Gumbo blinked at me, his amber eyes catching the fading light. His massive head tilted slightly to one side, and I could have sworn he looked skeptical.
"No one important," I added quickly, climbing out of the truck and slamming the door harder than necessary. My sandals crunched against the gravel as I walked toward the dock. "Just a big, quiet Alpha who looked at me like I was the first real thing he'd seen in years."
Gumbo made a low rumbling sound deep in his throat, the kind of sound that might have been skepticism or might have been indigestion. With reptiles, it was hard to tell. But I'd known him long enough to recognize judgment when I heard it.
"Don't start." I grabbed the brandy and headed for the cabin, my free hand waving dismissively in his direction. "It doesn't mean anything."
He sank lower in the water, just his eyes visible now, watching me retreat. Unconvinced.
But I thought about those dark eyes all through dinner. When I finally fell asleep that night, my dreams smelled like moonshine and cedar smoke.
Chapter Two
Artemis
Aweek after my visit to the Fontenot Distillery, I found myself staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and wondering why I was bothering with mascara.
"It's just a tarot gig." I told my reflection, leaning closer to swipe the wand across my lashes. The woman in the mirror looked skeptical. "Madame Beaumont wants a reading for her daughter's bachelorette party. That's it. I'm not trying to impress anyone." I set down the mascara and studied my handiwork, unconvinced by my own words.
My reflection didn't believe me. Neither did I, if I was being honest.
I studied myself in the foggy glass—wild dark auburn hair that refused to be tamed no matter how much I brushed it, currently piled on top of my head in a messy bun with strands already escaping to frame my face.
"You're stalling." I told my reflection, pointing the mascara wand at her accusingly. She had the audacity to look amused, one eyebrow arched in silent challenge.
I finished my makeup—just mascara and a bit of lip stain, nothing fancy—and assessed my outfit. A sundress the color of old bourbon, thin straps leaving my freckled shoulders bare, the fabric soft and worn from years of washing. It hit mid-thigh and swirled when I walked. Comfortable. Easy. Not like I was trying too hard. Definitely not like I was hoping to run into a certain dark-eyed Alpha who smelled like moonshine and looked at me like I was something precious and terrifying.
"Stop it." I muttered, grabbing my bag of tarot supplies and slinging it over my shoulder, shaking my head at my own foolishness. "You're being ridiculous." I headed for the door, my sandals slapping against the wooden floor.
Gumbo was sunning himself on the dock when I came outside, his massive body stretched out on the warm wood like the world's most dangerous cat. He cracked one eye open as I approached, tracking my movement with lazy interest.
"I'll be back in a few hours." I crouched down to scratch the ridge above his eye, right where he liked it. His jaw relaxed slightly, which was as close to purring as an alligator could get. "Try not to eat anyone while I'm gone." I stood up, brushing off my knees, giving him one last look.
He blinked at me slowly, offering no promises.
The drive to The Rusty Hook took about twenty minutes, winding through back roads that turned from dirt to gravel to something almost resembling pavement as I got closer to town. The bar sat on the edge of the water, a ramshackle building that had been rebuilt so many times after floods and hurricanes that probably nothing remained of the original structure. Christmas lights hung year-round from the porch railings, and a hand-painted sign proclaimed LIVE MUSIC FRIDAYS in letters that had faded to a soft pink.
It was Friday. I hadn't known that when I'd agreed to this gig. Or at least, that's what I told myself. The parking lot was alreadyfilling up when I arrived, trucks and beat-up sedans crowding the oyster-shell surface. I found a spot near the back and sat for a moment, gathering my thoughts. The sun was just starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and the air coming through my open window smelled like salt water and fried food and something else—music, maybe, drifting out from inside.
Underneath all of it, barely detectable, the faint scent of river water and honey and warm cinnamon.
Alpha.
My heart did something complicated in my chest. I ignored it.
Inside, The Rusty Hook was exactly what you'd expect—dim lighting, scarred wooden tables, a bar that ran the length of one wall with bottles glinting behind it like treasure. Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, stirring the thick air without actually cooling it. The walls were covered in old photographs, fishing nets, mounted fish that had seen better days, and neon beer signs that buzzed faintly.
A small stage had been set up in the corner, currently empty but waiting. Microphone stands, a couple of amps, a stool with a guitar case leaning against it.
"Artemis! Over here, chere!" The voice cut through the bar noise, and I turned to find Madame Beaumont waving frantically from a long table near the back, her silver bracelets catching the light as she gestured with both hands. She was surrounded by a gaggle of women in matching pink sashes that read BRIDE TRIBE. The bride herself—a sweet-faced Beta named Colette—was already three drinks in, based on the flush in her cheeks and the way she was giggling at absolutely nothing.
"Madame Beaumont." I made my way over, weaving between tables, my bag of tarot supplies clutched against my chest."Thank you for having me." I stopped at the edge of the table, nodding politely to the assembled women.
"Oh honey, thank you." Madame Beaumont was a large woman with a larger personality, her silver hair piled high and her jewelry jangling with every movement. She grabbed my hands in hers and squeezed, her rings pressing into my fingers hard enough to leave marks. "Colette's been dying for a reading. Says she wants to know if Pierre is really the one." She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a stage whisper that half the table could probably still hear. "Between you and me, she already knows. She just wants you to tell her what she wants to hear." She winked conspiratorially, her painted lips curving into a knowing smile.
"I'll do my best." I smiled, extracting my hands gently from her grip, flexing my fingers to restore circulation. "Where should I set up?" I glanced around the crowded bar, looking for a suitable spot.
"Right there, chere." She pointed to a smaller table in the corner, slightly separated from the chaos of the bachelorette party, her rings flashing under the Christmas lights. "And help yourself to food and drinks—we've got a tab running." She patted my arm before turning back to her champagne.
