Page 16 of Another Man’s Treasure

Oz

The next morning I hum as I pull my undereye and facial masks off. Despite that, dark purple bags are a clear indication that Willa and I stayed up far too late looking at pictures of Wilder as a child, as a tween, as a teen, riding bulls.

She even gave me a pop quiz after quite a few shots of tequila, and I did not nail it. About the only thing I remembered was that absolutely ridiculous middle name. I guess, while she was pregnant, Wilder’s mama truly felt he’d grow to be a musician like the famed human Orpheus.

Turns out she was fully wrong, LOL.

Sighing at the state of my face, I turn the water on and wait for it to warm. A nice hot shower will do wonders for my skin. Half an hour later, I’m singing under the warmth when an alarm rings—my intrahaven watch sitting on the edge of the sink. I always need to set myself a timer, or I get lost in the shower, absolutely lost.

Hopping out, I keep my song going as I shuffle dry and then dress. This house wasn’t designed for a monster with wings, so my tips keep hitting the ceiling. The next few weeks are going to be a nightmare, but if I get to hang with Willa, shove a hot troll in front of Saint’s face, and get twenty thousand bucks so I can avoid needing a bank loan for my spa, I can sacrifice a little.

Plus, Ginger slept between Willa and me in the bed last night, and I honestly think it’ll be good for my sweet but terrified doggo to have more interaction. She needs a heavy dose of confidence, and I don’t think I’m enough to help her with that.

Once clothed, I leave the bathroom and head for the kitchen. We covered so much last night but not the food situation, and I’m not sure if I’m even allowed in the fridge. Although, if I’ve got a boyfriend, assumedly he’d provide snacks. It’s a gargoyle’s love language, after all.

Rational thought leaves me when I round the corner from the bathroom and find Wilder shirtless in the kitchen, wearing nothing but jeans with a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. He’s bent over the oven, looking in, but all that position does is highlight thick, flexed abs and a myriad of small pale green scars randomly dotting his skin.

Don’t remember those from last night’s crash-course PhD in All Things Wilder Lane. He doesn’t look up when I appear in what I’m sure is his peripheral vision.

“Got a quiche going,” he says gruffly. “Eat whatever you want.”

Ginger lies on the floor at his feet, her back against the drawer beneath the oven. She’s a lizard just like I am, I guess. And a traitor. Fuck me, this dog is gonna fall in love with this big troll and⁠—

Actually, that’s probably fine for our purposes. It’ll be a good thing for Saint to think I’ve got a half hellhound who’s in love with my boyfriend. It’ll sell the thing, and I’ll be that much closer to twenty K.

Kneeling by her head, I rub a path between her eyes and along both silky ears. “Who’s my good Ginger girl? You were quite the snugglebug last night, my little sweetie.”

Wilder basically hovers above me but still says nothing, firmly focused on the quiche in the oven.

“So,” I begin, rising and leaning against the countertop next to him. “I learned everything about your entire life last night, felt like, but we didn’t really cover ground rules for our interaction. How do you like to be handled in public?”

He stands tall and scowls at me. “Handled?”

“You’re my boyfriend,” I remind him. “I’m gonna have to touch you when we’re outside of this house. Nobody will believe two males in love don’t touch in public, not anybody who knows me, anyhow.”

His frown deepens, wrinkles showing up between his brows. “Holding doors, maybe a light touch on the back or shoulder is fine. Nothing below the belt, though.”

I roll my eyes. “So much for wild and wilder. You promised me a good time.”

“And you said you didn’t want anything physical,” he reminds me.

“I know, I’m just messing with you.” I smile and push off the counter, grabbing my bag and snapping it over my shoulder, careful to avoid my wing.

Wilder clears his throat.

When I turn, he’s leaning against the oven, staring at me. “You don’t have to fight for the table anymore.” I’d swear the faint hint of a smile curves his lips ever so slightly upward. “It’s our table now, right?”

I shake my head. “Oh no, I’ll just tell Saint that fighting is how we like to show our love. Don’t even think about stealing my table. I’ve got work to do before my double at Whiskey Business.”

“I’ll come with you.” He pulls the quiche out of the oven with his bare-ass hands. Setting it down, he glances over at me. “Just let me put this away in case Willa comes by.”

Trolls, pfft. Too strong for their own good.

I’m not staring at his ass. I’m most definitely not.

Even though it looks so good in those jeans.

It’s an awkwardly silent walk from his cottage on the outskirts of downtown toward Main Street. Twenty minutes of silence only punctuated by Ginger’s soft whining at the chilly ground beneath her sensitive toes. She needs booties, and I’d wager Bluebell can order me some through Buxom Bodice Outfitters.