Or perhaps it was merely a physiological reaction to something unrelated. Like how her nipples got hard on cold mornings when she undressed for her shower, or when she sat too close to the air conditioning vent in the library office.
“You do want me,” she whispered.
He looked to the side, pulled his hat a little lower on his head. She wanted to knock that hat into the pond so she could see his eyes.
“I thought maybe you hated me, that you don’t like the way I look,” she said.
He scoffed. “Nothing like that.”
“So then, maybe we should get to know each other,” she said. Naked, she thought. They should get to know each other without their clothes on. His muscles were obvious beneath the thermal long-sleeved shirt he wore with his low-slung jeans. Broad shoulders and a wide chest that tapered slightly toward his waist. He was broad and muscular, but in a long, powerful way, not blocky like some of the other guys here.
She caught a flash of his yellow eyes beneath the brim of his hat.
Her heart stuttered, but she stepped closer to him anyway. She held out the book, waited for him to take it. When he didn’t, she set it on the ground.
“Here’s the stupid book that I thought was so important to get to you. It was my fault it wasn’t in the Books to Deliver box, because I’d written you a letter. I thought to bring it myself and drop it in your mailbox. I can’t believe I was such an idiot.”
“Not an idiot,” he said. “You wanted to make it right. But I could’ve waited.”
Yes, he could’ve waited for that book. Just like she was waiting—waiting for him to make some kind of move on her. Darn it, she deserved answers. “Why won’t you look at me? I am so tired of this…this sexy air of mystery.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Her face felt hot. She couldn’t believe she’d said that. Sexy air of mystery? It was the truth, but she hadn’t need to share it.
“Seriously,” she said, hoping to bluster past the whole sexy air of mystery thing. “Talk to me.”
“Dew,” he said, his voice low and rumbling. His yellow eyes flashed in her direction again.
Finally. “Yes?”
“We shouldn’t.”
And then her heart fell. “But all those poems you wrote. You talked about peaks and valleys, delights of skin and salt. Your taste will linger on my lips. Stetson, you wrote those things. To me! And now you’re saying you don’t want me? Why don’t you want me?”
He turned his golden eyes to her then, and she saw the conflict raging within them. “I’m not saying I don’t want you, Dew. That would be a lie.”
He pushed forward from the tree where he’d been leaning. Bending down, he picked up the book and then straightened to stalk closer to her. She knew on an intellectual level that the men here were not human, and logic followed that Stetson, too, was not human. Heck, she’d seen that big old bear surrounded by a white light, and then a naked man had stood in its place. Blythe had confirmed it—this place was a prison for shapeshifters.
And Dew had felt the invisible wall with her own hands.
So she knew magic existed.
So no, he probably wasn’t one hundred percent human. And she found herself one hundred percent okay with that.
Stetson stopped two feet away from her. Twenty-four inches. She could reach forward and touch the sturdy build of his chest—she bet he’d be just as firm as that damn invisible wall.
He said, “Did Blythe and Jase tell you, yet, what this place is for?”
Dew nodded. “Yes.”
“So you know it’s a prison,” Stetson said. “The wall is there for a reason—it’s to keep all us bad shifters from leaving.”
“But Jase and Blythe can get out,” Dew began.
“They’re a different case.” Stetson shook his head. His eyes continued to blaze like the center of a fire as he looked at her. “Why the fuck didn’t you listen when I told you not to come forward?”
“Don’t swear at me,” Dew said.
“Don’t—what?”
She put her hands on her hips. “I’ve seen your verses, Stetson, and I know you’re capable of better language. So use it.”
His lips twitched, and his darkly stubbled jaw dimpled. Then he restrained his features once more.
Dew held in a sigh. She’d been so close to seeing him smile. It grated on her nerves that the smile was nearly earned because he was laughing at her, but still, she wouldn’t mind seeing him grin.
He took another step forward, leaving only about six inches of space between them. She had to crane her neck to look into his face. His fingers were warm on her cheek as he brushed a flyaway bit of hair behind her ear.
“Dew,” he whispered, the syllable guttural. “You make me forget my words.”
The blazing gold of his eyes pinned her in place. She raised her hands to his waist, to yank him toward her, to ask wordlessly for the contact she craved.
But before she could even touch him, he was gone, and her fists closed on emptiness.
Dew sat by the pond for a long while, thinking. When her brain told her what her heart still refused to acknowledge—that Stetson wasn’t the man for her—she got up and returned to the dump area of the Junkyard.
It was nearly dark, and cold enough that Dew wondered if it would snow. By the time she made it to the van where she was staying, she smelled grilling meat and heard conversation coming from nearby, so she kept walking. Soon, she reached an area with a small fire pit with several lawn chairs, plastic crates, and tree stumps surrounding it for seating.
There, Blythe sat in a lawn chair, a mason jar full of liquid in her hand. A couple of the muscular giants that Dew didn’t know were talking to Blythe, but when Blythe saw Dew approaching, she waved the giants away and pointed to the empty lawn chair next to her.
“How’d it go?” Blythe asked.
“About the same.” Dew flopped onto the lawn chair and accepted the mason jar. The liquid smelled sharply of alcohol.
“You okay?” Blythe asked.
“Yes,” Dew said. She took a sip from the mason jar and coughed. Dang, that burned going down. But she felt warmer now. She had a little more courage. Handing the jar back to Blythe, she said, “And yes, I want to do it.”
“Do what?”
Blythe took a small sip from the jar before holding it out to Dew again.
Dew shook her head. She wasn’t much of a drinker. “I want to meet the guys. Find a mate. Get the heck out of this place.”
“Well, I can help you with that,” Blythe said. “I’ve already got a plan. Let’s have some dinner and I’ll tell you all about it.”
10
Stetson was back at the lake. This would be his home now, he supposed. He'd dragged over a pick-up truck with a camper on the back, which would be just long enough for him to sleep in. He threw a couple of blankets in there, and one of the pillows from his den. The pillow had Dew's scent on it. Maybe he would go to bed early tonight, so he could hug it like a love-addled teenager.
No, what he should really do was dunk it in the lake.
The same went for the letter he’d found inside his library book. That damn book was the whole reason Dew had brought herself here. Yet he didn’t toss it. He didn’t open it, either.