Page 49 of Hunter Moon

His brother practically wheezed a laugh, picking up a basket from the wheely cart behind the table for us. Then Rowan leaned in, a tiny frown on his face. “You know, Groves don’t have to stand in line. You could’ve just come and grabbed one, Asp.”

Aspen laughed loudly, drawing looks, fearless as ever to be the center of attention—so long as that center didn’t have to make all the decisions. He slung his arm around my shoulder. “Oh no, we’re doing today completely by the books. No special privileges for me.”

As good humored as he was being about it, I couldn’t help thinking this was just another way for Aspen to punish himself. He didn’t trust that he had a stake in the orchard anymore, or in the family, or in the pack.

I couldn’t leave that to stand.

“Completely by the books?” I asked under my breath.

Aspen looked down at me then, his face close to mine, and considered me for a second. My lips twitched, and I wanted to lean in, brush my nose against his chin, take a deep breath of his woodsy scent.

He must’ve seen some part of that, because his grin was back and he swung his gaze back to his little brother. “Well, okay. Not completely. We’re still going to sneak off and make out against a tree, so—” He shrugged.

Rowan flushed red. “Please, do not traumatize any small children.”

Aspen turned us away, still laughing, and walked off the wooden porch toward the rows of apple trees. “They’ll never catch us!”

I pressed into his side as we walked down the hill from the wooden building at the top. The scent of smooshy apples under trees, sharp and astringent, and the sounds of kids laughing as they chased each other through the rows were so familiar. But I hadn’t been here in years. It hadn’t been my spot—not without Aspen.

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” I muttered, dropping my head against his shoulder.

I looked up at him, and he’d tucked his chin to stare down into my eyes. “Being able to outrun small children?”

I bit my lip against another grin. “No, the other thing.”

“Oooh, yeah.” He leaned in then, his lips a quick pressure against my own, a dramatic smack of his lips as he pulled away. “Yeah, no. We’re absolutely making out under a tree.”

29

Aspen

Being around Brook again, but not being allowed to touch him every way I wanted to, was torture. Don’t get me wrong, it was torture I had earned, and I wasn’t going to whine about it. Even if I hadn’t earned it, what Brook needed was more important than what I wanted.

But it was still hard.

The wolf was dancing around in my head, begging me to just jump on him, wrap our arms around him, and take care of him forever. If only human lives were as simple as wolf lives.

But, I reminded the wolf,he’s here, he’s with us, and he’s already made jokes about making out with us.

Maybe he actually did want to kiss us. Me.

No matter how much my feral instincts were trying to rebel, split away and revert to being a wild wolf who didn’t have to deal with silly things like family struggles, I was still just one guy. The wolf and I were part of the same person, and I needed to stop letting myself see it any other way.

We wandered through the trees, planted in sections of different varieties, some already finished growing and dormant for the year, and some still full of fruit. Without even discussing it, we headed in the same direction—toward not just a section of trees still covered with fruit, but Brook’s favorite kind.

It was probably sacrilege for someone who’d been born and raised in Grovetown, let alone an actual member of the Grove family, but I’d never been too interested in apples. As a kid, I’d thought they were good for baked desserts, and not much else. As a teenager, I’d openly made fun of the family business. The pack business, really, given how many members of the pack were employed by the grove, between growing, harvesting, and production. Grove hard cider was pretty big in Virginia, unless something had changed in the time I was gone, and I couldn’t imagine Junie letting that happen.

The result of my indifference was that whenever Brook and I had gone apple picking—looking for actual apples and not just a convenient, quiet spot to make out—we ended up with a whole basket of green ones. That was the kind everyone in the Morgan family liked best, so I’d enjoyed providing more than I ever could have enjoyed the spoils of the hunt.

It felt like a dream, following Brook between trees, through section after section, far off on our own, to one of the outlying spots with just green apples all around. The tourists almost never went that far out, so the sweeter varieties were planted closer to the barn. The sour green ones, though, those were best for a lot of the processing and baking we did.

And that farthest section of them had always been where Brook and I would go to pick.

Or really, for me to lay a blanket across the grass, and us to while away entire afternoons staring at the sky, and talking, and kissing.

I hadn’t brought a blanket this time, because I wanted Brook to feel comfortable about my intentions. I almost wished I had. Just staring up at the clouds sounded nice.

Instead, I held out the basket, motioning to a tree still laden with fruit. “Here?”

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