Page 57 of Talk Howly to Me

"I have not been weird." Emerson's protest came too quickly, her cheeks flushing pink. "I'm always talkative."

"Emerson." Sloane's voice carried the patient tone she used with particularly stubborn lodge guests. "You reorganized the supply list three times. You double-checked inventory we just updated yesterday. And you keep looking at your watch like you're on some kind of schedule."

Emerson's flush deepened. She clutched her clipboard against her chest like armor. "Maybe I'm just being thorough."

"Uh-huh." Sloane climbed out of the truck, her boots crunching on the fallen leaves. "Come on, let's get this over with so you can stop vibrating with whatever secret you're keeping."

The general store's bell chimed their arrival, and Bob looked up from behind the counter with his usual broad grin. "Well, if it isn't my favorite fishing student! How'd that new lure work out for you?"

"Like a charm," Sloane said, returning his smile. "Caught a bass that had Ronan questioning everything he thought he knew about fishing."

Bob's laugh boomed through the store. "That'll teach him to doubt my recommendations."

They moved through the aisles efficiently, gathering supplies for the lodge—cleaning products, light bulbs, the specialty coffee beans their guests loved. But Sloane kept catching Emerson checking her watch and shooting nervous glances toward the door.

"Expecting someone back at the lodge?" Sloane asked as they loaded paper towels into their cart.

"What? No. Why would I be expecting someone?" Emerson's voice pitched higher. "I'm just... aware of time. Time awareness. Very important in the hospitality business."

Sloane raised an eyebrow but didn't push. Through the completed triad bond, she could feel ripples of her mates' emotions—focused determination from Ronan, barely contained excitement from Kozue. Whatever they were planning back at the lodge, it was definitely more elaborate than the quiet dinner they'd promised.

The thought should have made her anxious. For most of her life, surprises meant upheaval, disappointment, or worse. But the steady warmth of the bond, the absolute certainty of their love, had changed something fundamental in her. Instead of the familiar dread, she felt anticipation building in her chest.

They finished their shopping and approached Bob's counter with their loaded cart. He rang up their purchases while regaling them with a story about a guest who'd tried to catch fish with a hotel towel, and Sloane found herself laughing genuinely. These moments—the easy friendship, the sense of belonging in a community—still felt like gifts she hadn't known she was allowed to unwrap.

"Tell Ronan I've got some new tackle coming in next week," Bob said as he bagged their supplies. "Might be just what he needs to keep up with his student here."

"I'll let him know," Sloane promised, accepting the bags. "Thanks, Bob."

Outside, they loaded everything into the truck bed. Emerson practically bounced on her toes as Sloane secured the tailgate, and when they climbed into the cab, her friend's nervous energy was almost palpable.

Sloane started the engine and pulled onto the mountain road leading home. The drive would take an hour, winding through dense forest and past the occasional glimpse of distant peaks. Usually, she and Emerson filled the time with easy conversation about lodge business or pack gossip. Today, Emerson seemed determined to stare out the passenger window in uncharacteristic silence.

They'd made it halfway back when Sloane finally couldn't stand it anymore.

"Are you keeping a secret or something?" she asked, glancing sideways at her friend. "You're acting very off."

Emerson's face went scarlet, and she twisted her hands in her lap, avoiding Sloane's gaze. "I was sworn to secrecy by Ronan and Kozue."

"Of course you were." Sloane couldn't help the fond exasperation in her voice. "Those two are up to something today. I thought it was odd they'd send us on a supply run on my birthday."

Through the bond, she felt another spike of Kozue's excitement, carefully controlled but unmistakable. Whatever they'd planned, they were in the final stages of preparation.

Emerson made an exaggerated zipping motion across her lips. "My lips are sealed."

"I figured as much." Sloane shook her head, but she was smiling. "They really can't just do simple, can they?"

"Would you want them to?"

The question caught Sloane off guard. She considered it as they rounded a curve, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the canopy of autumn leaves. Three months ago, she would have insisted on simple. Simple meant predictable. Predictable meant safe. But these weren't the same men who'd offered her shelter that first night. These were her mates, her partners, her family. They'd earned the right to surprise her, to celebrate her, to show her in grand gestures what she meant to them.

"No," Sloane admitted. "I really wouldn't."

The radio crackled, and the opening chords of "Sweet Home Alabama" filled the truck. Without thinking, Sloane turned up the volume and began singing along, her voice rising with the familiar lyrics. The song had become something of an anthem for her—a celebration of finding home in the most unexpected place.

Emerson joined in immediately, their voices blending as they belted out the chorus. They sang with abandon, windows down despite the October chill, hair whipping in the mountain breeze. Sloane felt something light and joyful unfurling in her chest, a happiness so pure it almost hurt.

This was what she'd never had before—the freedom to be silly, to sing badly, to let her guard down completely. She had a best friend who knew all her secrets and chose to love her anyway. She had two mates whose emotions she could feel like a constant embrace through their bond. She had a home that was truly hers, a purpose that fulfilled her, and a future that stretched ahead bright with possibility.