Page 43 of Wrestling With Werewolves

I need to talk to him about what happened. He tried, and I was too upset and embarrassed to have the conversation. But I’ve got a little distance. I don’t want it to fester. Harmony is the goal.

Hana trots up to me, the skyball tucked under her toned arm. She smirks at me. “You look very thoughtful all of a sudden, Lola. Why do I get the sense you’re about to make some huge move?”

I snort. “Huge move? No. I need to apologize because I already made a move.”

Her eyes go wide as her mouth drops open. She zips it partially closed and chuckles. “Well, if you ever want to talk about whatever it was, I’m here.”

“Thank you,” I say effusively, dipping my head respectfully in the way of her people. “But I need to talk with him first.”

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to kick some tiny butts a little while longer.”

Out of nowhere, a fuzzy pegasus child zooms out of the sky, landing on Hana’s humanoid upper half with a battle cry. She pretends to be shocked and staggers to the side as the rest of the younglings attack her, grasping for the skyball.

I’d laugh at their adorable antics, but nerves clang in my stomach at the idea of seeing Richard. I’m not one to partake in disagreements and drama—I’ve seen far too much of that living in Santa Alaya. I don’t want that for myself, and that’s a decision I can actually make. While I’m here, at least.

Gritting my teeth, I slip my hands into my back pockets and head toward Richard’s place to see if he’s there.

Time to face the music.

Fifteen minutes later, I worry I’m making a mistake. My hand is lifted to knock at Richard’s door. I’ve been standing here for at least five minutes, heart racing, mouth dry as a desert, staring at the chunky wooden surface. The guitar across my back that I brought for emotional support is making me sweat.

I move my hand and slap my cheek, muttering to myself, “C’mon, Lola. You’ve got this, girl.”

No sooner have I said the words, the door swings open, and Richard appears in the doorway with a smile. He’s got a kitchen towel in one hand, but he throws it over his shoulder and leans into the doorframe, one big arm reaching up to grip the top of the frame. He cocks his head to the side and grins at me, fangs peeking out from his beautiful lips.

I kissed those lips. Almost. And they did not kiss me back.

“You gonna keep standing on my stoop talking to yourself? Or would you like to come in?”

Fucking moons. Of course if he was home he’d have heard me standing out here. I call on literal decades of princess power to plaster a smile on my face and stride under his arm, into the giant open space.

He’s at my back, a quiet, dominant presence as I walk to the kitchen. The countertop is littered with ingredients. He was cooking. Moons, I’ve interrupted dinner. Maybe he was cooking for someone. Shit, maybe he’s got a fucking date. Oh gods. I resist the urge to run. Instead, I sit on one of the industrial metal stools and clear my throat.

He rounds the island and grabs a handful of prepared tamales from the countertop. The familiar scent of corn masa takes me right home to Santa Alaya. I can almost hear music echoing over the bay as I sit on the boardwalk and share a meal with my guards.

Richard glances at me as he stands the tamales upright in a steamer on his stovetop. “I’m cooking pork tamales. I was planning to bring them to you. Lucky that you came to me first.”

Oh goddess. How does everything he say manage to sound so sexual?

I clear my throat a second time. “That’s thoughtful, thank you. I wanted to apologize for last night and making things awkward. I’m missing home and Papá and Lupe and Leo and…I got carried away.” I glance up at him. “I’ve known you my whole life, and I crossed a line. I’m sorry.”

It feels wrong to apologize for something that felt so right in the moment. But it was one-sided, even if I didn’t think it was. Maybe the intense pull I’ve been feeling this entire time is really just admiration for someone I’ve known forever.

Richard remains quiet until the tamale steamer is full. His dark brows furrow in the middle when he puts the lid on the pot and looks over at me. “You have nothing to apologize for, Lola.”

“I do,” I press. “You didn’t ask for me to?—”

“I was on top of you, naked,” he reminds me with a lift of one dark brow.

I could scream from the heat that sears through me at that memory. I try desperately to wave it away. “I know, but?—”

He turns from the stove, rounds the island, and reaches a hand out for me. “My head and heart have been at war, Lola. I want to talk to you about that, but before we get into a conversation that heavy, let’s dance. Then I want to feed you. And then we can have a conversation we desperately need to have.”

Oh moons.

“Yes,” I practically moan, taking his hand and sliding off the stool.

Richard guides me to the center of the living room and glances up, clearing his throat. On cue, the treehouse moves all the furniture to the far corners of the room, clearing a spot for us. When the music comes on, I could cry at how beautiful it is.

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