Page 58 of Fate, Interrupted

My wolf has been certain about Norah since that first afternoon in her bookshop. My method of dealing with it is by putting myself in her vicinity. That’s not dealing with a problem. That’s following the pull without calling it what it is—what my father warned against, what Logan described as not thinking clearly.

They’re both right.

I’m also not leaving.

The front door opens.

Everything else is inconsequential.

Norah comes out onto the small stoop and pauses to shift the strap of her bag on her shoulder. Before she looks up, I take her in.

She’s in a loose white tank and faded cutoffs, already summer-tanned, a wide-brimmed hat flapping in her hand. The freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks aren’t hidden with any makeup. She’s totally spontaneous and carefree-looking this afternoon. Her brown hair is piled up in a knot, allowing the sun to catch and shine upon the strands of light auburn. My breath catches slightly.

She spots the truck.

Her face does the thing I’ve noticed since the first time I saw it—the open animation of a person who has decided they won’t manage their reaction. It lasts about a second before the brilliant smile follows. Then she’s coming down the steps with her easy pace looking for all the world like she hasn’t given this morning a single anxious thought.

That’s the thing about her I find most disorienting.

I push the door open and step out.

“You’re early,” she says, crossing the sidewalk toward me.

“You’re ready,” I say, because explaining why I’m ten minutes early reveals more how I feel about her than I care to get into right now.

“Only because you wouldn’t tell me where we’re going.” She stops a few feet away, looking at me with the pointed amusement of someone who came prepared. “Which, for the record, is risky behavior.”

“It’s a surprise.”

“That doesn’t make it less risky. What if I’m a killjoy and hate surprises?”

I walk around to the passenger side and open the door before she can continue.

“Get in the truck.”

She leans toward the seat and her attention drops immediately, going straight to where I knew it would.

The basket.

Her eyebrows lift in a slow arc. “Is that a picnic basket?”

“It might be.”

She straightens and looks at me, amused and warmer underneath it.

“You packed a picnic,” she says.

“You’re getting in the truck.”

She laughs, the real one, unguarded and easy, and climbs into the seat. I close the door and circle back around, and by the time I’m behind the wheel, she’s already eyeing the basket with the interest of someone who has decided it’s going to yield its secrets eventually.

“Can I open it?” she asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not there yet.”