Page 17 of Wolf Fated

But not Mitch. I can’t shake the feeling he can see into my soul and come away unflinching.

I’m flayed. Bared. But he makes no remark. Simply sees and does the very opposite of what I expect.

“Noted,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly in a way that sends a shiver of awareness rippling down my spine. “I would like to say I enjoyed it very much and don’t think it was a mistake. That being said, I’d still like to get you breakfast before I show you around town. And Sally will still also want to know you made it through the night in one piece.”

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in subject, but I don’t protest as he ushers me to the door, his large hand resting at the small of my back in a gesture that is equal parts comforting and possessive.

If any other man touched me like that, I would hate it and move away. But with Mitch…I…don’t hate it.

As we make our way to his police cruiser, I notice the impressive bulge tenting the front of his uniform pants, a testament to his arousal. That can’t be comfortable. I quickly avert my gaze, before I offer to do something about it because if I’m honest with myself, my palms are itching with the need to touch.

Bad, Sarah. Bad.

The drive to Sally’s diner is a blur, the quaint scenery of Willowbrook passing by in a kaleidoscope of colors and textures. I’m hyper-aware of Mitch’s presence beside me, of the way his scent permeates the very air around us. How I’m even noticing his scent. I have to resist the urge to squirm in my seat, to alleviate the ache that has taken root deep between my thighs.

As we pull into the diner’s parking lot, I can’t help but observe the curious glances from passersby, their gazes lingering on the sight of me in the passenger seat of the sheriff’s cruiser. A flush of self-consciousness washes over me. Everyone seems to know who I am. I guess anyone new in a small country town would stand out. Especially one being driven around in a police cruiser.

Mitch doesn’t seem to notice or care about the scrutiny. With a gentleness that belies his imposing stature, he helps me from the vehicle, his palm warm and reassuring against the small of my back.

As we approach the diner’s entrance, the haunting sound of wolves howling drifts through the crisp mountain air. I stop when I stand to listen. “Wolves?” I murmur, glancing toward the treeline with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity.

Mitch nods, his expression unreadable. “There’s a sizable population in these forests. But you needn’t worry. Just steer clear of the woods, and you’ll be perfectly safe.”

I file away the warning for future reference as he ushers me through the diner’s entrance and into the warm, welcoming embrace of Sally’s establishment.

The moment we step inside, Sally’s warm smile envelops us, her expression one of genuine delight as she takes in the sight of us together.

“Well, well,” she croons, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I see you have wasted no time keeping her in your sights, Sheriff.”

There’s an undercurrent of teasing in her tone, a subtle nudge that implies a deeper meaning lurking beneath the surface. And as Mitch chuckles in response, shooting her a wry grin, I think I’m missing out on some private joke, some unspoken understanding that everyone seems privy to but me.

Except for one thing–the way Mitch looked at me, the naked longing that had burned in those molten depths as he uttered that single, earth-shattering word.

Mate.

The memory sends a shiver of awareness down my spine, and I quickly push it aside, determined not to dwell on the implications of something that could never be more than a fleeting fancy.

As Sally whisks us to a cozy booth near the back of the diner, I find myself relaxing into the familiar surroundings as though I’m as comfortable here as one of the locals. Mitch slides into the seat across from me, his large body taking up most of the bench.

“Did you always want to be a reporter?” he asks, his voice low and resonant in a way that sends a shiver of awareness racing down my spine.

I blink, caught off guard, but his gaze blooms with open curiosity. He really wants to know. “Ever since I was a little girl.” And then words tumble from my lips and I can’t keep them in the same way I couldn’t stop them slipping through before. I want to tell him. Want him to know about myself. “I’ve always loved to write, to capture the world around me and distill it into words on a page. Being a reporter just seemed like the natural progression, a way to marry my passion with a steady paycheck.”

Mitch listens intently, his expression one of rapt attention as I regale him with the details of my career aspirations, my dreams of one day penning a bestselling novel.

“But that’s still a ways off,” I admit with a rueful chuckle. “It’s not easy to make a living as a writer, at least not at first. That’s why I chose journalism–it allowed me to hone my craft while still earning a decent wage.”

As the words leave my lips, I’m struck by a sudden pang of wistfulness, a longing for the life I had once envisioned for myself. Mark and I had a plan. I would work while he studied and once he had his degree and started to work, I would cut down to part time work and begin my novel. That dream has gone up in flames.

“I would love to read a book you wrote,” Mitch says.

My head snaps up. I’d often chatted to Mark about my ideas, but he never really responded about anything concrete. He’d smile, but his eyes would always have a far-away look in them and I knew he wasn’t really interested so I never even told him what my story would be about.

I put that down to him not really understanding the urge to write. Not many people do. The thought of it sounds good, but you have to have gumption to pen word after word, day after day. Mark certainly never looked at me with the same eagerness spread across Mitch’s face. “You would?”

His brows rise, as though he finds my surprise a surprise to him. “Of course! I’d probably pester to read it as soon as you got a new chapter down. I mean, I know you’d want to polish it before you handed anything over, but I’d like to think we could talk things through if you got stuck on any plot points.”

I search his face for any trace of a lie, but find nothing but openness. He’s serious. He’s really serious. I’m both flattered. And confused. “You mean that.”

---