by Lily Cahill
“So make Uncle Mac an honorary Hart,” Chase said with a shrug. Their Uncle Mac was their late mother’s brother, of the Lapin clan.
“Dammit, Chase,” Drew growled suddenly. Around the table, Jax and his brothers went still. Drew never lost his temper, but they listened when he did. Drew took a breath. “The Harts have led the Western Clans for generations, we were the ones who fought for treaties with the Southern chieftains, we were the ones who brought peace to the shifters. There needs to be a Hart leading the Western Clans or I’m afraid something terrible will happen.”
Jax huffed a hollow laugh, but it died quickly. “It sure as shit isn’t going to be me.”
He speared a sausage and jammed it into his mouth. As far as he was concerned, he had given up his lineage the second he left clan territory. He never wanted to go back. He came from a killer, a corrupted, power-mad tyrant. What reason was there to ever go back? There was nothing back there to be proud of, only a miserable past.
For a while after Errol Hart had finally been brought to justice for his years of murders and exiled from the shifter lands, Jax had flirted with the idea of denying his bear altogether. Shifting had fit uncomfortably against his skin when he was younger, like an ill-fitting sweater. It reminded him too much of his father, of the terror he’d incited in his bear form. But to deny your bear, to stop shifting … a man could survive, but it was a half-life. You’d lose your strength and vitality until you were a shadow of your true self. Jax could never do that, not really. For a long time, it’d made him ashamed of his own weakness. But he’d found peace with the primal side of him, and he felt his bear was now an integral part of who he was. The ferocity of his bear still terrified him sometimes, made him worry the predilection for murder and misery were etched into his very soul.
But then he’d met Tiff, and his soul sang.
He checked his watch. It’d been five minutes. Drew, Bret, and Chase were still talking, but Jax had stopped listening. What did he care what they decided to do about Errol Hart? That was his sorry past. Tiff Anderson was his future … but only if he could convince her to give him a chance.
Distantly, he was aware of someone snapping their fingers, of his name being called. But his mind was consumed with Tiff, with his visions of a future with her. Of children and a new chance at happiness, of re-writing his own awful childhood.
“Hey, jackass.” Chase elbowed him hard in the side, and Jax jabbed him back. Chase fell against the diner window, coughing.
“Jesus, I’m ill. Don’t be a dick,” Chase said with another grimacing cough.
“You’re not sick, you’re hungover.” Bret rolled his eyes and stole a piece of bacon off Chase’s plate. Bret rounded on Jax. “And you’re not listening to a word we’ve said.”
No. Because something far more important consumed him. Someone with long, dark hair that looked like spun silk and skin that looked perpetually sun-kissed and almond-shaped eyes that made him reconsider if he’d ever really beheld the true color of caramel.
“I met her,” he heard himself announce. Jax took a breath and looked up at his brothers. “My mate, I met her last night.”
The table went silent. And then it exploded with sound and movement.
“Who was it? Did it happen like your lodge vision?” That was Drew, leaning forward almost eagerly.
Chase coughed again. “Bullshit,” he said. He pointed a piece of bacon at Jax and then at Drew. “You two don’t actually believe that ‘mate’ shit, do you?”
Drew sat back, his dark features going very still. “So you’re saying Kirsten left me a month before our wedding because …?”
Chase grimaced. “No, man. I just mean … look, I believe that Kirsten believed she’d locked onto Brandon. But I do not think for one second that the vision we’re granted at the shifting ceremony means a damned thing. It’s a vision born out of days of forced meditation and dehydration and enough herbs to make us hallucinate. You do that to any fourteen-year-old kid, and they’re going to eventually have a vision of a hot chick in their minds. I mean, damn. I’m surprised my vision of my mate didn’t show me a dancing purple dinosaur.”
Jax bristled at how callously Chase regarded Tiff. She wasn’t just some hot chick he’d conjured up because he was high and locked in a sweat lodge. She was real. She was his.
“I’m telling you, this woman is from my vision. She’s the same woman I’ve seen in my dreams for more than a decade now.”
Bret crossed his arms over his chest, his mouth a hard line. “Yeah, good for you.”
Jax was surprised at the hiss in Bret’s voice. He frowned. “Don’t you want to find your mate? Don’t all of you?”
Bret laughed, a sharp tone. “Not really.”
“Look,” Chase said. “I’ve had dreams about a lot of different women, but I still have no problem forgetting them the next day.”
Drew, though, looked thoughtful. He met Jax’s eyes and nodded. “Go to her, Jax. If this is truly your mate, then you need to go to her.”
“Go to who?”
Jax swung his head around to find himself staring up at Derek.
Jax ignored Derek and stood up. Derek was nearly as tall as Jax, but everything about him seemed stooped. Jax tried to angle past him, but Derek didn’t move.
Derek held up one finger to Jax then turned and snapped his fingers in the general direction of a waitress. “Hey, sweetheart!” He called across the diner to the unamused waitress. She looked up from her notepad and arched one drawn-on eyebrow. “Who do I have to kiss for a coffee around here?” Derek looked back at Jax. “Find who?” he said again. “Looking for round two with one of those bitches from last night?”
Jax had his fists curled up in Derek’s shirt before he even realized what was happening. He slammed Derek against the plate-glass windows edging the diner, the glass groaning. Behind him, he heard a gasp and the clatter of dropped silverware. His heart thrummed in his neck, his fingers, his stomach. It beat out a demand to make Derek pay for calling Tiff that. His teeth were bared in a snarl, his shoulders heaving.
But, no. No. He wasn’t his father. He could control himself. Slowly, his muscles still rigid and itching for a fight, Jax made himself release Derek and stepped back. He spared a single glare for his scumbag tour manager and then stalked from the diner.
He was only a couple yards from the place and down the sidewalk when Derek caught up.
“Hold up,” he called. Derek was wheezing, but he circled around Jax and stood in his path. They were right outside a coffee shop, patrons sitting outside ogling them.
“What do you want?” Jax hissed, trying to keep his voice low.
“I want to do my job,” Derek said. He made no attempt to lower his voice. Jax turned his shoulders to shield their conversation from the onlookers and started walking down the sidewalk again. New Scandia was a dot on the map, but the minuscule downtown was bustling with summer—families playing in a nearby greenspace, people sitting outside. The last thing this place needed was to witness a brawl between a rockstar and his skeezy manager.
Derek loped after Jax. “You’ve got responsibilities to your band, your label. It’s my job to make sure you meet them, Jax.”
Jax rounded on him, onlookers be damned. “Yeah? We were all just waiting for you, so what’s your excuse?”
Derek’s beady eyes shifted back and forth. “I was checking out my old family property up the road in Storm’s End. The label’s still looking for a place for you guys to work on the follow-up album, and I thought it might work.”
Jax sighed, his shoulders drooping a bit. He felt a bit cornered there. “Listen, I won’t be gone long. I’ll be back in plenty of time for rehearsal this afternoon.”
That apparently didn’t sway Derek. “You’ve got a number one, Jax, but no follow-up album.” Derek raised his eyebrows, one corner of his lips curling in a barely-disguised sneer. “You think anyone will give a shit about Wild Harts in a year with no new music?”
“Our fans t
rust us,” Jax snapped back. “Jesus, Derek. We just opened a giant music festival and played to a sold-out crowd.”
Derek’s sneer turned to a thin laugh. “Fans are fickle. They’ll forget you so quickly, even your thick neck will break.”
Jax flexed his arms, squeezing his hands into fists. “Enough Derek.”
The warning was thick in Jax’s voice, but Derek pressed him.
“Are you even writing new music?”
Jax ignored him, but his righteous indignation soured to something weaker. Something tinged with worry. Derek wasn’t wrong.
“No woman is worth it, Jax. You get in the studio, turn out another album. Then you can go chasing skirts.”
“She’s worth it,” Jax growled.
“What is she, your soulmate?”
Jax froze, his chest going tight. “What’d you just say?” Derek only knew them as the four brothers of Wild Harts. He didn’t know they were shifters from a prominent Montana clan. Did he?
Derek laughed again. He was already turning around to walk away. “Nothing, man. Go get your dick wet and come back for rehearsal.”
Jax watched him go. The man’s walk was stiff, and he glanced back over his shoulder once before stumping into the diner. Jax felt unable to move. If Derek knew …. That was bad. The truth about shifters was a highly-guarded secret, and the consequences of people learning about them were dire. It had happened before, in the Old World, before the Harts had emigrated. They and others like them had been hunted nearly to extinction. For hundreds of years now, the shifters of the world had lived in secret, a parallel society that worked and lived among humans in something close to harmony. But that all hinged on the fact that shifters kept their secret and humans pretended they didn’t believe in the impossible. Shifters were the stuff of fairy tales, of campfire stories. And for their own survival, they needed to stay there.
Jax shook his head, freeing himself of the thoughts of Derek Craven and what the tour manager may or may not know. He took a deep breath and smiled at a little girl and her dad who were passing by. It was a beautiful day in a beautiful town, and he had a beautiful woman to woo.
Chapter Six
Tiff
TIFF WIPED HER HANDS ON the embroidered towel and surveyed the kitchen. She’d gotten up that morning and worked for an hour on the real estate photo assignment before fixing breakfast for her dad and brother. Lacy gave her a hard time for moving back in with her family after college, but Tiff didn’t mind. She loved her dad and brother, and she was a bit afraid she’d go mad with boredom if she didn’t have two men to care for. Besides, she could be an independent feminist and still like cooking for her family, right?
Tiff folded the beautiful towel—one of her Swedish grandmother’s hand-embroidered linens—and draped it over the dishwasher handle. Everything was in order, just how Tiff liked it. She’d made over-easy eggs, toast, and fried ham for the guys, but Tiff hadn’t eaten any. Well, maybe she’d had a bite of the ham and a piece of toast, but that barely counted.
Now, with her dad to the police station and her brother upstairs to sleep after pulling night-duty, Tiff rifled through the fridge for her own breakfast. She settled on strawberries she’d picked the other day and some Greek yogurt. The clock on the wall above the kitchen table quacked. Tiff laughed—it had been one of her mother’s quirkiest purchases, but Tiff couldn’t bear to part with it—and started washing strawberries. She had to get back to the studio and finish up her assignment. Tiff snorted at her own pomposity. Her studio … more like her shed in the backyard.
But it was hers, her sanctuary. It’d been an old tool shed, but her brother, Tyler, had somehow conned some of the guys from the station to clean it out and make it a workable studio.
Every time Tiff thought of leaving New Scandia—maybe back to Madison, or maybe to Chicago or even farther—she remembered the kindness of her family, the love they shared. They knew she’d sacrificed the start of her own career to keep the family on its feet after her mom’s death. In their own way, her dad and Tyler tried to thank her however they could. It couldn’t last forever—Tiff had never imagined herself staying in her hometown—but for now, it worked.
Speaking of work …. Tiff shook her head clear of her thoughts and held a crate of strawberries under the faucet. She had to get back to it if she was going to turn in the polished photos in time. Sure, they were just some headshots and artistic interior design shots for the client’s brochures and website, but every new job helped. And paid.
There was a creak in the backyard and Tiff glanced out the window, frowning. Tiff craned her neck to get a look at the back gate and startled. The entire crate of strawberries she’d been holding dropped to the floor.
Shit! Jeez, double shit! What in the heck was Jax Hart doing in her backyard? How the heck did Jax Hart even know where to find her backyard?
Tiff’s stomach crawled up into her throat, and her hands shook. She gave herself one glorious moment to look at him. Goodness, he was hot. He was wearing a slim plaid button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled and dark jeans. The clothes just accentuated his lean muscles and tanned skin. His chin had a slight haze of stubble, and his lips were full and perfect. Tiff looked up higher, to his wonderfully vibrant gray-green eyes.
He was looking right at her.
Tiff jumped backward, stepped on a strawberry, and dropped to a crouch. What was she going to do? She inched to the side, still hunched over on the balls of her bare feet, and stepped on another strawberry.
There was a knock on the door. Tiff squeaked.
He knocked again. A rockstar was knocking on her door.
Holy shit. A rockstar was knocking on her door.
Tiff shot a look at the back door then back to her feet. There were strawberries everywhere. She scraped her hands over the floor and dumped the berries back into the carton. There was strawberry juice between her toes, and her fingertips were stained red from picking up the smashed fruits.
And that was just her hands. Tiff glanced down at her clothes and groaned. She’d thrown on an old gray shirt dress this morning that cinched at her waist and flared out over her wide hips. And she’d forgone a bra. Her breasts felt heavy and too jiggly against her chest, as if they were shaking their heads in shame.
“Tiff?” Jax’s voice rumbled against the seam in the door. “Are you in there?”
Tiff threw the carton of strawberries into the sink and stood, straightening her dress as best she could. Well, might as well ….
Tiff pulled the door open, a half-smile and a single arched eyebrow saying hello.
Jax strode in, swiveling his head side to side before turning around to stare at Tiff. Like he barged into strangers’ kitchens all the time. Tiff didn’t know, maybe it was a super rich rockstar thing.
“So, I tried to find you last night, but you up and disappeared on me,” Jax said.
Tiff frowned. “Do you make house calls to all the women who jilt you?”
“I pride myself on my level of personal service,” Jax said with a grin. “But, no.”
He took a step closer, and it made Tiff jittery. Like just his presence was messing with her gravity. She stepped back until the small of her back pressed into the counter. Jax looked at her. No, not just looked. This was so much more than a simple look. His eyes practically smoldered. Tiff crossed her arms over her chest, but that just made Jax drop his gaze there. His tongue flicked against his lower lip, and the sight did things to Tiff’s core. Fuzzy, wonderful things.
Jax pulled in a breath and gazed back up into Tiff’s eyes. “You might not believe this, but I had to come find you and apologize for not running after you the second you went out that door last night.”
Tiff laughed, more from nerves than anything. But then she cocked her head. “How did you find me?”
Jax raised an eyebrow of his own and pulled out his cell, jiggling it. “This little development called the internet.”
“Yeah …,” Tiff said, still frowning. Except her dad
was the sheriff, and he was kind of a nut about keeping the family’s home address offline. She looked back at the floor. There were two strawberries behind Jax that she’d missed. She watched as Jax’s heavy brown boots took two steps closer. Tiff could smell him, something sharp and clear. And familiar. It took her a moment, but then she recognized it. He smelled like the pine-dense woods she loved so much.
Tiff lifted her chin to meet Jax’s intense gaze. His eyes were a swirl of gray and green, darker around the pupils then lightening at the edge of the iris. She’d love to photograph him.
“Is it okay?” Jax’s voice was soft and deep at the same time, and the way it rumbled through Tiff made the heat between her thighs flame higher. Jeez, his voice.
“What?” Tiff managed.
“That I came here? Maybe I should’ve called, but I just couldn’t wait. I couldn’t—” Jax’s voice hitched over his breath, and he took a moment. “You pull me in, Tiff Anderson. They say I’m the star, but you’re the one with the gravitational force.”
Tiff sucked in a breath. Her hands dropped uselessly to her sides. She tilted her chin up to stare at Jax, her lips parted and her heart was in her throat. His head dipped closer to hers; he licked his lips again. She wanted him to kiss her. Jeez, she wanted him to set her right on this counter and push her thighs apart and kiss his way up to her ….
“The strawberries!” Tiff scooted around Jax and dropped to the floor behind him. With her back turned, she took a second to press the back of her hand against her cheeks. They were burning hot. All of her was burning hot. Because he was a rockstar, and he was in her kitchen, and she wanted him in her …. Tiff shook her head clear of the fantasy and grabbed at the stray strawberries. She couldn’t lose her head. She’d let herself flirt with him—the banter alone between them was electric—but she couldn’t let herself fall for this. Jax Hart was a playboy. He was good at this game. And Tiff Anderson did not want to be used up as his own little game piece.
