Page 12

Summer

I t’s late afternoon in a client’s garden, the heat is suffocating, and all I can think about is the oversized, half-feral man who showed up naked in my kitchen yesterday, claiming to be a wolf.

Yeah. No . Surely not possible. Except the crazy thing? Part of me actually believes him.

Anyway, he’s currently lying low in the basement, keeping out of Zylah’s way while she decides if he’s safe enough to let him sleep upstairs.

She thinks he’s an old family friend with some mental health issues, just passing through town, and I’m supposed to hook him up with a doctor, get him new meds, and send him on his way.

I drive the spade into the dirt, leaning on it to catch my breath, sweat running in gross rivulets between my shoulder blades.

Mrs. Jenner wants her front garden “drought tolerant but lush,” which is pretty much code for I’ll be busting my ass for hours and she’s guaranteed to complain anyway. Yeah, she’s one of those clients. Impossible to please without a blood sacrifice .

I curse under my breath at a tangle of stubborn wisteria roots.

“Language, dear,” a voice clucks behind me.

I don’t even look up. “Hi, Mrs. Broussard,” I mutter, yanking hard on the rootball.

She’s been dead five years now, but still makes the rounds of the neighborhood, offering free and unasked-for critiques that, thankfully, most people can’t hear.

“You’re never going to get a man with that mouth,” she scolds. “In my day, young ladies were classy and demure.”

Mrs Broussard was probably around ninety when she carked it. So when she was twenty-five, she was probably chain-smoking in a Buick and pretending she didn’t want to stab her husband with a carving knife.

“Who said I wanted a man, anyway?” I say, gritting my teeth and pulling until a root snaps and I nearly fall on my butt.

“Speaking of men…” She sniffs. “I see you have company today.”

What? I look up as Mrs. Broussard drifts toward the edge of the yard, transparent skirt rustling in a non-existent breeze, then walks right up to Wyn.

My stomach sinks—and also kind of buzzes. What the actual hell?

Standing just inside the fence, arms folded, watching me with that unsettling stillness like some apex predator trying not to spook its prey is the gorgeous crazy man living in my basement.

“Oh, great,” I groan.

Green eyes blazing, he stalks forward slowly.

“Hi, Summer,” he says casually, hands stuffed deep in Kurt’s jeans pockets .

I glare. “Don’t you ‘Hi, Summer’ me. How long have you been standing there?”

He tilts his head, considering. “A while.”

I jam the spade into the dirt and straighten up, my sweaty shirt sticking to my spine. “Define a while.”

He looks confused. “Since you arrived, of course.”

I squint at him. “You mean… all day? You’ve been standing there all day?”

“I lay down for a while too.” He shrugs. “Under the willow tree.”

I drag a filthy glove down my face. “Congratulations. You’re officially a stalker.”

Staring calmly, he says, “I’m not stalking you like prey, if that’s what you mean. I’m watching over you.”

“Same thing, Wyn.”

Mrs. Broussard chuckles. “He’s very… masculine and handsome, isn’t he, dear? But there’s something strange about the boy. Something not quite right.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter.

Wyn’s gaze flickers to where she’s floating. But when I look at him, he’s pointedly not reacting, and I wonder if he can sense her.

“You can’t just hang around and watch me work like some creep,” I snap. “It’s not normal.”

He frowns. “I wasn’t… being a creep.”

“You were lurking. That’s literally what creeping is.”

As he looks at the ground between us, his bangs slide into his eyes, the silver patch on the left side catching my attention—exactly where Hank the wolf’s patch was.

“I was ensuring your safety,” he insists.

I let out a sharp laugh. “My safety? From what? Killer gnomes? Rabid gardening tools?”

He looks at the ground. “I have… concerns.”

“Concerns,” I echo flatly.

He lifts his gaze, his expression earnest. “A few days ago, someone shot me with an arrow. They could’ve hurt you instead. I won’t allow that to happen.”

Wow. Protective much? And, also, he kind of has a point. Different garden, but there’s possibly a lunatic running around Lake Grenlynn with a bow and arrow, and I’d prefer it if I didn’t bump into them.

An image of the sunflower that I found mysteriously lying on my pillow this morning flashes into my mind. “Were you in my room last night, Wyn?”

Jaw set like stone, he replies, “Only to leave you a gift. You said you love sunflowers.”

“A gift? Next thing you’ll be telling me you slept on the floor outside my bedroom door.”

Green eyes stare steadily, not blinking once.

“You didn’t, did you?”

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, Summer. Not while I’m breathing.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Goddammit . What is wrong with this guy? And why do I like it so much?

Mrs. Broussard gives an exaggerated, theatrical tsk. “I’ve changed my mind. He’s a keeper,” she croons, before fading out in a swirl of smoke.

“Who have you been talking to all day?” Wyn asks, voice carefully blank .

I cross my arms. “Nobody,” I lie. “But I have been singing quite badly.”

Flashing his dimples in a sweet but deadly grin, he stares for long seconds, the air between us crackling. I’m so screwed. I should be running away from this guy, but all I want to do is drag him closer.

I scrub a hand over my mouth. “Look, if you’re gonna stand there all day, at least make yourself useful.”

His dark brows lift. “Useful?”

I wave at the garden bed. “Help me dig.”

We mostly work in silence, punctuated by my muttered curses and his weirdly formal questions, such as:

“This ground feels… tired. Did you drain its strength?”

“No, Mrs. Jenner likes me to use lots of chemicals on the weeds. I’ve told her it’s bad for the soil. Bad for her health and my health. But she doesn’t seem to care.”

“Where are all the worms?”

“See my previous answer.”

“Why do you arrange the plants in rows? They seem… controlled. Almost like prisoners.”

“Many people in Lake Grenlynn really like order. They’re usually control freaks.”

“Why do you put shredded tree corpses around living plants?”

“Because we think mulch looks good and protects them.”

“Do you curse at your tools because it helps you work faster?”

“No. Why do you ask questions like you’re an alien from outer space?”

“Because I’m a Fff… don’t worry. What’s an alien? ”

On top of his strangeness, his general presence is unnerving. Not just because he’s tall and broad and absurdly good-looking in Kurt’s borrowed T-shirt, which is a size or more too tight across the chest.

It’s the way he moves. Controlled, smooth, and so not normal, I can almost believe he’s not human. That he’s a shifter as he claims.

And the worst part? I like watching him work. Really like it.

Strong arms flex as he wrenches roots free. The careful way he checks for rocks before digging deeper—as if he doesn’t want to smash them unnecessarily. I mean, they’re rocks. Don’t they kind of exist to be broken into tiny pieces over time?

At one point, he looks up at me with such intensity, I have to snap my gaze away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.

It’s almost dark by the time we finish, and when I stab the spade into the ground one last time, I’m shaking with hunger.

He notices. Of course.

“You need to eat,” he says.

“I know,” I mutter.

“I’ll… come with you.”

I roll my eyes. “What a surprise.”

We walk toward the corner cafe two blocks away, and I keep my arms folded over my chest, guarded.

The air’s cooler now, cicadas buzzing their horny little hearts out in the trees, the sound summery and festive.

“You know,” I say after a while, my voice low to cover my unease, “most people don’t admit to being monsters on day one like you did.”

He doesn’t look at me. “You asked what I was. I told you the truth.”

I snort. “You really don’t get sarcasm, do you?”

“Give me time. I think I’m learning.”

I shoot him a sideways glance. He’s walking a half step behind, like a bodyguard. Like he’s ready to fight to the death for me.

My chest goes tight as I think about how protective he is, and I wonder for the millionth time where Hank is—if Wyn really is Hank like he claims.

“Well,” I say, “I probably won’t believe you’re a wolf until you actually shift in front of me and howl at the moon or whatever.”

A long beat of silence.

I glance over and find him staring at the pavement.

“I wish I could, but I can’t,” he says finally. “Not at the moment, anyway.”

At the cafe, he squints at the menu like it’s in ancient Sumerian, so I order us both cheeseburgers, large fries, and some juice from the dusty fridge.

The college-aged server with a man-bun who’s usually here on week days ignores Wyn and leans over the counter. “Hey, Summer, did you come in for lunch yesterday? I didn’t see you.”

I blink. “No, I was working at a different client’s on the other side of town.”

He winks at me. “Well, don’t forget about that party I mentioned. The one at Carly’s place.”

Wyn’s head turns so slowly it’s honestly terrifying, green eyes glowing like a wolf caught in headlights. He doesn’t say a word. He just stares at the server as a low, rumbling sound vibrates in the air—a sound that’s most definitely coming from his chest.

Oh, shit .

The server pales as I pay for our order. “Right,” he says. “Uh… Enjoy your food.”

I elbow Wyn. “Seriously? What was that?”

“He was threatening you,” Wyn mutters.

“Nope, he was flirting.”

Wyn frowns. “Same thing.”

“Wow, maybe you are a wolf shifter after all.”

“Listen, I don’t have any money. Should I offer to work in exchange for the food?” he asks, leaning down to whisper near my ear. His breath gusts over my skin, and I shiver despite myself.

“Please don’t offer to do that. Anyway, it’s my treat, wolf-boy. You can pay me back by not murdering the cashier. We do need to find you a job soon, though.”