Page 33 of Purring for Her Lion
He glances at my notepad, then locks his gaze onto me, voice going low. “You doing your homestead work yourself?”
I wave my notebook with its useless chicken crown doodle. “That’s the dream. Whether the execution matches up is still in the TBD column.”
The truth is, I haven’t done any significant homestead work without Roarke in weeks. He’s become such a constant presence, showing up every afternoon with tools and plans and thatintense focus that makes everything seem manageable. But he’s at the clinic today, dealing with some kind of magical pest emergency that had him rushing out at dawn, and I’d decided that surely I could handle a simple hardware store run on my own.
“Could always hire help. A lot of us would line up to give you a hand. Especially if you’re doling out some of that lumpia.”
I stare at him, uncomprehending. Is he flirting?
I’m so out of practice that I wouldn’t recognize flirting if it wore a name tag and handed me its business card.
I laugh—too loud, too awkward, my social skills apparently rusting faster than cheap chicken wire. “No, I mean, I don’t really need help. I mean, I guess we all need help. I fall off things sometimes, but it’s fine. Really. I have a system. Mostly.”
Gabe smiles, tail twitching. “If you want a second pair of hands, anytime, just say the word.”
“She doesn’t.”
The new voice is deep, so low it thrums in my chest. Roarke steps out from the aisle behind, golden and massive, mane tied back, eyes narrowed. His body takes up the space, all authority and restrained anger, head lowered and shoulders tight beneath his vest.
He doesn’t look at me. He looks at the fencing. Then at Gabe’s hand. Then at Gabe. “That wire’s too light,” Roarke says, voice flat and hard. “You want something with reinforced joints. That rusts out in two years.”
Gabe straightens, putting just enough distance to make it clear he’s not backing down. “It’s a chicken coop, not a fortress.”
Roarke’s eyes never leave him. “She’ll be keeping a dragon in there.”
The air between them goes tight and silent, like the pause before a fight. Gabe’s smile shrinks, teeth showing for a different reason. “True.”
I want to crawl under a shelf. “I just need fencing. And a shovel that isn’t made of aluminum foil,” I blurt, pushing my cart forward to break the standoff.
Roarke shifts, his gaze landing on the flour stuck to my sleeve, the bandaid on my knuckle, every little detail. Something in him softens, barely, then he turns cold again as he addresses Gabe.
“You didn’t say you were going to town,” Roarke says, voice full of accusation.
“I can buy screws without a chaperone,” I snap, wanting to bite back the words as soon as they’re out.
He doesn’t argue. He takes the fencing from Gabe’s cart, drops it back onto the shelf, and lifts a heavier roll from the top. Without a word, he fills my cart with the “correct” fencing, then more: better hammer, nails, feed, clamps, wire cutters, fireproof sealant. He moves like he owns the aisle, like no one else exists.
Gabe just watches, resigned. “Catch you later,” he says to me, soft and private, before disappearing down another aisle.
Roarke marches to the register. The blue-haired cashier doesn’t even look up, just rings us through, glancing nervously between the two of us. The total is enough to make me flinch, but before I can dig out my wallet, Roarke slides his card across the counter.
“I can pay for my own things,” I say, voice brittle.
“We’re building your place,” he says. “You feed me. I handle the rest.” There’s no arguing with the finality in his tone.
He loads the truck himself, every movement efficient and deliberate. When he’s done, he holds a hand out for my keys.
“I’m driving,” I insist.
He just grunts, climbing into the passenger side.
I slide behind the wheel and just sit there, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Roarke fills the cab, his sheer presence clamping around me, all sharp gold and silent anger. He smells like pine and smoke, and it’s impossible to think straight.
I fumble for something, anything, to shrivel the tension. “You didn’t have to help,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t look at me. “I don’t like other people pretending they know what you need,” he says, voice soft but edged. “I don’t like them watching you.”
“He was just being nice,” I say, but my words fail.
