spread across her quilt. Her fingers traced the elegant lines of the staircase, the place where Rowan had spent his day. His silence had been a fortress, a stark contrast to the easy camaraderie in the parlor.
She thought of the conflicting currents swirling around him.
Twyla, the hopeful matchmaker. Maeve, the cautious protector.
Both felt right, somehow. She remembered the shocking, possessive strength in his arms when he’d caught her on the roof, a feeling of absolute safety mixed with a thrilling spark of danger.
Then she remembered his cold dismissal in the hallway, his eyes shuttered, his voice a flat wall of sound.
He was a storm, just as Maeve had said.
Diana stared at the blueprints, at the tangible future she was trying to build from ink and wood and hope. What did Diana want?
She wanted the inn to succeed, obviously. Wanted to prove herself worthy of the community's trust and Miriam's faith in her abilities.
But underneath those practical desires was something else. Something that had nothing to do with business plans or renovation schedules.
She wanted to understand the man working above her head, driving himself to exhaustion on her project. Wanted to know what had driven him away from Hollow Oak before and what had brought him back. Wanted to be the reason he stayed this time.