Page 6 of Purring for Her Lion
“No? But you just fixed?—”
“Better fencing means fewer loose chickens. Fewer loose chickens means less noise. Less noise is payment enough.”
She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected, making my ear twitch. “So this was entirely self-serving?”
I shrug. “Yes.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you’re secretly nice.”
I snort. No one has ever accused me of that before. “Think whatever you want.”
The silence between us shifts and becomes almost comfortable. She rocks back on her heels, looking at me with curious eyes.
“Well, neighbor Roarke, since you’ve already seen me at my absolute worst, maybe we can only go up from here? Like, next time we meet, I promise to be wearing actual clothes and not screaming at poultry.”
I allow the corner of my mouth to quirk up, just slightly. “Setting a high bar.”
Her laugh comes again, fuller this time, and something in my chest tightens unexpectedly.
Trouble. That’s what she is. I can already tell.
I nod once, then turn to leave. I’ve spent more time talking to this human than I have to anyone in weeks. It’s enough social interaction to last me a month.
“Hey,” she calls after me. “Thanks again. Really.”
I glance back, taking in the full picture of her—wild-haired, dirt-smudged, genuine—standing before her now-secure chicken coop. For just a moment, I allow myself to appreciate the strange, chaotic energy she brings to this quiet corner of the world.
Then I turn away without a word, heading back to my property, my routine, my carefully ordered solitude.
Except now there’s a crack in it. Small but undeniable.
Like a chicken slipping through a poorly constructed fence.
CHAPTER 3
LIANA
Baking is a universal love language,isn’t it?
I stare at the tray of ube cheese pandesal cooling on my counter, the rolls perfectly golden, the scent of sweet, nutty purple yam thick in the kitchen. Each roll hides a molten pocket of cheese. Not just bread. A peace offering. For the massive, brooding lion-man next door who rescued me from chicken-mageddon.
Roarke fixed my coop like it was nothing. Reinforcing fencing, herding frantic poultry, all casual for him. Meanwhile, I couldn’t keep my chickens contained for a single day. The memory of standing there in pajamas, filthy and sweaty, watching him fix everything with silent efficiency, makes my cheeks burn.
I pick up a roll, breathing in the buttery aroma. Perfect. Lola’s recipe, honed over decades and delivered with stern warnings: never skimp on the butter. The purple yam gives the bread its color, the cheese adds a savory punch. The first recipe I ever mastered. Baking it reminds me I can do something right, if I just keep at it.
Like my dream of a little homestead. What starts as disaster can only improve.
I arrange the pandesal in a wicker basket lined with checkered cloth. I also threw in a few of my favorite dishes just in case he was anti-carb for some reason.
My god, what if he is?
Doesn’t matter, Liana. That’s why there are several options for him to choose from.
Is this too much? Too weird? What’s the etiquette for thanking your intimidating neighbor for chicken emergencies?
“Just be normal,” I mutter, tucking the cloth corners over the bread. “You’re bringing him bread. People do this.”
Do they? Is this normal neighbor behavior, or am I being extra?
