Page 112 of The Good Boys Club

Heart racing, feeling kinda like I was snooping and could get busted at any moment, I jumped down from the crate and crossed the dusty space to Mash’s box. Gingerly, I opened the flaps, my pulse now thumping against my windpipe. I glanced over at the loft hatch—good, still alone—and directed my phone’s torch into the container.

A sob caught in my throat. “Oh my gods.”

A pair of dried, bald sunflowers, tied together with yellow ribbon.

He’d kept them. All this time. I rifled through the rest of the stuff—some paperwork from uni, movie-ticket stubs, the sketch I’d made of our tattoo on the back of a scrap of gift wrap, recipes I’d scribbled down for him, birthday cards, a commemorative enamel pin from the Swoonfest rom-com convention I took him to, a fossil we found at my parents’ beach house one year, and a bunch of sticks and skeleton leaves. Because it wouldn’t be “Mash’s shit” without sticks and bits of old nature he’d collected.

There was a sound at the bottom of the ladder. Someone was coming. I slammed the sides of the box down and cast my eyes around the space for the decorations or something—anything—that would make me look less guilty.

“Hellooo?” a voice called up the stairs. A head appeared in the gap.

My heart leapt into my throat, relaxing a millisecond later when I saw it wasn’t Mash, and then immediately panicking again when I realised who it was.

“Oh, hi, Dyl—Dee-Dee.”

“Rita sent me to find out what’s taking so long.”

“I, uh, can’t locate the boxes.”

“That them?” She pointed to a stack of two boxes right next to the one with Mash’s shit. On the side, in huge all-cap letters, it saidHARVEST MOON DECS.

“I’d hazard a guess and say yes,” I said, trying to hide the nervous edge to my laugh.

I’d been avoiding talking to Dylan beyond the usual“Good morning, how did you sleep?”breakfast conversations.

Partly because she intimidated me. In a male-dominated world, she was phenomenally successful and unapologetically brilliant.

Partly because she held the key to a better life for me. She had the ability to say yes or no to my dream job. A chance to put my masters to good use, and to have some sway in a company not stunted by the CEO’s own romanticism.

And also partly because I could not shake the idea that Mash would be happy with her as a mate. The sensible part of my brain was screaming at me. It knew they weren’t a feasible couple, that Dylan was in love with someone else and neither of them wanted this, but underneath all of Mash’s philandering he was the most loyal person I’d ever known.

Nobody in the history of forever was more loyal than Mash.

He didn’t believe in fated mates or one true loves. Or so he said.

He did. I knew he did. Deep down.

He could be happy settled down. Hewouldbe happy with whoever he eventually mated and continued the Cassidy legacy with. Content with his perfect little family life. Surrounded by nature—trees, and lichen, and beautiful but freezing lakes, and all the fishing and hunting he could hope for. Burgers cooked by his famous burger-chef sister, and monthly shifts where he could run wild, with pack all around. Pack who loved him, and respected him for who he was, and never tried to change anything about his nature except to give him the power he deserved.

And his kids . . . his kids would be adorable. And Mash would be an exceptional dad. I’d only had to see him with Felix and Juno a handful of times to know that he’d be incredible. The kind of dad every kid could only dream of.

Mash would be happy here. I was certain of it.

And I would be happy in Remy. Because ultimately, the only thing I ever needed was to know Mash was thriving.

But I’d come here, to Howling Pines, for more than one reason, and that was to secure a better life for myself as well.

I seized my opportunity. “Hey Dee-Dee, I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you. Is now a good time?”

She smiled. “Sure. Is this about you working for Byte Tech?” I must have made ahow did you knowface because she added, “Mash might have mentioned it.”

Damn him, of course he would have. We’d chatted about how I’d approach this job application and he’d always maintained Dylan would appreciate the direct, no-pussyfooting path.

“So, what did he say, then?”

“That you work for James Bradshaw. That you’re incredible. You pulled the entire business up by the bootstraps, and I’d be a fool if I didn’t hire you. Sound about right?”

I bit back my smile. Yes, it did sound about right. That sounded exactly like something he’d say.

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