“You would think Sundays are good days to go to the grocery store.” She sat on a stool at the bar rather than leaving. She and Tristan had their fair share of late-night chats. Being back in his apartment, it seemed natural to carry on tradition. Even though Lincoln was a Dogman, she could still be neighborly.
“Because everyone is either going to church or sleeping off Saturday night’s good time. But actually, the early risers are buzzing around to get their shopping done to have the rest of the day free. Late-goers are trying to grab something on their way to wherever. And the rest are trying to find something to fix their hangovers.”
“Good to know.” Not one speck of sauce marred his mouth and very little dotted his fingers. An amazing feat considering most people who ate her uncle’s wings required a plastic bib and a double stack of napkins.
And while looking at his mouth, Angeline couldn’t help but notice the perfect shape of his masculine lips or how his straight nose balanced the angles of his cheeks. His black hair didn’t conform to a human military’s regulation cut but rather fell to his collar in soft waves. The muscles in his strong jaw, darkened by a shadow of stubble, worked in tandem as he chewed. When he swallowed, she watched the slow descent of his Adam’s apple along his throat. The silver chain around the thick column of his neck held the dog tags hidden beneath his sweatshirt.
The thick dark slashes above his pale green eyes drew together as the curiosity in his gaze transitioned to something primal. “Angeline.” He softly growled her name and it whispered across her skin, heightening her own awareness of him.
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