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17

Mor

“Here, I’ll keep note of all the money I spend on you. Then when you get a few paychecks under your belt, you can pay me back.” I hold up my phone to show Bo the Notes app.

“Sound fair?”

His brows scrunch.

“That’s a notepad too?”

I glance at my iPhone, reminded once again of how long Bo has been gone.

“It can be a notepad. There are apps. Applications. It can be a lot of different things.”

He nods even though his expression is still confused.

When I decided to spearhead this rehabilitation, I didn’t consider how I would have to shepherd Bo through the advances the world had made in the past two decades.

I’m not even a fan of the digital landscape, much preferring physical books and pen and paper.

Still, I can handle cell phones.

“Here, let me show you the basics.”

I shuffle in close to his side, suppressing a shiver that wants to claim my body when I breathe in his earthy scent.

Though I have mental shields firmly in place, I catch a flash of pink from his aura.

Curiosity.

He must be curious about the phone.

For the next few minutes, I demonstrate how to use the touch screen, explaining what apps are, and which ones I use the most—music listening mainly.

When I hand my phone over so he can try, the device looks tiny in his massive hands.

Everything about Bo is big.

Even my five-nine stature appears diminutive next to his hulking form.

If he were a creep, I’d probably hate it.

But it’s almost as if Bo is constantly fighting to fit himself into a smaller area than he takes up.

Shoulders hunched, chin dipped, eyes down.

He’s going to get a hell of a sore neck if he keeps that posture up.

I would know, after spending so much time bent over books.

Now I get monthly massages at Haven’s Relaxation, and my body thanks me.

Maybe Bo would like to visit Levi’s spa.

Perhaps Bo could get a job there if he doesn’t like library work.

If the guy learned how to use his massive fingers to massage, there’s not a kink or knot that could withhold against his thick digits.

After a moment, I realize I’m staring at his hands, wondering what they would feel like on my shoulders, pressing into stressed muscles.

I shake my head and clear my throat.

Bo offers me back my phone.

“Seems useful,” he murmurs.

“But I’d worry all the time about breaking it.”

Because of your massive hands?

I almost ask but keep my fixation to myself.

“They’re more durable now than they used to be. And you can get a case to protect it. I’ve dropped mine a bunch, and it’s still working.” I slip the phone into my back pocket and turn toward our next stop.

“You’ll probably need to get one eventually. Gets harder to survive in the world without a smartphone each year. But let’s just focus on essentials for now.”

He glances over my shoulder.

“That’s a bookstore.”

“Exactly. Essentials.”

There’s a charming tinkle of a bell as I push into Never Judge a Cover—my favorite place in Folk Haven, outside of my own library.

Neri, the shop owner, comes around a bookshelf with her arms full of paperbacks.

“Hey, Mor! You saw my email?”

“Yep. Figured I’d just come by and check it out.”

The siren took a trip to Atlanta and found what she suspects is a grimoire in a used bookstore.

The shop bell rings again, and I watch as Neri’s attention lifts a few inches over my head.

Turning, I find Bo standing behind me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his eyes flitting around the room, as if he’s nervous to be here.

“Neri, this is Bo.” Without thought, I press my hand into his lower back and guide him farther into the shop.

“Bo, this is Neri Onassis. She’s the owner.”

His back is like iron under my hand, and I drop my touch away.

His throat tenses with a swallow.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he mutters so low that I barely hear him.

“Nice to meet you too.” The siren offers the monster a wide grin, and I’m grateful for her instinctual kindness.

“First-time customers get fifty percent off of their first book.”

“Oh … I don’t read much.”

What he described earlier—about reading giving him headaches—I plan to dig into that more.

But he’s been through a lot in the last few days, and now is not the time for a sneaking interrogation.

The shop owner shrugs.

“Never too late to start. Go on and browse. Mor, I’ll get your book from the back.” Neri sets the stack she’s carrying on the counter, then hustles toward the rear of the shop.

“This place is new too.” Bo gazes around the space.

“What did it used to be?”

“A cobbler.”

“Really? Like, for shoes?”

He nods.

“Not surprised they went out of business.”

The tall shelves full of stories are calling to me, but I remind myself that I have plenty of books at home I still need to read, and this errand is not about my Tbr.

It’s about a grimoire.

And getting Bo more comfortable in town.

“Neri is a siren,” I tell Bo, letting him know mythic talk is safe in her vicinity.

Then I have another spark of inspiration.

“She’s mated to Seamus MacNamara.”

He jerks his gaze to me.

“MacNamaras are selkies,” he says.

“A founding family.”

I thought that would catch his attention.

“Yep. A selkie and a siren. Then there’s Calder MacNamara, who is mated to a dragon. And of course, you met Levi, who is mated to Moira MacNamara. They’re about to have their first kid. One of the reasons I’m heading your welcome committee is, he’s a bit distracted at the moment with the birth coming soon. So, yeah, looks like a founding family is about to have some monsters in the line.”

He gapes at me, but I have an excuse to move away when Neri reappears with a slim volume bound in leather.

We spend the next few minutes poring over the pages.

Immediately, I can tell this isn’t an official grimoire, seeing as how Neri can read much of the text.

Grimoires are written in witch’s language, meaning they are illegible to non-witches.

However, the detailed descriptions of how herbs can be used in spells seem legit.

This may simply be a green witch’s notebook.

“I’ll take it,” I say, planning to consult with a few members of the Folk Haven coven to work out the legitimacy.

“Perfect. Anything else?”

“I don’t …” My words trail off as I turn to spy Bo standing by the window, a tattered paperback in his hand, the sunlight spilling in, illuminating the words he’s reading.

His hair spills over his forehead, and he worries his thick lower lip between his teeth as his eyes concentrate on the page.

He holds the book low, farther away than someone normally might when reading.

Trying not to startle him, I casually make my way over to him.

“Found something you like?”

He jerks, then slams the book shut and shoves it back onto the shelve as a flush blooms across his cheeks.

“N-no. Not really.”

He wasn’t great about getting the book back in its place, and a quick glance at the protruding spine reveals that he was engrossed in a historical romance.

A large-print one.

“I liked that author. Vanessa Riley. She’s local to Georgia. You should get it.”

He shakes his head, still blushing.

“Come on. That’s the dollar shelf. Which means the book is only fifty cents for you.” I tug it free and hold it out to him.

“There’s nothing wrong with liking a good book.”

He hesitates.

Then he accepts the novel from my hand, our fingers brushing.

I try not to let goose bumps overtake my body.

I pay for my text, and then Bo fishes two quarters out of his pocket.

Neri waves us off with a, “Happy reading!”

Bo is quiet for the rest of our errands, letting me take the lead, which is honestly how I prefer things.

I’m not a browser. I have a list with checkboxes I want to tick off because each task completed is a burst of satisfaction.

When the backseat of my truck is full of Bo’s necessities, we head back to the library, and I’m glad to see the RV—Jack and Ame went to pick it up—parked off to the side as we pull up the drive, especially with how tense Bo gets at the sight of the house.

I reach across the console, placing my hand on his shoulder.

He jerks his chin to the side to stare at me as I stop a distance from the library.

“I know this is just words, and only time will help you feel more comfortable, but I don’t think the house is a danger to you anymore. And if it is—if it tries to trap you—I’m here. I’m looking out for you.” I squeeze his shoulder, holding his wary eyes.

“Promise me, right now, that you won’t leave Folk Haven without telling me first.”

He swallows hard.

“Why?”

“Promise me, Bo.”

“Yes, ma’am. I promise.”

I give him a playful glare for the ma’am , and then I pat his shoulder.

“There you have it. You won’t disappear. Because if you’re missing, I’ll look for you.”

As I retract my hand, I find it suddenly caught in a warm, rough hold.

“I …” he starts, then blinks and looks at where we’re touching.

“Thank you,” he eventually rumbles.

And I get the sense Bo has never had anyone watch his back before.

No one to care about what happens to him. Well, now he does.