Page 54 of Another Man’s Treasure

I frown, considering it. “Yeah, maybe,” I finally admit. “But I promise to try to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Well, I’m a sucker for love,” she says with a cheerful, tinkling laugh. “Let me message his address to you, and keep me posted, alright?”

I promise I will, then I wait for the address to come through. Thankfully, it’s right up on Main Street above Skylight Bakery, if I’m learning the layout of Main Street sufficiently. If I know anything, it’s that I can’t show up empty-handed. In the fridge, I find a small cake I bought at the bakery earlier. I’d hoped to give it to him this morning but forgot with everything else going on.

After grabbing the cake and my coat, I head out of the cottage with the promise that we’ll both be back soon. She opens and closes the door for me, flicking the interior lights off as I head up the walkway and hook a right toward downtown.

It takes me all of ten minutes to hit the main drag and find the side entrance to Oz’s apartment above the bakery. Nerves fill me, that same zippy twang I used to get before riding a particularly cantankerous bull. It’s a mix of excitement and fear, mashed up together into an intoxicating concoction that sets my teeth on edge, my fingers itching to do something.

Voices drift down from upstairs.

Bluebell. Her mate.

Oz.

Oh gods, so this will be a public apology, then. I don’t know Bluebell that well, but from what I’ve seen in the last few days, she and Lemon are extraordinarily protective of Oz the same way he is of them. Between her and Ginger, he is thoroughly guarded. They’re all bonded at the hip. I can only hope Ginger doesn’t attack me the moment I knock on the door if she senses Oz is unhappy to see me.

After climbing the stairs, I hold the cake in one hand as I rap on the door with the other. The voices fall silent as soft footfalls thud toward me. When it opens, Oz stands there in jeans and a loose tee, wings tucked like a cloak at his back. His beautiful tail is wrapped around his thigh. Dragging my eyes back up, I offer him the cake, very aware of our audience.

“Oz, I’m sorry about earlier. Can we talk?”

Behind him, Hadrian rises off the sofa, grabbing Bluebell and throwing her over his shoulder. “We were just going. Have fun, you two.”

“And don’t you dare hurt him,” Bluebell shouts, tossing a spoon at my head. “Or you will have me to contend with, mister, and it doesn’t matter that I’m half your⁠—”

Hadrian sidesteps past me with a wink and flies down the stairs and out the door.

Oz stares for a long moment, then fully opens the door. “Come on in, Wilder.”

I follow him into an apartment that’s exactly how I pictured Oz’s home looking—mismatched furniture somehow looks perfectly in unison. His sofa’s ragged and old but looks wonderfully comfortable. Plants dot the space here and there, and a huge chunk of the back wall is a window he can probably leap out when he wants to. The kitchen’s all warm honey tones and ivory countertops, almost mid-century human decor, a style I’ve always loved because it’s my mother’s favorite.

Ginger trots over as I enter.

Setting the cake down on his counter, I resist the urge to simply pull him into my arms, cover him in kisses and say with my body what I’m not great at saying with words.

“I’m sorry.” I can manage that, at the very least. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that earlier.”

He’s silent as he grabs two forks from a drawer by his sink. He hands me one and leans over the countertop, sticking his into the cake. “And?”

Oh gods. “Umm.” I run a hand nervously through my hair. “I’m not good at this, talking about feelings. I…my mother was always so expressive, but my father never was, especially once Willa was born. I never saw them have these types of conversations, and I…I’m already doing this wrong, I’m sure.”

Oz takes a bite. “There’s not really a wrong way to apologize, Wilder. I pushed you, and I should have stayed quiet and given you the space you asked for.”

“No,” I say vehemently, rounding the island so I can press my body to his. “I grew up straddling two worlds, never really fitting into either one. I’m quiet because I’ve learned through a lifetime of not fitting in that sometimes silence is just easier. Earlier when you wanted to talk, I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to admit what I was feeling because I was so angry about Saint. And…you make me feel things.”

He takes another bite of the cake, a crumb sticking to the edge of that pretty little mouth. “What kinds of things?”

Gods, he’s making this hard.

“Like that night meant something,” I admit. “I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not, and I don’t like that.”

He stands tall and sets his fork down. “Anything else, Wild?”

Back to Wild and not my full government first name. That must be progress, right?

I plead with my eyes for him to help me. For a long moment, he just stares, his expression neutral. Then he stabs the fork into the cake and rounds the island, hopping up onto it with thighs spread wide. He grabs my belt buckle and pulls me between his legs, then sits back on the palms of his hands.

“This was just a business transaction,” he says, and my heart sinks, “in the beginning. But that kiss last night…it was real for me, Wild. Everything about last night was real.”