Page 3 of Match Made In Growl

Two months in Hollow Oak, and Criss Holt still couldn't figure out how a town this small managed to generate this much work.

He stood on the front porch of Kieran's cabin, coffee in hand, watching his cousin cross the yard with the kind of purposeful stride that made everyone in a fifty-foot radius stand a little straighter. Kieran had his sleeves rolled to his elbows and sawdust still caught in the sun-streaked waves of his hair, which meant he'd already been at the workshop before dawn. Again. The man operated like rest was a personal failing.

"You're staring," Kieran said without looking up as he reached the porch.

"I'm observing." Criss leaned against the railing, the morning air cool enough to carry the scent of pine and wet moss from the tree line. "There's a difference."

"The difference being?"

"Staring implies I'm impressed."

Kieran's hazel eyes flicked to him, a flash of gold buried in the green that said his tiger was close to the surface. It always was with Kieran. The man carried his animal the way some people carried loaded weapons, quiet and ready. "You've been up for twenty minutes and you're already insufferable. That's fast, even for you."

"I'm efficient." Criss grinned over the rim of his mug and took a long sip. The coffee was too strong, the way Kieran always made it, like the man was trying to punish himself through caffeine. "So what's on the agenda today? More fence repairs? Thrilling council correspondence? Maybe we'll really live dangerously and reorganize the supply shed."

Kieran dropped a pair of work gloves on the porch railing between them. "Emmett needs someone to check the ward markers along the southern perimeter. A few readings came back inconsistent after the last storm."

"And by someone, you mean me."

"I mean us. I told Emmett we'd handle it."

Criss picked up the gloves and turned them over in his hands. They were worn, practical, sized for Kieran's broader grip. Everything about his cousin was like that: built for the work, fitted to the role, settled into Hollow Oak like the roots of the trees he spent half his time tending. Kieran hadn't just grown up here. He'd grown into the place, become part of its structure in a way that made Criss feel like a guest who'd overstayed his welcome at a party he hadn't been invited to. Not that he'd ever admit that out loud.

"My mother called again last night," Criss said, pulling the gloves on despite the loose fit. "Third time this week."

"And?"

"And she wanted to know if you've 'gotten through to me yet.' Her words." He pitched his voice higher in a passable imitation of Leora Holt's particular brand of loving disappointment. "She thinks I need structure, Kieran. She used the word structure three times in one sentence."

Kieran's mouth didn't quite twitch, but it was close. "She's not wrong."

"She's not right either." Criss pushed off the railing and stretched, rolling his shoulders until something popped. At six-three he nearly matched Kieran's height, but where his cousin was broader through the chest and built like something you'd need heavy machinery to move, Criss carried his muscle leaner, a body designed more for speed than brute force. His golden-brown hair caught the morning light as he ran a hand through it, a habit he'd never bothered to break. "I had a life before this, you know. A good one. I had my own place, a rotation of very satisfied women, and zero people telling me I was wasting my potential."

"You were bartending in Savannah."

"I was managing a high-end cocktail lounge."

"You were bartending."

"With authority." Criss flashed the kind of smile that had gotten him out of trouble and into beds across three states. It bounced off Kieran like rain off stone. "The point is, I didn't need to be shipped off to the mountains like some wayward teenager. I'm twenty-eight years old."

"Then act like it." Kieran stepped off the porch and headed toward the trail that cut into the eastern woods. "Come on. Ward markers won't check themselves."

Criss fell into step beside him, the packed dirt trail soft from overnight rain. The woods smelled rich this time of morning, all cedar and damp bark and the faint electric hum of magic threaded through the soil. Spring had come to Hollow Oak in force over the past few weeks, wildflowers pushing up through the underbrush, the canopy thickening overhead until the light filtered through in pale green shafts.

They walked in silence for a while, which was fine. Kieran had always been better at silence than conversation, a trait Criss found both admirable and maddening. The man could go hours without speaking and somehow make you feel like you were the one who'd failed to say something important.

"You talk to Freya this morning?" Criss asked, mostly to fill the quiet.

"She was at the apothecary before I was up." Something in Kieran's voice softened when he mentioned his mate, a shift so subtle most people would miss it. Criss didn't miss it. He'd been watching it for two months now, the way Kieran's entire center of gravity seemed to tilt toward Freya Bloom whenever she entered a room or even a conversation. It was fascinating and faintly horrifying.

"She still doing those community herb workshops?"

"Every Saturday. She's got a waitlist now."

"Of course she does." Criss ducked under a low branch. "Your mate is aggressively competent. It's intimidating."

"That's what you find intimidating?"