Page 36 of Purring for Her Lion
That’s all.
Besides, I’d already bought all she would need.
I grab my keys, lock the clinic, and drive to town with absolutely no sense of urgency. The speed limit is merely a suggestion, after all, and if I happen to reach Foxer Upper in record time, it’s just because traffic is light today.
The bell jingles as I push open the door, and I immediately pick up her scent, stronger now, mixed with the store’s perpetual blend of metal, lumber, and fertilizer. I follow it automatically, moving through the aisles with purpose.
And then I see her.
She’s in the fencing section, one hand clutching a notebook covered in what appears to be chicken doodles rather than any actual supply list. Her dark hair is pulled back in that messy bun she wears when baking, with stray strands escaping around her face. There’s a smudge of flour on her cheek that she hasn’t noticed.
She looks small and soft and completely out of her element, squinting at labels like they’re written in ancient hieroglyphics.
But she’s not alone.
Gabe, the fox-man who owns this place, is leaning against a shelf beside her, his rust-colored tail swishing in a way that makes my claws extend involuntarily. He’s smiling. Showing teeth. Standing too close, with rolled-up sleeves displaying forearms in a deliberate, calculated display.
I know that posture. I know that look. I’ve seen male predators sizing up potential mates since before this fox was born.
He’s flirting with her.
And she’s laughing—that tight, awkward laugh she gives when she’s uncomfortable but trying to be polite. Not her real laugh. Not the one that comes out when I deadpan something unexpected or when her chickens do something ridiculous.
“You could always hire a hand,” Gabe is saying, his voice carrying that unmistakable undertone of invitation. “You’d be surprised how many locals would jump at the chance to help a new homesteader. Especially one who cooks like you do.”
My vision narrows, focusing with predatory intensity. Something hot and possessive roars to life in my chest, drowning out rational thought.
She doesn’t need another hand. She has mine. My hands have been rebuilding her homestead for weeks. My hands know exactly what her property needs, what her chickens need, what her dragon will need.
My hands, not his.
“I’m fine!” she says, her voice pitched slightly too high. “I mean, it’s not like I fall off things often. Only once a week, tops.”
Gabe tilts his head, smiling wider. “Well, if you ever need a second opinion?—”
“She doesn’t.”
The words come out before I can stop them, low and sharp. Liana jumps, whirling to face me with wide eyes. Gabe straightens, his tail going still.
“Hey,” Liana says, blinking rapidly. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
I don’t answer her immediately. I’m too busy assessing the situation. The fencing roll Gabe selected. The way he’s positioned himself. The proprietary paw on her shopping cart.
“That wire’s too light,” I say, the words clipped. “She needs heavy-gauge, reinforced joints. That one’ll rust out in two seasons.”
Gabe raises an eyebrow, his tail now perfectly still behind him. “It’s for a coop, not a vault.”
“She has a dragon,” I reply flatly.
It’s a perfect excuse. A logical reason for my interference. Not at all related to the territorial rage curling through my system at the sight of another male offering his assistance when I have been the one providing for her, building for her, ensuring her safety for weeks.
“Fair point,” Gabe concedes, but there’s a knowing gleam in his amber eyes that makes me want to growl.
“Okay,” Liana cuts in, her cheeks flushed with what might be embarrassment or annoyance or both. “Let’s all take a breath. I just came here for wire and maybe a shovel that doesn’t bend in half if I look at it funny.”
I shift my attention to her, finally allowing myself to really look. She’s tired. There are shadows under her eyes, probably from staying up late again. The bandage on her knuckle is new—a kitchen injury, most likely. Her shirt has a dusting of flour down one sleeve.
She hasn’t had coffee. I can tell by the slight tension around her eyes. She always forgets to make it when she’s rushing.
