Page 17 of Her Convict Wolf

Meredith waits silently, watching me with shrewd eyes.

“I’m her bodyguard,” I tell her, sensing that only the truth will do.

“Bodyguard?” she repeats.

“That’s right.” I nod my head respectfully at the older shifter. “So, if it’s all right with you, I’ll just sit quietly in the corner, mind my own business and keep an eye on things.”

Meredith’s attention darts to Emory, whose eyes are wide with uncertainty.

“Is that right, Tiana?” she says.

Tiana.My angel has a new name to go with her new identity. Of course, she does.

“Yes, that’s right, he’s a good guy,” Emory says.

“O-kay.” Meredith draws out the word and I can almost hear the cogs of her brain turning. “In that case, you get a coffee on the house. How do you like it?”

“Strong and black,” I tell her, getting the feeling that I just won an important battle. I take a seat at the least obtrusive table possible.

A few minutes later, Meredith dumps my coffee in front of me. “How long have you known Tiana?” she demands.

“Nearly all her life,” I say, with no hesitation. And tense as this moment is, my chest warms at the thought. “She needs me here. She’s in a lot of danger.”

“Figures.” Meredith looks me up and down. “You look like a big strong wolf.”

“I was her father’s head bodyguard.”

She gives a grunt of approval.

“You got anyone else who can cook for you?” I ask.

She sighs. “Not like Tiana. But people come and go a lot here. I’m lucky to have had her this long.”

We exchange a look, then I head out the back to check on Emory.

And my heart just about stops. Because there she is, doing what she was meant to do. She’s wearing a blue-and-white-striped apron and a chef’s hat. And she’s pulling things out of the fridge and laying them on the counter. She’s a chef, a real chef, I think, and a fantasy pops up in my head of her running a big fancy restaurant, with a whole team of staff working for her.

There’s a weird feeling in my chest—part pain, part pride for her. I make a promise, right here and now, that I’ll help her get her dreams.

“Need a hand?” I say.

She whips around. She didn’t hear me coming. I’m light on my feet when I need to be.

“I’m just doing salad prep,” she says.

I shrug. “I’m good at chopping. I can even handle the onions if you like?” I take in her heavy eye make-up, wondering how she usually handles it.

“Oh, that would be great. I usually get in a real mess.”

Truth is, I hate the sting of onions, too. But I’ll be glad if I can save her the discomfort. I get her to explain how to chop up the pesky critters without screwing them up, and I get to work.

Five minutes later, my eyes are burning like hell. But in front of me is a pile of perfectly minced onion flesh.

“Oh, wow, you’re real fast,” Emory exclaims. Then she tilts her head and fixes me with a mock-serious look. “Didn’t mean to make you cry, though.”

I rub my knuckle in my eyes. “It’s okay. Even tough guys cry sometimes—” I break off. “Where didthatcome from?”

She laughs. “You used to say it to me when I was crying. My dad always said tears were a sign of weakness, but you convinced me that it takes a strong person to show their emotions.”

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