Page 3 of Sold Rejected Mate
“No fucking way,” I laugh, giddy.
But the problem is that I don’t start climbing right away, too caught up in the fact that it actually worked.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the big one snarls as he yanks me down off the wall with rough hands, dragging me across the asphalt so hard, I lose a sneaker in the struggle.
As he shoves me into the SUV, he leans down, the smell of gasoline sticking to him like a horrible aftershave, his blue eyes shining dangerously on me. “I told you not to run.”
Chapter 2 - Lachlan
I arrive, as I always do, five minutes late to my parents’ place.
First, because I want to spend as little time as I can in their presence, and five minutes is the exact amount of time I can overshoot without my mother giving me a lecture on the importance of punctuality.
And second, because I woke up late this morning with a woman in my bed, and it took me longer than I thought it would to be rid of her gracefully. I woke her up with coffee, ordered her a car to take her home, and it wasn’t until I was basically shuffling her out the door that she finally realized I wanted her to go.
It’s taken me some time to carefully straddle the line between being polite and gracious with the women who come through my door and making them think I’m falling in love with them.
I’m never falling in love with them, is the thing. But I’ve learned from experience that it’s not worth trying to tell them that. When you tell a woman you have no intentions of falling in love or doing a long-term thing, they either see it as a challenge or think you’re a total asshole.
And honestly, the latter is justified.
“Lachlan,” my father greets in his droll voice as he opens the door. It’s the way he talks to everyone, about everything. Whether he was greeting me or the queen of England, he would use the same tone.
Then, his eyes skip down to my leather jacket, and he sighs. “Your mother isn’t going to like that.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say, handing him the obligatory bottle of wine, though he and I both know they won’t drink it. They’ll keep it and continue the cycle by taking it and pawning it off on someone else as a housewarming gift. In fact, I’ve received two bottles of wine back thatIgave tothem. I’ve been keeping track in my notes app.
“Thank you,” he says, taking the vintage red by the bottom and the neck, the way that everyone seems to carry wine bottles. “At least she’ll appreciate the drink.”
A lie, but it doesn’t matter.
My father backs out of the doorway and allows me entrance into their massive home. Any other day of the week, he wouldn’t be the one responding to the doorbell—that privilege would be the butler’s. Same guy they had when I was a kid, back when this was my house, too.
But it’s Sunday. And my parents may be filthy rich, dangerously out of touch, and complete assholes to their staff, but they’re not barbarians. Nobody has to work on Sunday. Unless they’re going somewhere and need the driver, but that’s beside the point.
I follow my father, like I do every Sunday, to the dining room, where my mother is setting out the final dishes. All prepared by the cook.
“Thanks for cooking, Mom,” I say, stopping to peck her on the cheek. “It looks great.”
“Of course, honey,” she says, even though the most she did to “cook” was reheat the stuff in the oven per the cook’s instructions. “Thank you for coming—oh, and thank you for the wine. You always bring the best reds.”
She takes it and decidedly does not pop it open for us to enjoy, instead tucking it away somewhere in the kitchen. I sit down at the table, and a moment later, my father is cutting into a roast chicken with lemon and basil, delivering thick slices to our plates. There are au gratin potatoes, asparagus with fresh herbs, and a lemon pie for dessert. This is what my mother calls a “low-key” dinner.
I’m not even three bites in when she starts.
“I saw Betty Rae at the pack luncheon the other day,” she says, lifting her eyes to me as she takes a tiny bite of asparagus.
“That’s nice,” I say, hoping it will keep her from finishing the idea, but she nods and continues.
“Well, she mentioned her granddaughter has yet to hear from you,” Mom says, giving me a knowing look. “And she’s been waiting forweeks.”
I bite my tongue, keep myself from saying,You can tell Betty Rae her granddaughter can keep on waiting, but I don’t. It won’t be worth it. No matter how many times I try to tell her that I’m not interested in getting married, she doesn’t listen.
And it’s not like I can tell her the truth. About the one who got away, about a girl who would never receive my parents’ blessing. A girl who disappeared a long time ago, and whom I’ll never see again.
“I’ve been pretty busy, Mom,” I say instead, raising my eyebrows at her. “With the fires.”
Xeran Sorel—one of my best friends, and now the pack’s alpha supreme—came back to town a few months ago. Got the group back together, got us back in the field fighting the wildfires that spring up around town, in and around the Rocky Mountains, bleeding down toward Silverville.
