Page 3 of Fae Devoted
Tucker arrived atMud Island Hospitality Management five minutes early, carrying a tall to-go cup from the Riverfront Café. The office was the third on the left in a row of businesses housed in the Harbor Complex and consisted of two employees who came and went as demand required. Jo handled the daylight hours, and Noreen, a Dádhe, covered the nightshift.
The management company dealt with all aspects of any Fae Touched moving to the island community, the service including everything from finding suitable housing to recommending a reliable plumber. But relocations were infrequent, so the females also fulfilled hostess and concierge duties at the Queenstown Inn, and in his she-wolf’s case, acted as a de facto den mother to incoming Ferwyn college students.
“Hey, Jacob,” Jo said from behind the room’s single desk, while focusing on her computer’s oversized screen. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“No hurry.” Tucker planted his shoulder on the doorframe, content to wait. Content to watch while he still could.
Jo’s auburn hair was piled on the top of her head, a vivid purple band binding the locks in place. She leaned down to return a folder to the bottom drawer, and the misshapen knot bobbed precariously.
He chuckled, the weight of worry on his heart suddenly lighter. Something Jo was able to do without even trying.
“What?” Her chin raised at his quiet laugh, and the messy bun drooped to the side.
Shoving off the doorjamb, he cut between the two client chairs facing her desk and reached across to give the tangled skein a gentle flick with his finger. It slid another inch toward her ear.
“Oh, that.” She rested an elbow on the polished wood and propped her chin in her hand. “It’s always getting in my way at work. I’m thinking of chopping it off.”
Tucker choked, then coughed, almost swallowing his tongue, repressing a firmno.
“Or not.” Her eyes danced with mischief.
She-wolves were world-renowned for their extraordinary hair. Commercial ads touted everything from shampoos and conditioners to vitamins and miracle creams promising that human women could achieve the same thick, lustrous manes organic in Ferwyn females.
Jo loved her hair almost as much as Tucker did, the color a glorious combination of chestnut, rust, and copper. She’d never cut it short.
“Maybe you should.” He gave a nonchalant shrug.
“I should?” A dainty crinkle formed between her brows.
“A bit scraggly looking.”
“What?” Jo straightened from her relaxed position, hand flying to the flopping bun. She yanked out the bright tie and dragged a hunk of the silken mass to within an inch of her nose. “I haven’t changed my hair products, but I did buy a new blow dryer. But that shouldn’t matter unless…maybe it runs hotter than my old one?”
“Could be.” He ducked to hide his smile.
“I haven’t noticed any difference. And didn’t you tell me a couple of days ago my hair was pretty?” Her eyes crossed as she examined the healthy strands. “Wait, is that a split-end?”
Tucker laughed, and damn, it felt good. Jo had a gift for making everyone around her happy. It was one reasonshe excelled at her job. She was good with people and great with him. He would miss her when he had to leave. Because permission or not, he was going after his brother.
Jo released her hair and sank into her chair, crossing her arms with a loud huff. “Hardy har har,” she said with a scowl that quivered suspiciously. “Funny male.”
“I try.”
“Try harder.” She grinned and flung a random pen at his head.
He easily dodged it.
Jo powered off her computer and stood, her gaze dropping to the cold drink dangling from his fingertips. “Is that smoothie for me?”
“Isn’t it always?”
“Strawberry-banana?”
He nodded. It was her favorite.
Tucker bent to retrieve Jo’s makeshift projectile and placed it with the other multi-colored pens in the ceramic coffee mug printed with the Mud Island logo of an illuminated Hernando de Soto Bridge.
“I brought you something too.” She walked the few feet to the office’s mini-refrigerator and dipped into a crouch. Her full skirt billowed, the lace hem brushing the floor as she retrieved a glass pan with a red-silicone lid. She rose with equal grace. “Baklava.”
