Page 3 of Purring for Her Lion
I, meanwhile, am a hot mess in chicken-covered pajamas.
I exhale slowly. “I was going to reinforce it. Eventually.”
He lifts a brow, the look so skeptical I immediately feel like a liar. Like he can see through my fake confidence straight to the Pinterest boards and YouTube tutorials I’ve been desperately consulting.
Then, without another word, he turns and starts walking toward my property.
“What are you doing?” I demand, hurrying after him, trying to keep up with his long strides while also keeping hold of Chestnut.
“Fixing it.”
“Wait—now?”
He doesn’t answer, just continues walking with purpose, as if the fastest way to solve the problem of me and my wayward chickens is to eliminate the source.
I have to jog to keep up while carrying a chicken. By the time we reach my property, I’m breathless again, and he’s already kneeling beside my pathetic fence, examining the damage.
I watch in awe and horror as he begins working, large hands surprisingly dexterous as he secures loose wire and reinforces weak spots. His claws—actual retractable claws like a cat’s but larger—easily secure loose wood.
He brought no tools. Apparently needs none. The fence that took me three weekends to construct poorly is being expertly repaired in minutes.
A few minutes pass in silence, aside from his working and occasional confused clucks from my chickens.
Finally, I clear my throat. “So, uh. I didn’t catch your name.”
He doesn’t look up. “Roarke.”
“Roarke.” I test the sound. It fits—strong, unusual, impossible to ignore. “I’m Liana.”
A beat of silence. “I know.”
I should probably be alarmed that he knows my name, but honestly? After this morning, I’m just grateful my chickens didn’t cause a diplomatic incident. Besides, it’s a small town. Everyone probably knows everything about me already.
I cross my arms, watching him work, still reeling from the absurdity of my life choices. Three weeks ago, I was subletting an apartment in New York surrounded by technology and takeout options. Now I’m watching a lion-man fix my chicken coop before breakfast.
At least my neighbor’s ridiculously competent.
And, you know. A little hot.
But I am not thinking about that.
Not at all.
I’m just going to stand here, holding my criminal chicken, and pretend this is a completely normal way to start a Tuesday morning.
CHAPTER 2
ROARKE
Her scent cutsthrough the stillness of my morning routine, demanding attention. Sweet like bread and milk, laced with panic and frustration.
Bare feet slap against damp earth, mingling with frantic chicken clucks and a woman’s voice cursing in two languages.
I freeze, coffee mug halfway to my lips, tail going still. I knew the three weeks of blessed silence had to end. My neighbor’s multiple ongoing projects have been building to something like this.
I should ignore it. I have patients in an hour. Instead, I set down my mug and move toward the commotion.
The sounds get louder as I approach the edge of my property. Frantic feet on earth, indignant poultry squawking, and that voice—loud enough to wake hibernating bears three mountains over.
