Page 4 of Fetch Me A Mate (Shifter Mates of Hollow Oak #1)

ROWAN

R owan had already wolfed down two of Twyla’s scones by the time Diana came back with a handful of painter’s tape and a pencil behind her ear. Cinnamon clung to his tongue, sugar on the edge of his thumb. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand and set the empty napkin on the desk.

“Fuel working?” she asked, eyeing the crumbs.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Thank Twyla,” she replied. “She thinks you require pastries to reach your potential.”

He grunted, which only made her mouth tilt like she’d gotten exactly the reaction she wanted.

They moved to the north wall. Morning light found its way through the cloudy window and made the dust look like a slow snowfall. He set his tape measure, squared his shoulders to the plaster, and started calling numbers.

“Stud here,” he said, tapping the wall with his knuckle. “Sixteen inches to the next. Read me off the marks as I go.”

She lifted the clipboard. “Sixteen, thirty-two, forty-eight…”

He measured beams, catalogued problems, and pretended not to notice how she hummed when she was nervous. It was a tiny sound, almost not a note at all, more breath than melody. It drew along his spine in a way he refused to name.

“Header’s good,” he said. “Sill’s where the trouble lives. We’ll brace it until I can open the exterior.”

“Tell me where to stand,” she said. “And how not to be in the way.”

“You’re not in the way.” He set his square, penciled a line. “Hold this end of the tape. Keep it flat.”

She stepped in. They were shoulder to shoulder now, her sweater brushing his flannel, her perfume a quiet ribbon of vanilla and tea. He kept his focus on the steel tape and the numbers, on the steady work of making a weak thing strong.

“Mark at seventy-two and a half,” he said.

She reached to take the tape, fingers sure. Their hands touched, light as a match strike.

The mate-bond recognition hit him hard. Silver bright. Undeniable. It rolled through his body and landed low, precise as a claim. Scents sharpened. The inn itself seemed to hum. His wolf rose, ears forward, eyes on her. Mine.

He shut it down fast, buried deep like he’d practiced. He let out a short breath, masked the quake with a noncommittal grunt, and flattened the tape against the plaster.

“Trim,” he said, voice steady by habit. “Casings here are two and a quarter. We can match, or go three if you want it chunkier. Classic look either way.”

She blinked, the smallest hitch like she’d felt something too, then nodded and found her place again. “What do you prefer?”

“Match what’s here,” he said. “Makes the building feel like itself.”

“I like that,” she said quietly. “Being itself.”

His pencil moved. “We’ll keep it honest, then.”

They worked through the measurements. He called, she marked. He braced his boot against the baseboard and set a temp cleat while she steadied the level with careful fingers.

“Hold,” he said.

“Holding.”

He drilled into the cleat and liked the bite of sound wood grabbing the screw. Progress. Order. Useful things.

“Rowan,” she said after a bit, “how do you know where the trouble lives just by listening?”

He set down the drill and pressed his palm flat to the wall again. “Old buildings talk. Some groans mean they’re settling happy. Some mean they want help.” He glanced at her. “You ever pick up a feeling in a room, even when no one’s in it?”

Her mouth rounded with a soft laugh. “You have no idea.”

He did, actually. He felt it every time she walked close and the air seemed to lean toward her.

“Take the tape again,” he said, voice flat to hide the thought. “We need a second brace.”

She moved closer. Their fingers met for a second time. His pulse kicked hard and even. The wolf inside him set a pace, circling, restless and ready. He kept his expression neutral and talked hardware.

“We’ll need new shoe molding,” he said. “This piece is done.”

“I like the name,” she said. “Shoe molding. It sounds friendly.”

“Friendly is not usually how I’d describe trim,” he said, and her smile bloomed like he’d given her more than a line.

A knock came at the open door. Miriam leaned in with two paper cups. “Tea for the boss and coffee for the muscle.” She handed Rowan the coffee without waiting to be told which was which. “How’s my patient?”

“Stable,” Rowan said. “Better after lunch.”

“Then don’t skip it,” Miriam replied, eyes dancing. “I made a stew. It’s sitting in my oven. Diana, grab it around noon. Feed that man.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Diana said, which seemed to please Miriam more than any promise about paint colors.

When Miriam left, the room quieted again. Rain had stopped. The square outside sent in the soft shuffle of day. Rowan slotted a brace and let his weight push it into place.

“You okay?” Diana asked, watching him. “You went quiet.”

“I’m at work,” he said. “I’m usually quiet.”

“I can be quiet too,” she said. She barely lasted five seconds before she added, “Except when I hum.”

He looked up. “Noticed.”

“Is it annoying?”

“No.” That came out faster than he meant. He cleared his throat. “It tells me when you’re thinking hard.”

“I’m thinking hard a lot,” she said. “There’s a lot of new to learn.”

“You’ll learn it,” he said, and meant it.

She hummed again, a small thread of sound as she marked the board. He kept his breath even, controlled. It felt like trying not to step on a rug that kept sliding under his boots.

They shifted to the stair landing. He pulled the third tread, set it aside, and showed her the split running on the diagonal. “See this? That hairline crack is how she tells you she’s tired.”

“She,” Diana echoed, amused. “Of course the stairs are girls.”

He gave the underside of the tread a knuckle tap. “We’ll replace this one. The rest can be reinforced.”

“Good,” she said, then lowered her voice. “I’m getting attached. I don’t want to rip out more than we have to.”

He liked that. He liked it more than he should have.

He cut a new tread from a salvaged board in the pile. Sawdust lifted into the air, sweet as raw pine. She stood back, watching the careful way he measured twice, cut once. When he finished, he handed her a block of sandpaper.

“You can ease the edges,” he said. “Knock off the sharp. Small circles. Light pressure.”

She took the sandpaper with a solemn nod and started in. Her hands moved steady, not tentative. He hovered, ready to correct her grip, then hung back and let her do it. She looked up after a minute, saw him watching, and flushed with pleased color.

“Like this?” she asked.

“Perfect,” he said, and watched the word bring her a little taller.

They set the new tread. He drove the screws while she held the edge firm. Knees brushed. Her sweater brushed his arm again. She didn’t flinch. He didn’t either. He refused to.

“Tell me about shoe molding again,” she said, just to hear him talk. He could tell.

“It hides the gap where the baseboard meets the floor,” he said. “Makes things look finished.”

“I like finished,” she said. “Finished sounds like guests and names in the ledger and people arguing over who gets the last cinnamon roll.”

“Twyla would bake more,” he said, which made Diana laugh.

They moved back to the north wall for the second brace. He handed her the level; she handed him the pencil. The rhythm felt easy now. He forgot he was trying to keep distance until the tape measure came into play again.

“Hold,” he said.

She reached. Fingers brushed. The bond flared a second time, just as bright. The wolf pushed up hard enough to cut his breath, all teeth and claim. Mine.

He set his jaw and anchored the feeling the way he anchored a ladder in a storm: weight down, hands sure, no give. He forced his voice to stay in the safe lane.

“Once we open the outside, I’ll need to check the sill in daylight,” he said. “We can talk about paint after. Porch color too.”

Her eyes lit. “I found a photograph. Robin’s-egg blue.”

He made a noncommittal sound.

“You hate it,” she guessed.

“I don’t hate it,” he said. “I just prefer the porch to look like it belongs to a building that’s been here a long time. But it’s your inn.”

She thought about that, thumb worrying the edge of the clipboard. “What if we found the old color under the trim and used that.”

“That I like,” he said. “Let the past pick the paint.”

“Deal.” She stuck out her hand without thinking. He stared at it for a heartbeat, then took it. Her palm was warm. His wolf surged again. Mine. He let go before he forgot the line he’d drawn for himself.

“I’m going to rip some shims,” he said, a little rough. “You can mark the next brace location. Same spacing.”

“Copy,” she said, and turned to the wall like a soldier receiving orders. It should not have pleased him as much as it did.

He cut shims at the miter saw on the porch, coming back to find her crouched with the level, tongue pressed to the corner of her lip in concentration. The sight nearly undid him. He set the shims down and reached around her to adjust the bubble.

“Little more to the left,” he said, his voice low because it had to be. “There. Hold.”

She held. He set the brace and drove the screws. The wall firmed under his hand, a small victory you could feel, not just see.

“Better,” he said.

She smiled up at him, bright as the work light over their heads. “Better,” she echoed.

Diana brought up the stew around noon. They ate at the desk, Rowan with his back to the room so he could see the door without thinking about it. Diana made him take a second roll and he let her get away with it.

“You always sit like that?” she asked, sipping her tea.

“Like what.”

“Back to the wall. Eyes on the door.”

“Habit,” he said.

“From what.”

“Life.” He wiped his hands. “I’ll pull the exterior clapboard after lunch. You don’t need to be out there for that.”

“I can hand you things through the window,” she offered. “Keep the pass-through civilized.”

He stared at her a moment, then nodded. “Fine. But if I say step back, you step back.”

“Understood.”

They cleared the dishes. He grabbed his bar and pry set, then paused at the threshold.

She stood there with the clipboard tucked to her chest, stubborn and gentle in the same breath.

He didn’t know how he’d been so careful for so long and still ended up here, with his wolf pacing every time she said his name.

“Diana,” he said.

She looked up quickly, like she always did when he spoke, as if the sound mattered. “Yes?”

“Good work,” he said. “You’re not a volunteer who wants to play at fixing things. You listen.”

“High praise,” she teased lightly, but the color in her face said it mattered. “Go open your wall, Rowan. I’ll mind the inside.”

He gave a short nod and stepped onto the porch. The afternoon had brightened, the square carrying the ordinary music of small-town life. He breathed in wet wood and tea and the lingering sweetness of scones. His hands set to the clapboard. His mind set to the work.

Behind the steady rhythm of pry and pull, the wolf kept moving, circling the same word until it left an echo in his ribs.

Mine.