Page 4 of Found by the Pack

I huff a soft laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“Little bit.”

There’s a beat of quiet. Just the rain outside and the hum of the heater vents kicking on.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Sadie.”

He nods once. “Shepard.”

“Nice to meet you, Shepard.”

He steps back, gestures toward a doorway. “It’s not much, but I’ve got some lukewarm cocoa if you want it. Microwave’s busted.”

My stomach answers for me with a loud, angry growl.

“If you don’t mind,” I say.

“Not at all.” He heads down the hall. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

I watch him walk away. He’s definitely over six feet. Moves like someone used to silence. Graceful, even in black librarian clothes.

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and exhale. For the first time in hours, my shoulders drop just a little. Not much. But enough.

My phone’s at 3% now.

I set it down on the counter and glance around the room.

CHAPTER 2

Shepard

Pink hair?

Seriously?

It takes me a full three seconds to stop staring like some damn idiot. She’s standing just inside the doorway, dripping water onto the hardwood, her hoodie clinging to her frame like a second skin. There are streaks of pink running through the blonde waves matted to her shoulders, the color almost candy-bright against the gray light outside.

I can’t remember the last time I saw a woman with pink in her hair. Not in this town. Not in this library.

She’s beautiful, though. Not in the polished, soft-focus kind of way you see in magazines. She’s got this worn-in look—sharp cheekbones, chapped lips, a faint bruise under one eye that’s either old or just from a restless night. Her eyes are stormy gray, maybe blue in the right light. And her energy? A little raw.

I step into the back office, cut through the short hallway, and let myself out the side door. My car’s parked behind the library, tucked between the overgrown shrubs and a crooked bike rack no one uses anymore.

Rain’s still coming down hard. My shoes soak instantly, but I pop the trunk and dig through my gym bag. Spare socks.Headphones. A mostly clean towel. And—yes—my navy blue T-shirt. It’s soft. Faded. Big enough it should cover her down to mid-thigh.

I hesitate for half a second.

Why do I care how far down it’ll fall on her legs?

I shake off the thought. This is nothing. It’s what any decent person would do for someone cold and soaked and new in town. Nothing more.

By the time I’m back inside, she’s curled up in one of the armchairs near the fake fireplace, damp and hunched. She looks like she’s trying not to fall apart.

I bring the cocoa too. It’s in one of the library’s “Reading is Sexy” mugs. She gives me a look when I hand it over.

“Best I could do,” I say, holding out the shirt.