by Zoe Chant
Neal almost had to sit. She was... firing him? Kicking him out? His first reaction was anger, followed by a drifting uncertainty and mournful feeling that she was right to. He buried it all behind an unwavering scowl, as deeply as he was burying his own wolf.
“You cannot make yourself whole here,” she said, with a lofty matter-of-fact-ness. “And I don't have the resources to pander to your cowardice forever.”
Cowardice? No one had ever accused him of that – no one had ever dared, and Neal was not sure how to take it from the manicured woman who sat before him with her hands folded easily in her lap.
“I'm happy to remove myself,” he said with automatic defensiveness, but even as he said it, he wasn't sure how he would do so. He had no money, no identity – he had undoubtedly been given up for dead by now, by his team and by his family.
A piece of paper materialized in Scarlet's hand as she outstretched it to him.
He took it, but didn't look at it, not wanting to show weakness by breaking their eye contact first.
“Those are the current contact numbers of the members of your unit,” Scarlet said.
Neal had to look at the paper in shock then, nearly dropping it. How did she even know about them? He had been vague about his life before Beehag's zoo, and discouraged discussion about it vehemently.
“There’s also the number for your niece,” Scarlet went on, as if she hadn't noticed his utter and complete shock. “I thought that might be easier than contacting your sister directly.”
She stood and brushed off her skirt, looking as cool as could be in the muggy afternoon heat.
“I don't need your charity,” Neal lied to her, crumpling the paper into his pocket as if he didn't care.
“Of course not,” Scarlet replied. “I haven't given you any. But as a temporary member of my staff, please be reminded that I will not tolerate rudeness to my guests.”
It made Neal feel prickly and angry and ashamed to think that she knew about that, too.
She left before he could find an appropriate rebuttal.
He was diving into his pocket before she was even out of sight, smoothing out the page and staring at the numbers as if they were ciphers to the locks in his head.
There was a landline in the staff building, but he wasn't sure he was ready to make any of the calls.
But there was one call he was ready to make.
Chapter Seven
Mary stared at the magazine article until the words stopped making sense.
She couldn't even have said what it was about; every effort to read seemed to drift off into fantasizing about the red-haired pool cleaner. She couldn't stop thinking about the way his bare muscles gleaned in the tropical sun, and she kept remembering the frightful snarl as he pushed away from her.
She looked down at her skin, still pale against her utilitarian blue one-piece, and frowned at the curve of her hips and legs, resisting the impulse to pull a towel over herself. Maybe he was disappointed by her. Maybe he didn't want her for a mate. Maybe he wanted one of the taller, richer, tanned guests, in their tiny two-pieces and sparkly high heels.
Mary shook her head and put the magazine down. As familiar as the idea was, she couldn't bring herself to entirely believe it. Not after seeing into his eyes. He had wanted her as badly as she wanted him.
“You need a drink, honey?”
Settling into the deck chair beside her was a woman so enormous that Mary half-expected the chair to collapse, rolls of golden flesh barely contained by a fluttery, bright orange bikini.
“I'm sorry?”
“A drink,” the woman suggested, lowering her sunglasses to peer at Mary with brilliant blue eyes. “Tex makes a margarita to die for.”
“Oh, I couldn't,” Mary said, flustered by the woman's intense gaze. “I don't really... I wouldn't...”
That earned her a tolerant smile. “Well, I'm on vacation,” the woman chuckled, and she waved an imperious arm in the air towards the bar deck above them that made her chair creak in protest.
She must have caught someone's eyes, and her order must have been expected, because very shortly, Mary heard the distant whine of a blender over the waves crashing on the beach below them.
“I'm Magnolia, darling.” The woman's offered hand was perfectly manicured, and her handshake was firm but gentle. Several jeweled rings decked her thick fingers.
“Mary,” she answered, bemused, wondering what Magnolia took from her own handshake.
“You're in a knot about something,” Magnolia suggested casually, leaning back into her chair and dropping her sunglasses back into place.
Mary had braced herself for casual conversation, and was prepared to reveal the unstimulating truth that she was a math teacher from the Midwest and then talk about the lovely weather.
Magnolia's observation caught her by surprise and tears pricked at her eyes. She ducked her head and hoped that her hat's wide brim would keep her face from Magnolia's view as she muttered, “It's nothing...”
She was not so lucky, and when Magnolia's chair groaned like a dying hyena, Mary looked up in alarm to find that the other woman had swung her legs around and was sitting up with both hands offered this time.
Mary mirrored her, letting Magnolia enfold her pale fingers in her larger ones. “Do you believe in destined mates?” she asked hesitantly, not daring to look up.
“Yes,” Magnolia said without any hesitation of her own. There was a richness to the single word, a depth of understanding that Mary hadn't realized she was hoping for.
“What if he... doesn't want me?”
Magnolia's laughter made Mary lift her head.
“It doesn't work like that, sweetie.” Magnolia said it very gently, as if to a small child. “You know that, don't you?”
“I don't understand, then,” Mary said, with all the frustration that had been building in her. “Why does he keep running away?”
“Finding your mate doesn’t always mean your fairy tale happy ending is at hand. Sometimes you need a little patience.”
Mary thought there was a note of sadness in her voice, and maybe a hint of dry amusement.
“His name is Neal,” Magnolia told her, and it took Mary's breath away to hear it.
It was such an odd sensation, almost like she recognized the name, but not quite.
A server appeared beside them, and Mary looked up to find that she was holding a tray with two margaritas.
“Oh goodness,” Magnolia said, releasing Mary's hand and taking one of the glasses. “I can't drink two of these.”
Mary suspected that Magnolia would have been able to down a dozen of them without effect, but she took the other anyway, unexpectedly eager for it.
“Tell me more,” she begged, once the server was gone again.
“Only Neal can tell you the whole story,” Magnolia said, settling back into her chair again. “But I'll tell you what I know.”
Chapter Eight
Neal pulled at the collar of the shirt.
It was a far cry from a well-tailored dress uniform he had attended military functions in, but it was more appropriate than the resort polo shirt and khaki shorts he usually wore. Travis, the resort handyman, had done an admirable job of fitting one of the waitstaff uniforms to him, as long as you didn’t look too closely at the mismatched fabric under the arms.
“Don’t pluck at it,” Travis scolded, swatting at Neal’s hands and adjusting the collar of the coat himself.
“Are you sure you aren’t going to need backup, to see that you don’t chicken out?” Breck added.
Neal bit back the automatic offense at the insult. Breck meant well, and was only trying to be helpful. It wasn’t like Neal didn’t deserve a little ribbing for being a coward.
Tex strummed some dire chords on his guitar, sprawled across Neal’s bed. “Do you want some musical backup?” he offered. “Women love to be serenaded.”
Breck scoffed. “Sure, put her in the mood with a ditty about getting hit by a pickup and shooting a dog.”
“Sad love songs don’t count,” Bastian said, shaking his head.
“You kidding?” Travis mocked. “Have you ever watched a chick flick? Girls love to cry.”
Neal was not sure when this whole thing had turned into such a public affair, but his room in the staff housing was stuffed with supposedly helpful staff. Bastian was draped across his desk chair, and Travis was grinning at him from the footlocker.
“She’s a deer, remember, so avoid predator jokes,” Bastian suggested helpfully. Breck had risked his job and his skin by snooping into Scarlet’s office for Mary’s information and cottage number, to Neal’s chagrin and gratitude when he found out.
“You should probably avoid any jokes,” Tex added dryly. “You’re not very good at them.”
A determined knock at the door stilled the merriment of the room, and Breck opened it.
“Why, Graham,” he said in mischievous delight. “I’ve been waiting for this day since I laid eyes on your gorgeous face!”
Graham scowled back, and shoved past him to put the armload of flowers he was holding into Neal’s hands.
The staff voiced their appreciation of the gesture with whistles of awe and murmurs of surprise; Graham was notoriously stingy about cutting his precious blooms. The staff liked to tell a story about him nearly coming to blows with Scarlet over using cut flowers in the dining hall without his blessing.
Neal took the bouquet with the same gravity that Graham offered it. “Thanks, man,” he said gruffly. He said it generally to the room, and didn’t wait to see their reactions, but simply marched out the door decisively, because he knew that if he lingered much longer, he would do exactly as Breck had suggested and completely chicken out.
The march across the resort grounds was as difficult as any mission behind enemy lines that Neal had undertaken, and he was sweating by the time he reached Mary’s cottage, despite the cool evening drizzle and the downhill path. He was grateful for the shroud of darkness, but he paused when he reached her door, suddenly not sure if he should knock. Possibly it was too late for his visit. Maybe this was something better saved for daylight and safer times.
For a long moment, he hesitated. But then, gritting his teeth, he realized that this was something he had to do.
Making his hand land on the door was harder than any shot he’d ever taken, and sounded just as loud to his ears.
A second knock was not going to happen, but fortunately, the door sprang open as if he had been expected, and he was frozen as Mary looked up at him, standing in a pale nightgown in the doorway, every curve a promise of forever.
“You came,” she breathed, and Neal dropped the bouquet to catch her as she hurled herself into his arms.
Chapter Nine
Mary’s sense of where Neal was had never been terribly specific–she often found herself at a staff gate with the general idea that he was ‘that way,’ but she couldn’t break the sanctity of a staff-only sign, too aware of how precious the privacy of her own teacher’s lounge was.
So when she had a sudden awareness of his proximity, lying on her bed with a magazine, waiting for elusive sleep, it was a shock.
I should be wearing something sexier, she thought with chagrin. Her nightgown was old-fashioned and modest, something more appropriate for sleepovers with a girlfriend than a midnight tryst with her reluctant mate.
She was off her bed and halfway to the dresser to inspect her boring lingerie for anything less prudish than ‘strictly utilitarian’ when the knock came, and she couldn’t keep herself from bounding across the room to fling open the door.
She ought to use a subtle touch, she reminded herself. If she was too forward, he might flee again; she needed to be the perfect combination of reserved and gentle.
But when she saw him, with that shock of short hair bleached of its red in the pale porch light, that handsome face a mix of longing and regret, all she could say do was squeak, “You came!” and throw herself at him.
Not your most restrained moment, she told herself.
He had no choice but to catch her, but instead of setting her sensibly on her feet, as Mary was expecting, he wrapped his arms around her tightly, and pressed his mouth to hers.
Mary had never been kissed like Neal kissed her. She hadn’t known a kiss like that was possible. It was deep, and involved the entire mouth, and she was keenly aware of being pulled against him. The pressure of his body against hers was irresistible, sending her into a tailspin of desire and lust.
She had her arms around his neck, pulling herself deeper into the kiss, craving the closeness of his body and the honeyed salt of his mouth. She’d read of kisses described as electric, but she’d always thought it was a foolish expression—until now, with Neal sending shocks of pleasure to her toes and her fingertips. Her entire body was more alive than she had ever imagined it could be.
Her earlier fears were laughable now, her doubts that he may not desire her swept away in the way that he held her, cradling her at the small of her back and the base of her neck; the way he kissed her; and the most undeniable expression of lust that was pressing against her through his pants.
She was dizzy and lightheaded when he finally released her lips, and she gave a sigh of loss even as she gasped for breath.
“Can you forgive me?” he asked her, voice gruff and low.
Mary blinked at him. The kiss left her feeling confused and filled with head-spinning need. Did he want forgiveness for stopping the kiss? “Forgive you for what?”
His laugh was hesitant, like he didn’t do it often. “I’ve been avoiding you. I told you I didn’t know what you meant when you finally talked to me. I was a jerk. I was...”
Mary stopped him with a finger on his mouth. It was strange to feel his lips with her fingers. “I forgive you,” she said simply.
“I should explain,” he said reluctantly, and Mary could have drowned in the sorrow in those eyes.
“You don’t have to,” she said gently.
Neal stared back, and Mary could feel the hesitation in his hands and the muscles of his body.
“I want to help you,” she explained. “I want to know what happened to you. But you don’t have to tell me until you’re really ready. I know who you are. I know what you are to me.”
He gave a great sigh of his own. His gaze softened, and Mary could feel some of his tension ease.
Not the important tension, though, and when he bent to kiss her again, she pressed herself against him like a cat in heat, unable to resist the demands of her own body.
He kissed her again, as her lips had been longing for, no less urgently than the first time, and she fumbled at his jacket buttons, desperate to put her hands against his skin.
They had to break the kiss to shimmy out of clothing, and Mary regretted her simple nightgown not because it wasn’t sexy enough—slipping it off was a whisper of sensuality that she’d never expected—but because there weren’t enough layers to it. She hadn’t anticipated how much fun it would be to undress another person, or how exciting it was to peel through layers of clothing to find the skin beneath.
Once her nightdress was off, Mary paused, and Neal stared for a long, mesmerized moment, holding the thin cotton garment in his big hands. The night air chilled goosebumps onto her flesh despite feeling flushed and hot, and Neal gave a groan before tossing the gown to the floor and crushing her back to him for another of their long, deep kisses.
“It’s not fair!” she laughed at him when her mouth was free. “I have so much clothing still to get through.”
Neal was as impatient with it as she was, and the task was hastened, tie, shirt, and undershirt thrown aside with zeal. His scuffed shoes were wrenched off without untying, and the pants were shimmied off to the floor until they both stood in only underwear.
Mary could not keep herself from staring. His briefs did nothing to hide his impressive desire for her, and she wond
ered if her inescapable dampness showed on her simple cotton underthings.
They were at the door of her bedroom now, and the sounds of the room were the unending insects of the tropical night, the tapping of rain on the roof, and their own breath, ragged and eager.
“Do come in,” Mary said at last, feeling suddenly shy.
Chapter Ten
Neal felt as if he’d won some kind of lottery, and he mistrusted his luck, even while Mary’s earthy, curvy beauty stunned him into silence.
The roundness of her hips, the softness of her shoulders—it wasn’t just his maned wolf that Neal had to wrestle down. Everything about her brought out animal lust and desire in him. He had to struggle to keep his urgency in check, fearful of hurting her, of losing control and not treating her with the care and reverence she deserved.
When she invited him into the sanctity of her bedroom, he went willingly, and instead of wrestling her down onto the bed the way he wanted to, he sat, and drew her into his lap.
There was no hiding his lust for her, no tempering the physical part of his need, but Neal forced his hands to be slow, and his kisses to her neck were whispers, not the bites he was so tempted to make. He teased around her breasts, lifting them, stroking them, defining their shape and softness, then finally brushing a finger across her nipples and delighting in the deep groan of need she gave.
She squirmed in his lap, driving him mad with the touch against his cock, and he feared he would embarrass himself before they even got out of their underwear.
He didn’t realize that he’d frozen, trying to fight down the need that was rising to a fever pitch, until Mary pushed him back on the bed and slipped out of her underwear.
He stayed still while she wrestled him out of his own, lifting his hips to help her.
They both gave a gasp when his erection sprang free, Neal from the sensation of it, Mary in delight, as far as Neal could tell.
Then she was straddling him, drawing down on him, and Neal had to worship her swinging breasts and sweet flesh. She was slick with moisture, and beautifully, impossibly tight around him, each cautious stroke she made bringing him deeper into her eager folds.
