They laugh, exchange a few words I barely catch, and wander off toward the beach.
Without thinking too much about it, I undo the top buttons of my shirt and shrug it off, leaving just the black undershirt.
She tilts her head. “What are you doing?”
I don’t tell her the truth—that I’d strip down to nothing in this public place if it meant making her feel safer. Instead, I change the subject. “You going to the bonfire?”
Her brows lift. “I didn’t even know this was a thing.”
“It’s not,” I say, leaning back. “At least, not officially. Couple people decided to make it happen anyway. They’re talking about setting it up right at the cliffs—sunset start, music, the whole deal.”
I don’t mention the part that makes my jaw tighten—the thought of a crowd, open flames, people drinking too much and pushing too close to the edge.
“Sounds… lively,” she says carefully.
“You should go,” I tell her. “Meet some people. This town’s a lot nicer if you give it a chance, Sadie.”
Her gaze flickers up at me, quick and unreadable. “I’ll be busy.”
“Maybe. But if you get the time, go. It’ll be worth it.”
Mark brings our plates and sets them down with a nod. The fish is golden, steam curling off the edges, the slaw spilling out just enough to drip into the paper-lined baskets.
She takes a bite, closes her eyes for half a second, and I can see some of the tension ease from her shoulders.
We eat in companionable silence after that, the sound of the waves and the occasional gull filling the gaps. I don’t push her to talk more about Max, or the pack, or why the sight of a uniform makes her want to bolt. Not yet.
But I file it away, every detail. Because whatever her past is, it’s not done with her. And I have the feeling neither am I.
CHAPTER 12
Shepard
I’m halfway through the same paperback I’ve been reading for a month—one of those historical biographies that everyone else would find dry, but I like the quiet rhythm of it—when my front door slams open.
Gus lifts his head from the rug with a low chuff, ears twitching. I dog-ear my page, set the book down, and glance toward the doorway just in time to see Boone stride in like a storm cloud with legs.
“Is it true?”
That’s all he says. No hello, no explanation—just that sharp demand, the kind that already has my hackles halfway up because Boone doesn’t get like this unless something’s seriously wrong.
I lean back against the sofa arm. “Is what true?”
“That Gabe’s got a thing for Sadie.” The words come out clipped, his jaw tight enough to crack a molar.
Ah. It’s about that.
I keep my tone neutral. “Where’d you hear that?”
His expression darkens. “Where do you think? McAllister told Fiona, who told Cora, who told Sam, who told Ellie, who told Ryan?—”
“And now,” I finish for him, “the whole damn town’s convinced one of our packmates is chasing the new muralist.”
Boone throws up his hands. “Exactly.”
It’s ridiculous how fast word travels here. Driftwood Cove might be spread out along the coast, but you so much as sneeze in front of the wrong person and it’s at the diner before your hand’s back in your pocket.
McAllister’s is basically the epicenter—old man Sam can’t help himself when he’s got a fresh scrap of gossip to dangle, and Fiona at the bakery’s just as bad. From there, it’s a straight shot to the rest of the town’s ears.
