Dew’s stomach fluttered like the pages in a well-used hardcover. “Probably?”
“Go for it. What can you lose?”
Nothing, Dew thought. Everything. S’s messages were the one spark of passion and adventure in her life. Dew had never done anything, it sometimes felt. She’d never loved anyone. Never given herself completely to anyone. But his poems, his letters—they made her feel things deep inside. They made her skin feel too tight for her body, made her heart beat faster. They did all those things to her that happened for the heroines in romance novels, things that she’d believed impossible for real life people outside the pages of her books.
So yeah, everything could be lost. Without S’s messages, Dew would lose her very belief in the possibility of something beyond her quiet life. Something with clutching embraces, deep breathing. She imagined how her first time would be, with someone like S—all passion, candlelight. Decadent hotels in big cities, or romantic walks along a riverbank while fireflies glowed with approval. Kisses in front of a warm fireplace in a remote cabin in the mountains….
“Oh, babes. You’ve got it bad,” Jillian said. “What did he send last time? Poem or letter?”
“A poem,” Dew said. “It was beautiful.”
“No changing your mind on sharing it with me?” Jillian asked, a teasing note in her voice.
She knew Dew wouldn’t share it—Dew had early on proclaimed S’s notes private correspondence, not open for dissemination or analytical scrutiny from even her best friend. Jillian had pressed, at first, but eventually became resigned to the fact that Dew was sticking by her decision to keep S’s missives to herself. It helped that occasionally, Dew would share a couple of swoon-worthy lines from one of his poems.
The last poem he’d sent? Dew had already memorized it because of the way it blazed through her mind.
The peaks and valleys of the mind—
In solitude they grow synonymous
With your body—delights of skin and salt
The taste, the scent of rounded nights
The curve of thighs
That come and come again.
This is a cruel sweet separation
Inviting untoward thoughts, rigid until release.
Dew might be innocent in theory, but she knew exactly what that poem was saying. Even thinking of it now had her feeling flushed.
Jillian clucked her tongue, bringing Dew back to the present. “Why don’t you just hunt this guy down? We have his address.”
“No way,” Dew said. “Breach of privacy. We’re happy with what we have, exchanging notes like we do. It’s exciting, passionate. He said this would be better as a relationship of letters.”
“But he did say ‘relationship,’ right?” Jillian asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Honey,” Jillian said. “In my experiences with both men and women, a relationship reaches a point where it has to either blossom, or wither. Sorry for the poetic language, but it’s the best analogy I can come up with. Maybe he’s scared for some reason, and a little nudge from you could bring about the beginning of something great.”
Dew shook her head, feeling her heart thud uncomfortably in her chest at the very thought of pushing S on their relationship, or whatever the heck this was. She wasn’t a pushy person and she had no desire to be.
Jillian reached over and grabbed her in a half hug, and Dew hugged her back, breathing in Jillian’s faint perfume.
“You do whatever you’re comfortable with, okay, babes?” Jillian said. “Don’t listen to a heavy-handed old lady.”
Dew snorted. Jillian was a little over fifty—not old at all.
Jillian went on, “If it feels best to just write to him for now, then do that. And if you need to talk, you know I’m always willing to listen.”
“Thank you,” Dew said, grinning at her friend.
“But please, please tell me when he writes more sexy stuff. I need to live vicariously through you, okay?”
Dew laughed. “You know I’ll tell you when I hear from him. Half the time you find his envelopes before I do.”
“Even his handwriting on the outside of the envelopes is sexy. Gives me a thrill every time.”
“Same, girl.”
A young woman walked into the library, so Dew and Jillian returned to different tasks, break time over. Dew worked on shelving recent returns, grateful for the way she could let her mind wander as she worked. S’s poetry played in her mind, the subtle eroticism of every line a beacon to delights Dew had never had the opportunity to experience.
His last poem had summed up their relationship perfectly: a cruel sweet separation.
And Dew could appreciate the pain and beauty of those words, as much as she could appreciate their permanence. He was telling her something. This was how it would always be.
2
Stetson stumbled forward as Jase dodged his latest strike. Recovering quickly, he lifted his arm to block Jase’s jab.
Fists flew, a dancing exchange lit by lanterns spaced around the fighting ring. The soundtrack to the fight came from Damien Buenevista’s old radio, which he’d put on a classic rock station. Stetson would’ve preferred country. Much better to throw punches to the sounds of misery coming from twanging guitars.
Jase’s right hook came fast. Stetson dodged, but not fast enough to escape the clip to his chin. His teeth snapped down and he tasted blood on his tongue. Rage pulsed through him. He reined it in, always did. Easy, cowboy.
A roar rose up from the men standing around watching the fight. Trapped, Stetson’s inner jaguar said.
No, they’re friends, Stetson said, a firm reminder. He’d spent hours training as an Enforcer to know friend from foe, even when his inner animal got confused. Even when his human side got confused.
The jaguar side of him didn’t appreciate large groups of people fighting, didn’t like the shouts of bloodlust. But as Jase’s second, it was Stetson’s job to join in on the recreational fighting on occasion. Stetson’s participation solidified Jase’s position, and Stetson’s, too. And for a pride of shifters constantly teetering on the steep edges of anarchy, position was everything. Two of the newest members to the pride, a pair of grizzlies, seemed intent on fighting their way up in the rankings. The Cruthers brothers—Weston and Dallas. A fight like this one with Jase could have them thinking twice before throwing their hats into the ring.
Stetson countered Jase’s right hook with a jab of his own, and caught his alpha in the jaw.
Jase shook his head, smiled, his mismatched green and gold eyes showing challenge and amusement.
See, Stetson said to himself. Not an enemy, a friend.
They exchanged a few more blows, none of them landing hard. More a show of a fight than anything else. When Stetson got tired of it, he let Jase knock him down and he stayed put to the sounds of alternating cheers and groans from the group of assembled shifters.
Jase held out a hand to help Stetson up, and Stetson took it. Once he was standing, the two of them shook hands.
“You threw that fight in the end,” Jase said, quiet enough only Stetson would be able to hear.
“If I won, I might have to be alpha,” Stetson said carefully over his split lip.