Page 13 of Easy, Tiger

Over the next couple of days, we slip into an easy pattern. Coffee at the diner starts each morning before her sketching sessions, and I find reasons to stop by after work for evening walks through town. One afternoon, we visit the library, where Grace Holloway greets us from behind a desk stacked with reference books, dark hair cut into a neat bob beneath a pair of stylish glasses, tall and slender in the kind of casual outdoor clothes that mark her as a local rather than a tourist. Without a second request, she finds historical wildlife surveys for Halsey's research, chattering about migration patterns and territorial behaviors with an enthusiasm that makes us both smile.

"She's like a walking encyclopedia," Halsey observes as we leave the library, arms full of borrowed books. "I half expected her to quiz me on local bird populations."

"Give her time. She will."

We spend a weekend afternoon at the farmer's market, Halsey sketching vendors while I pretend to examine produce. Catching Mrs. Doyle arranging apples into perfect pyramids, she flips to a fresh page for a young boy counting change with fierce concentration, families weaving between the stalls behind him with dogs and toddlers in tow.

"You see stories everywhere," I tell her.

"Everything has a story. Most people usually move too fast to notice."

The evening finds us back at my workshop while I finish sanding a cherry dining table. Halsey perches on my workbench, sketchbook balanced on her knee, drawing my hands as I work the wood smooth.

"Stop moving," she scolds when I stall to check her progress.

"Hard to work while posing."

"Multitasking builds character."

The workshop door opens as I'm putting away my tools, and Owen in his forest ranger uniform walks inside, his demeanor unreadable in the dim light.

"Evening." His gaze bounces between Halsey and me, taking in the comfortable domesticity of the scene. "Didn't mean to interrupt. I'm Owen, by the way. Nolan's cousin."

"You're not interrupting anything," Halsey says, clapping her sketchbook shut and offering a polite nod. "Nice to meet you, Owen. I'm Halsey. I should head home anyway."

Gathering her things quickly, she slides down from the workbench. "Thanks for letting me sketch while you worked. The way light hits wood shavings is surprisingly beautiful."

"Anytime."

Owen waits until her footsteps fade down the gravel drive before speaking.

"We need to talk."

Owen waits against the doorjamb, his ranger's uniform bearing remnants of pine needles and trail dust. "So this is your definition of handling her."

"I'm getting to know her." Hanging my sandpaper on its designated hook, I keep my hands unhurried. "It isn't the same thing."

"Nolan, you've spent more time with that woman in the past couple of days than most married couples manage in a month. Coffee every morning, evening walks, hikes, weekend farmer market⁠—"

"She's new in town. I'm being neighborly."

"Neighborly doesn't involve staring at her like she hung the moon while she sketches your hands. Do you have any idea what you're doing to yourself? Hours spent together strengthen the mating bond. Shared glances and casual touches are only making the pull worse."

"And the alternative is what? Avoiding her completely, or pretending she doesn't exist?"

"The alternative is remembering we currently don't know how much she actually knows. She found you bleeding out with a rifle wound, Nolan. She's observant as hell and smart enough to connect dots most people wouldn't even register. What happens when she starts asking the right questions?"

"She won't."

"You sound awfully confident for someone whose mate patches up mysterious tigers far from civilization."

The workshop falls silent except for the distant hum of my compressor cycling off. Owen's right about the bond—I can feel it growing stronger each day, an invisible thread that tugs at my chest whenever Halsey's out of sight. But he's wrong about everything else.

"She helped an injured animal. That's who she is. Compassionate and willing to act when something needs doing—those aren't the qualities of someone wanting to expose secrets."

"Those are exactly the qualities of someone who'll dig deeper when things don't add up."

Bracing against my workbench, I ignore the wood shavings scattered across its surface from the evening's work. "I'm not walking away from her, Owen. Not because of fear, not because of protocol, and sure as hell not because the enclave thinks it's safer."