Page 75 of The Pack Next Door
“That’s not what alphas do. Pack life, it doesn’t really work in the city.”
“Have you asked them?”
As if summoned by her question, the sound of motorbikes roaring up cut through the peace of Honey’s kitchen. Boots crunched on gravel, and then the door was wrenched open.
“Got all the sheep rounded up,” Tom announced with a grin, going over to Honey and pressing a kiss to her temple. “The fence was fixed too.” He turned to face me, his cheery expression a shock to see. “Hello, love. These fellas of yours? You can keep them around. Bloody useful, they are.” If only aptitude for sheep herding and fence fixing was what I needed. “Fellas, how about a beer?”
As Tom got all of the guys beers, he made the introductions. Bonds forged in the paddock were apparently as strong as they were immediate. Cans were cracked, and as we sipped at our tea, they downed their drinks. “Come through into the mudroom. There’s a place to clean up here. Hun, we’ve got enough food to feed these blokes, don’t we, love?”
“Plenty of meat!” she called back, then went to the kitchen drawers, pulling out a peeler. “Though I’m going to need to peel some more potatoes.”
“I’ll help,” I said, rushing forward. “It’s the least I can do after this debacle.”
“None of that was your fault,” she said as we settled down at the kitchen table. The potatoes were fresh dug, the smell of loam still strong. “That freight company, though… Those idiots barely made it up the hill to our place, and don’t get me started on the way they packed the truck.”
I picked up a peeler, skinning one potato, then another as she debriefed me on everything that went wrong.
“Gods, that smells amazing.”
Tom had decided the guys had earned themselves a tour of the property. Seeing as I didn’t get that until the second or thirdvisit, I was beginning to think he liked them. Jace stumbled inside, drawn into the kitchen by his nose.
“Lamb we raised ourselves,” Honey said proudly. “Rosemary and thyme from the garden, and a squeeze of lemon from our own trees.”
The couple had been raised in the city but came out here when they were still young, looking for affordable land. They’d transformed it into a paradise, one I loved visiting. But I also loved going home again. For them, the lack of neighbours was a bonus, but for me there was a dizzying kind of isolation. Even on days I didn’t catch up with friends, it was all those little conversations you had with your barista, the lady at the news agency, the green grocer letting me know when the new season’s peaches were in, that mattered. They created the feeling of community I craved. Close and yet not so bloody close that they were speculating on what my hypothetical children looked like.
“Well, it smells amazing.” Gideon was perfectly polite in his manner. “But don’t feel like you need to feed us. We can take fur and get rid of some of those rabbits for you.”
“Might getcha to do that later,” Tom said, dragging out the chair at the head of the table. “But you’ve earned a good feed. Fixing those fences like that? Saved me from having to get the local bloke over who charges like a wounded bull.”
“We’d be eating roast lamb sandwiches for days if you didn’t turn up,” Honey assured him, grabbing plates and setting them on the counter. I went to give her a hand, but she waved me away. “Shepherd’s pie. Even cold lamb for breakfast.” She winked at the guys. “You’ve saved me from ‘accidentally’ tossing the leftovers to the dogs.”
“You’re not giving the bloody dogs leg of lamb!” Tom grumbled. Spick and Span, the two border collies, wagged their tails hopefully from where they lay in one corner of the lounge room. “Too damn spoiled as it is.”
I let the conversation wash over me, my spine relaxing by increments until it was pressed against the back of the wooden chair.
And Mads’ arm.
I glanced at him in alarm, catching his smug smile and Tom’s knowing one. Evidently, the potter had been given an explanation of why they were with me and he also approved of the match.
“So what made you come all the way out here?” he asked. “Honey makes a damn fine roast lamb, but not enough to make you get in a car and drive four hours.”
“I…” Was feeling like a girl standing in front of the school principal. Tom was almost as old as my dad, and men of his age had a kind of gruff exterior that turned me into a little girl in seconds. I wasn’t, though, so I set my arms on the table and leaned forward. Away from the tiny little touches of Mads’ arm. I couldn’t afford to let that distract me. “I just wanted to say sorry for everything that happened with the latest shipment.”
“Not your fault.” Tom frowned so often the skin between his brows wore a permanent furrow. “It was them idiots.”
“Who are processing an insurance claim for us right now. You’ll get the sale cost of each damaged vessel back…” But if money was the issue, Tom would be doing things completely differently. Live close to town, employing apprentices to push out pots as fast as he could, because they flew off the shelves. That crease between his brows deepened. “Which I know isn’t what you were after.”
He made a show of shrugging, the corners of his mouth still turned down.
“Money comes in handy. Might not need to pay a fencer to come and do some work, but there’s the feed bill, some glazes that need reordering.”
“I can get an estimate, if that helps,” I replied in a rush. “Get some of the funds to you now and the rest when processed…” The first time I met Tom, I wondered if there was some latent alpha energy. The way he skewered you with his gaze, it felt like that was what was happening. I let out a little breath, then tried again. “Most of all, I just wanted to come by and say sorry for everything that happened. You didn’t want to do a big order like that.”
“No.” His blunt finger traced a circle on the tabletop. “I didn’t.”
“And I assured you it would all go smoothly, that it would help increase the demand for your work, and that you’d be able to raise your prices so maybe you could spend your time making pots and pay someone else to run the farm.”
“To which I told you, every time I make pottery a job, the pleasure in the process diminishes.” As he stared at me steadily, the whole room went silent. Just the crackle of the roast in the oven to punctuate it. “Especially so when all my hard work doesn’t end up on people’s shelves, but in the bin.”
