She shouldn’t study him so intently. Wahyas’ senses were acutely sharp and staring too long usually signaled a threat or sexual interest. Obviously, Lincoln wouldn’t consider her a threat. He stood over six feet tall, while she only pushed upward of five-seven, and he out-massed her by at least seventy pounds.
However, underestimating her would be a mistake. Her brothers might not be quite as imposing as Lincoln, but they weren’t pushovers. They’d never taken it easy on her and the skills she’d learned tangling with them had come in handy a few years ago when a hook-up had turned sour and she’d needed to escape the situation.
Like most wolfan males, Lincoln would misinterpret her interest as...well...interest. Which, of course, it wasn’t. If she and a Dogman were the last Wahyas on Earth, she wouldn’t be interested. Even if it meant the salvation of their race, it simply would not happen.
Too bad, thanks to a treacherous brain, her body had no troubling recalling the intimate heat of him crouched above her, while his fierce gaze mapped every inch of her soul. His light-colored eyes had presented a striking contrast to the rich brownness of his nearly naked body and thick black waves of hair. Unbidden desire curled inside her like wisps of steam rising from a cup of hot chocolate.
“Tuesdays,” she said, throwing the brakes on primal instincts. Despite the close friendship with her former neighbor, Angeline had never experienced a sexual attraction toward Tristan. Considering her body’s unexpected and wholly unappreciated reaction to Lincoln, she would not make a habit of being overly neighborly.
“Tuesdays?” Confusion clouded Lincoln’s gaze.
“About midmorning.” Angeline slid off the bar stool. “Trust me. It’s the best time to go grocery shopping at Anne’s Market.”
“Appreciate the tip.” From his neutral expression, Angeline couldn’t discern if he truthfully did, or if he merely humored her.
“I should go.”
Lincoln met her at the door. “Here.” He tugged off his sweatshirt.
“Thanks.” She kept focused on the faint scar below his eye rather than the short, dark hairs spread across the broad, chiseled expanse of his chest. “But I don’t need it.”
He slipped the sweatshirt over her head and onto her shoulders anyway. His clean, crisp, masculine scent immediately invaded her senses, and she obediently slid her arms into the sleeves.
The fabric still held his warmth, and she remained nice and toasty all the way to her apartment.
Standing watch from his doorway, bare-chested and unflinching against the icy wind winding through the corridor, Lincoln presented a striking image of a proud warrior. He reeked of confidence, but not the arrogance she had imagined to have infected all Dogmen.
Once inside, Angeline sighed against the locked door. Hugging Lincoln’s sweatshirt to her body, she held the collar over her nose, breathing his scent and absorbing his warmth like a she-wolf showing more than a casual interest in a male—
Like cold water to the face, the realization shocked her senses and she couldn’t get out of his clothes fast enough.
This was all Tristan’s fault!
Leaving the sweatshirt in a puddle on the floor, she stomped to the kitchen bar, snatched open her purse, whipped out her cell phone and began furiously typing.
“Dammit!” Angeline swiped the pick down the guitar strings, abruptly halting the sappy tune she’d been composing for the last hour.
Sitting in the middle of her unmade bed, she stared into her open closet at the numerous prestigious awards her love songs had won. Hidden away from all eyes but hers because no strong, self-respecting she-wolf would ever pine over a man who didn’t want her. Neither would she write songs about the devastating experience. Especially not a she-wolf raised by Patrick O’Brien. He’d be appalled to learn that his daughter had been reduced to inconsolable tears by the man who’d broken her young heart.
However, Angeline had turned the heartbreak from Tanner’s rejection and the heartache from his death into writing love-lost songs that country and pop recording artists fought over to record.
Of course, she had long moved past the actual events. But to write the music and lyrics people wanted, she had to tap into those old feelings, putting herself back into the maelstrom of all that pain. Lately, though, she had grown weary of the process.
Again, she blamed Tristan. His migration from her staunchest bachelor friend to happily mated had left her feeling off-kilter. A feeling magnified by her unusual reaction to Lincoln. Also, Tristan’s fault. If he hadn’t left Lincoln the wrong key, she wouldn’t have his scent imprinted in her nose and lingering in the living room.
Obviously, she found the wolfan sexually appealing. Tall, broad-shouldered, with chiseled abs and sculpted pecs, and muscled limbs that proclaimed his strength without being ridiculously pretentious. The way he moved and carried himself proved he’d earned those muscles on the job rather than in the gym. But she was accustomed to physically fit wolfan males. Generally, they didn’t stay on her mind.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about Lincoln, whose commanding presence had not been diminished by the loss of his leg. The injury appeared to be fairly recent, considering the freshness of the scars on his stump and on the left side of his body.
However, it was the lost and lonely look in Lincoln’s eyes that had haunted her all night and greatly interfered with her creativity today.
Sympathy infected her heart, causing it to ache for the Dogman. It shouldn’t. Her heart should be cold and unfeeling toward them. They’d made their choices and should live with them. Why should anyone be sympathetic? Especially those they’d abandoned to pursue glory.
Growling, Angeline strummed the strings in frustration and set aside the guitar. She slipped off the bed, stretched and then padded out of the bedroom. The pounding at her front door halted her trip to the kitchen.
She opened the door to Tristan’s famous grin.
“Hey there, Sassy.”
“Hey there, Slick. Bite me.”
Before she could close the door, Tristan thrust his arm through the opening, gripping a white paper bag. The scent of apples and cinnamon and sugar caused her nose to twitch. He nudged the door open a little wider and showed her the large coffee in his other hand. “I come bearing gifts,” he said lightheartedly.
“Once upon a time that didn’t work out so well for the Trojans.” Regardless, Angeline lifted the coffee cup and bag of pastries from Tristan’s hands. Ignoring him as he entered the apartment, she sat cross-legged on the couch and fished a bear claw with an apple filling from the bag.
Tristan closed the door and made himself at home in the overstuffed chair. “I’m not exactly sure what this means.” He showed her the angry, emoji-filled text message she’d sent last night.
“Just delete it.” Angeline wiped away the sugar sticking to her lips. “We’re good now.”
“I’m sorry that I didn’t give you a heads-up about Lincoln.” Tristan paused and suddenly the exhaustion he’d been hiding surfaced. “Nel and I were at the hospital most of the night.”
“Is Nel all right? Did she have the baby?”
“False alarm. She’s had Braxton Hicks pain on and off, but last night she got so uncomfortable, I took her in to be checked.” Running his hand through his tousled blond hair, Tristan