Page 11 of If Only In Our Dreams

“I told her I’m too busy,” I replied, more than a little shocked that this conversation was going so well. Especially because we were airing out the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me.

“And she…?” Robin waited.

“Bought me the audiobooks.”

“This is gold,” Robin’s eyes were dancing. “Sorry, not to be an asshole or anything. But—shit dude. Look at you! Indoctrinating a bunch of old ladies into your gay-werewolf-porn cult.”

“I know.”

Robin slid a few inches closer. Close enough I could feel his heat, his thigh only a few scant centimeters from mine. “Your books are my favorite,” Robin confessed after a second, voice dropping low and personal and sweet. “For the record.”

“Thank you,” my voice cracked a little. “They bring me joy,” I frowned. “Broughtme joy,” I corrected. “Before my mother ruined them.”

“That’s good.” Robin’s eyes flickered dark for only a moment before the light bled back in. “Joy is good.”

“It is.” I swallowed the lump in my throat, sure that now that my humiliating story was over, the easy camaraderie would end. I’d never just…conversed with someone else like this. Effortlessly. It felt like a fluke.

“Music used to do that for me,” Robin told me, a sad little twitch to his lips.

“Yeah?” My heart ached for him then, as I watched a metaphorical shadow flicker over his face. The dark crept forward before flitting away just as quickly.

“You know that part when Beckett left his pack?” Robin changed the subject deftly, obviously not ready to delve deeper into the topic of music. “In your last book,” he added, in case I didn’t remember my own books. Which I thought was…adorable.

I didn’t mind the question. It wasn’t often I got to openly talk about my characters.

Now that my mother and her friends had decided my work was hot shit, I had made myself a vow that I wouldneverreveal my identity. It was far too late for that. Old women—that I’d known since I was born—were getting off on my werewolf porn.

I would die before I let anyone know that “little Ben Montgomery” was responsible for the epidemic of primal kink in Belleville.

Last week, I’d seen Martha Berry—one of my mother’s friends—growlat her husband while I was at the grocery store. Playfully yes, but…no.Nope. I was still doing my best not to think about it.

And that wasn’t the first time either. Trent, my younger brother, had told me that he’d had to chase a few college-age kids off of the tree farm he ran because they’d been playing wolves in the woods. Just thethoughtof that made my face hot all over again.

“Yes,” I replied to Robin, hoping I hadn’t paused too long—remembering Martha and the horrors that my mother’s book club had bestowed upon our small mountain town. “I do.”

Beckett’s story was near and dear to me. While it wasn’t exactly what had happened to me, I could relate to his need to leave. To provide for his family while he kept them safe from a distance. Because that was what he’d done. In the next installment of the series, I planned to let Beckett meet his end. It’d be a noble death, and a fitting end for a character drenched in tragedy.

“He gets to go back, right?” Robin asked, voice oddly small.

“What?” I blinked, surprised.

“In the next book?” He waited patiently, green eyes beseeching. Like he wasn’t asking for insider information that literally no one, not even my agent, knew yet. “He gets to go home?”

“I…” I didn’t want to tell him I planned to kill Beckett. So instead, I just winked and shrugged, doing my best to play it cool—even though the movement felt odd and unnatural on my face. “You’ll see?”

“Bitch,” Robin thwacked my arm. I was so surprised all I could do was laugh. “Tell me right now or I swear to god I’ll?—”

“You’ll what?” I asked, cheeks hurting from the force of my grin. “Paint my nails?”

Woah. I had not expected something so smooth or flirty to come out of my mouth.

“Yes.” Robin looked as surprised as I felt by my words. “I will. I’ll fucking paint your nails. And that’s athreat.”

“Uh-huh,” I agreed, hot all over. “To be an effective threat it’d have to befrightening.”

Robin cocked his head. “Most men that look like you would be terrified,” he tried to convince me.

“Of nail polish?”

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