Page 25 of Choosing the Rejected Mate

“Yes,” I mutter.“We covered that.”

A woman walking past with a poodle gives me a wide berth.Men talking to themselves outside hardware stores don’t usually scream emotional stability.

I go inside because tools are safer than feelings.The place smells like sawdust, metal, paint, and human stress.I understand these smells.They don’t try to crawl into my chest and rewrite my future.

Carl is behind the counter, frowning at a computer like it personally insulted his bloodline.

“You look awful,” he says.

“Good afternoon to you too.”

“You need the mixer parts?”

“Yes.”

“Rush order costs extra.”

“Everything costs extra.”

“That’s capitalism.”

“That’s theft.”

Carl grunts, impressed despite himself.He prints the order slip and slides it across the counter.“Parts should be here in three days if the delivery truck doesn’t break down again.”

“Why would you say that out loud?”

“Because I enjoy tempting fate?”

I sign the slip.“Fate and I aren’t speaking.”

“Smart man.”

No.No, I’m not.

A smart man would keep his distance from Holly Black until she decides what she wants.A smart man would remember that she’s wounded, wary, and terrified of what the bond means.A smart man would stop picturing the way her mouth softened when she read that ridiculous flower card.

Unfortunately, I have never claimed to be a genius.

I leave the hardware store with mixer parts ordered, three new screws in my pocket I don’t need, and an excuse to return to Sweetique Bakery before closing.

The excuse is thin.Almost see-through, actually, but my wolf approves.That alone means it’s probably terrible.

The rest of the afternoon crawls by.I repair a sticking gate for Mrs.Bell while she asks me twelve questions about Holly.Not so subtle questions.Like,“Are you married?”and“Do you like children?”and“Do you know Holly works too hard because she has no one to help her?”

I tighten the hinge on her gate and pretend I don’t notice the way she watches me.

“She has Maisie,” I say.

“She has an employee,” Mrs.Bell replies.“Not the same thing.”

I glance at her.“Holly doesn’t strike me as a woman who wants help forced on her.”

“She isn’t.”Mrs.Bell smiles like the cat who got the cream.“So don’t force it.Offer it in a way that lets her insult you first.”

I pause.That is actually good advice.“Thank you.”

“I’m old, not decorative,” she says with a soft huff.