“What did she do?”
His smile was warm, and Gwen felt that pang of jealousy again. She hated feeling it, hated knowing she even had it. “She handed me one of those cups of coffee, along with six honey buns, sat down next to me and…and she talked to me. I don’t even remember for how long or what was said. And, in the beginning, she did most of the talking. For a week, though, I came back to the same coffee shop around the same time and every day she was there or she’d show up a few minutes later, and we’d talk some more. Before I knew it, she’d hired me to write code for some of her company’s software and when that went well, they hired me to do more. I started shaving again, showering every day, and I put all my military stuff in my trunk and put it in the back of my closet. Soon I had goals and plans for my future that were months or years ahead rather than days or hours. She helped me move on…well, her and the therapy. And that’s not something I can ever forget. So, yeah, if Jess told me to jump off a bridge, and there was a good reason to do it, I probably would.”
Gwen swallowed, torn between feeling grateful to Jess for helping Lock when he needed it most and resenting her for being closer to Lock then Gwen might ever be. “So you do love her,” she said softly, determined to face the truth.
“Yeah, I love her. But I’m not in love with her. I’m not in love with anybody.”
Gwen felt her heart drop at Lock’s words, but she wouldn’t come down on him for being honest. She’d rather that now than later.
Nodding, Gwen reached for her ice cream and said, “I understand.”
“I mean,” he went on, unwittingly turning the knife, “not in love with anybody but you.” He thought a moment and added, “God, I’m crazy in love with you. But yeah, I love Jess. Wait…what’s wrong?”
He was probably asking that because her hand was frozen in the action of reaching for her ice cream, but she’d been so stunned, she left it dangling there. Staring at her nails, she asked, “You’re in love with me?”
“Crazy in love with you. You know, that whole ‘can’t imagine my life without you’ crazy in love with you.”
She dropped her hand back in her lap and gazed up at him in astonishment. “How do you just toss that into a conversation?”
“Not tossing, clarifying.”
“You see, this is what I’ve been talking about with you. It’s like the whittling—”
“I never said I whittled. I said it was a hobby. You thought it was whittling and there would be birdhouses.”
“But the way you described it to me—in your quiet, understated way—made it sound like whittling. Instead you’re like the Ansel Adams of wood!”
“And that’s a problem?”
“No. That’s not the problem, your way of telling me things is. You do this constantly.”
“I do what constantly?”
Using her most calm, relaxed, “surfer dude” voice, Gwen replied, “Hey, just want you to know…sky’s falling. Hey, nothing to worry about but…uh…tsunami.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Hey,” she went on casually even as her heart slammed hard against her ribs as she realized the grizzly loved her, “I invited this old buddy of mine over for dinner. He’s president of the United States of America, and he’s bringing about three hundred people with him, but no problem, I’m sure we have something in the freezer.”
Lock pouted. “I’m not that bad.”
“Yeah, ya are. You’re lucky I can overlook it.”
Then Gwen reached up, her fingers stroking his cheek, his jaw; her eyes focused on his beautiful face.
“It’s okay, Gwen.” He gave her that sweet smile. “Say it when you’re ready.”
“Okay. I will.” She slid her hands into his hair and tugged so he would move closer. She sat tall in his lap, raising her mouth to his. When they were barely a breath apart, Gwen said, “I love you.” She smiled, shrugged. “I was ready.”
Lock’s hands bracketed her face, long fingers stroking her skin. He studied her like he wanted to absorb every part of her, take in every detail. No one had ever looked at her like that and, if they had, it clearly hadn’t meant as much.
Lock’s lips met hers and, as his tongue slipped inside her mouth, she leaned back onto the kitchen floor, taking Lock with her.
“Table Six up,” Ric called out as he placed the two large and expertly roasted and plated slabs of venison on the counter. The server grabbed both plates and walked out.
Grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge, Ric said to his sous chef, “I’ll be back. Taking a break.”
He walked out without waiting for an answer and headed into the alley behind the restaurant. Drinking water, he stared up at the sky. It was a nice night. A beautiful night.
“Planning to run away?” a voice asked.
Ric’s grin was wide and real as he threw his arms around the man’s shoulders. “Uncle Van! It’s so good to see you.”
“Hello, cousin.” Niles Van Holtz, Uncle Van to the younger cousins of the Pack, stepped back and studied him closely. “Busy night?”
Ric let out an exhausted sigh. “You have no idea.” He gestured with his water bottle. “So what brings you to this coast?” His shoulders slumped. “Do I need to involve my father?”
“Oh, God, no. I’m still recovering from Memorial Day weekend.”
Ric cringed, remembering the family event that had turned ugly rather quickly. “I sent Aunt Irene flowers.” Complete with groveling apology. “She said she liked them.”
“She loved them. Although I had to hear, yet again, how it’s my fault that we didn’t take you from that, and I’m quoting here, ‘Visigoth’ when you were five and realized your IQ was higher than your parents’ and brother’s combined.”
Laughing and appreciating the compliment from a bona fide genius like Irene Conridge-Van Holtz, Ph.D., Ric shrugged. “So what do you need?”
“The information you sent me a few days ago?”
“Yes?”
Van held out something and Ric took it. It was made of studded leather and when he unraveled the pieces, he realized it was a very large muzzle. A very large, blood-encrusted muzzle.
“I think it’s time, cousin,” the older wolf said and, sadly studying the piece of equipment in his hands, Ric had to agree.
CHAPTER 25
Alla Baranova-MacRyrie watched her son lift her husband’s old and extremely heavy desk up and out of the way and put in the new one.
“I thought your father just wanted you to fix the old desk.”
“I know.” Lock shifted the new desk back, forth, back, trying to make sure it was perfectly situated. “But after examining it, I decided he needed a new desk.”
“He likes the old one because his son made it.”
“I was thirteen. It’s flawed.”
Alla rolled her eyes. Some things would never change. “Yes. Horribly flawed. It only managed to last eighteen years in perfectly acceptable condition. At your father’s dangerous hands, no less. Must be a huge disappointment to you.”