Ghost Wolf. Michele Hauf

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      “Next year. That’ll give me the winter to learn how to use a chain saw.”

      It wasn’t difficult to imagine her wielding a chain saw. Not after that powerful right hook she’d served him in the field. She was petite but packed a punch. “What do you sculpt?”

      “Anything with recycled metal. My dad’s a blacksmith. I used to watch him forge swords when I was a little girl. Always wanted to be able to manipulate metal the way he did. One day when he was welding on his old truck, I asked to help, and I’ve been welding my designs ever since.”

      “Welding? That sounds macho.”

      “Yeah?” Daisy bent up her arm, making a fist. An impressive bicep bulged beneath the sleek white winter coat. “I grew up with four brothers. I don’t think I could do feminine if I tried.”

      “You’re doing it right now.” Beck traced a strand of her hair back over her ear. Score! It felt as soft as it looked. She flinched and gave him the curious eye. “Sorry, just wanted to touch it.”

      “It’s hair, dude.”

      “And you’re kind of defensive, you know that? Is it because of the ‘you shouldn’t talk to an unaligned wolf’ thing? Or is it that I just don’t appeal to you?”

      “You appeal to me,” she said quickly. She sat up, tilting her head down and closing her eyes. Shaking her head, she said, “I didn’t mean to say that. It just came out.”

      “You like me,” Beck teased. He dipped his head to catch her straying gaze. “It’s because I seduced you with brownies, right?”

      She punched him playfully on the biceps. Beck winced. It hadn’t been quite as gentle as she may have intended it to be. So he fell over to his side and moaned.

      “Yeah, and don’t you forget it,” Daisy said.

      The sass that ran through her veins just needed a little prodding to rise above what he suspected was a bit of a shy streak. He hadn’t seen her talking to anyone here at the festival. And if she had a boyfriend, she wouldn’t be talking to him right now.

      “So what do you sculpt?” he asked, moving closer so their shoulders touched.

      “Anything that I’m feeling at the moment. I’m working on a project for the wolf sanctuary up north. I use lots of abandoned scrap metal. Right now I’m into recycling bicycle chains.”

      “Really? I have a whole box of bicycle chains at the shop. They’re yours if you can use them.”

      “Of course I can.”

      “Stop by anytime and pick them up. I’m at the shop most of the day, and if not, I’ll let Sunday know they’re yours.”

      “Sunday? You mean Dean Maverick’s wife?”

      “Yep. Sunday used to have a shop when she lived in North Dakota. She’s a gearhead like me. My shop is the only place she’s got to get her grease on.”

      “And her husband doesn’t mind?”

      “Dean’s a cool guy. We chat when he stops by to pick up Sunday. Not all in the packs are against the lone wolves like me, you know.”

      “I’m not against you. I just don’t understand why you don’t feel the need for family that a pack offers.”

      “I have family with my mom and my—” He hung his head. Now was no time to step into that bleak memory. “You want another brownie?”

      “No, thank you. I should get going. I promised my mom I’d stop by with some treats from the picnic.”

      “You going to the fireworks later?” he asked.

      “Possibly. Will you be at your shop this afternoon? Maybe I could stop by for the bike chains?”

      “I’ll be there in a few hours. But this is the deal—I’ll give you the chains if you’ll watch the fireworks with me tonight.”

      She crossed her arms and made a show of considering it. Her lips were the same shade as her hair. Beck bet if they kissed, she’d taste cool like ice but would warm him up faster than s’mores melting over a bonfire. Would she really turn down his offer? She seemed independent, yet certainly she was shy.

      “I might have a brother along with me. Kelyn and I always watch the fireworks together. We usually find a quiet spot at the top of a hill.”

      “Oh. Well, I wouldn’t want to intrude.” Nor did he want to bring the wrath of the Saint-Pierre family upon him for talking to their precious daughter.

      “We’ll play it by ear. I’ll stop by your shop later, and then we can decide, yes?”

      “Sure. I’m north on 35.”

      “I’ve seen the shop. I know where it is.”

      She took off, tugging the book out of her back pocket as she skipped across the snowy field that hugged the rink where the men slapped the hockey puck back and forth.

      Beck stood and brushed the snow from his jeans. “First date with one of the brothers as chaperone? I don’t know about that.”

Chapter 3

      Beck’s shop was about ten miles out of city limits. The next town, Burnham, was four miles beyond his shop. Daisy knew the Darkwood was in the vicinity. Her brother Blade lived at the edge of the haunted forest that locals told tales about. Even the paranormal breeds avoided it for its fearsome reputation.

      Though the road was hugged by tall birch trees interspersed with thick pines, Daisy found Beck’s shop easily and pulled in her Smart car before the shop’s opened garage doors. While most fix-it garages in the area featured random junkers parked here and there, tires stacked against walls and general disorder, this area was well-tended. The snow had been plowed and banked, and there was an orderly parking area with cars tagged on the license plates, likely for pickup.

      Stepping out into the brisk air, Daisy’s breath fogged before her. She’d bundled up in cap, mittens and winter coat. Striding toward the opened doors, she scanned for signs of life inside and called out Beck’s name. Instead of a handsome werewolf popping his head up from behind the raised hood of a truck, the blond dreads of a very familiar familiar swung around the front quarter panel of a red F-150.

      Sunday winked at Daisy. “Hey there, sweetie!”

      “Sunday! Beck told me you worked here, but I didn’t expect to run into you.” Daisy looked about the neat shop that featured four car bays. Tools hung neatly along the walls, and tires were stacked in a corner. There were even red-and-white-checked curtains on the door window that must lead to the office. “Does Dean mind that you work here?”

      The self-confessed grease monkey laid a wrench on the engine and wandered around the side of the vehicle. Grease smeared Sunday’s pale check. Daisy had known her since she’d been born because of the cat-shifting familiar’s friendship with her grandmother. She considered her an aunt, even. Of all the women in the family, she got СКАЧАТЬ