FETCH ME A MATE

  KALA ASTER

  MILLY TAIDEN

  COPYRIGHT

  By Kala Aster

  Copyright © 2025 by Kala Aster

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  CONTENTS

  1. Diana

  2. Rowan

  3. Diana

  4. Rowan

  5. Diana

  6. Rowan

  7. Diana

  8. Rowan

  9. Diana

  10. Rowan

  11. Diana

  12. Rowan

  13. Diana

  14. Rowan

  15. Diana

  16. Rowan

  17. Diana

  18. Rowan

  19. Diana

  20. Rowan

  21. Diana

  22. Rowan

  23. Diana

  24. Rowan

  25. Diana

  26. Rowan

  27. Diana

  28. Rowan

  29. Diana

  30. Rowan

  31. Diana

  32. Rowan

  33. Diana

  34. Rowan

  35. Diana

  36. Rowan

  37. Diana

  38. Rowan

  39. Diana

  40. Rowan

  41. Diana

  42. Rowan

  Preview

  Howl You Doin’ Chapter 1

  1

  DIANA

  Diana Merrick paused on the front steps of the Hearth & Hollow Inn with Miriam’s keys digging crescents into her palm. The old brass keyring was heavy, the kind of weight that always found a way to bruise. She liked that about it. A bruise meant something mattered. A bruise meant she’d taken hold of responsibility instead of just brushing by it.

  She chose the largest key and pressed it into the lock. The mechanism gave with a reluctant sigh, like a door exhaling after too many years. When she pushed, the hinges whined before yielding, and the scent of cedar and cinnamon curled out to meet her.

  The lobby lay in soft afternoon light. Dust floated in lazy ribbons through the air, settling over a faded rug patterned in worn golds and greens. The reception bell perched on the desk like a tiny crown, and the guest ledger waited open, its creamy pages bare. Diana stepped inside and the floorboards creaked in greeting. The place had the uncanny sense of listening. Not judging. Just waiting.

  “Hi,” she said, because she’d always been the sort to greet rooms and trees. “It’s me. I brought tea and a stubborn streak.”

  Her tote landed on the desk with a gentle thump. She traced the ledger’s spine, her fingers skimming the cracked leather where countless hands had once signed their names. “We’ll have new ones soon,” she promised the book. “Nice names. People who tip and send thank-you notes.”

  The radiator ticked in the corner. She counted that as agreement.

  Behind the desk, a side office revealed itself with the familiar must of old paper and lemon oil. A stack of envelopes sat tied with twine. Miriam’s spidery hand labeled the top: For Diana, first day.

  Diana tugged it open. Out slid a schematic of the building, a yellowed photo of the inn years ago with the porch painted a hopeful robin’s-egg blue, and a neatly written list titled Do These So I Don’t Haunt You. At the bottom, in smaller script: I’m kidding. Probably.

  Her smile tipped crooked. Miriam always knew how to lace affection with warning.

  The last sheet bore the Council seal, a pressed leaf that shimmered faintly when she tilted it toward the light. The heading read:

  Hollow Oak Council Coordination Notice

  Contractor assigned: Rowan Baneville. Renovation assistance authorized. Begin at your discretion, pending safety review.

  Her eyes caught on the name. She said it aloud, testing the shape. “Rowan Baneville.” The syllables landed with the weight of pine and distance. Her imagination, maybe. That tended to run ahead of her anyway.

  She set the notice down and tucked Miriam’s list into her back pocket. The inn would need a sweep before she made plans with a stranger. Learn the rhythm of the place. Feel its bones. She shrugged out of her coat, rolled up her sleeves, and climbed the stairs.

  The staircase groaned under her weight. She patted the newel post in apology and counted the creaks—third, seventh, ninth. The second-floor hallway smelled faintly of lavender sachets tucked into drawers years ago and varnish that had long since dulled. In the first guest room, sunlight spilled over a quilt patched in mismatched fabric stars. Diana pressed her palm against the wall and closed her eyes. Warm. Tired. Still willing to be useful.

  “I know that feeling,” she murmured.

  Down the hall, a window fought her at the latch. She leaned in with her shoulder until it relented, opening on a breath of crisp autumn. Beyond the square, the forest blazed in copper and gold. The path through the trees led toward the glade where the Council gathered, and even from here she thought she could feel the Veil humming—subtle, insistent, like a violin note under the skin.

  Her phone buzzed. Miriam’s name flashed on the screen.

  “Tell me the floorboards didn’t pitch you through the cellar,” Miriam said without preamble.

  “Not yet.” Diana smiled. “They flirted with the idea.”

  “Floors always flirt when you show up with a clipboard. You sound steady.”

  “I’m trying.” She glanced into the hallway mirror. Honey-blonde curls framed her face in their usual loose riot, dust smudged one sleeve of her cardigan, and freckles brightened when nerves pricked her skin. She didn’t mind the reflection. It looked like someone determined. “I found your envelopes. Thank you.”

  “Good. How does it feel in there?”

  “Like it’s waiting for me to introduce myself properly. Not unfriendly. More… testing.”

  Miriam laughed, low and knowing. “That sounds right. Did you see the Council notice?”

  “I did. Rowan Baneville. Should I be worried about a contractor the Council sends instead of one I pick?”

  “He’s not a punishment,” Miriam said firmly. “He’s a safeguard. Good hands. Simple work shirts. A way of standing that makes people rethink their nonsense. Quiet sort. Also the kind who shows up when he says he will. Let him take the heavy lifting until the bones are sound.”

  “Are there strings I should know about?”

  “Only the ones you choose to tie yourself,” Miriam said, her tone softening. “You have more say than you think, Diana. This town respects stability. It may take a minute for some to put a human in that category. That’s not your fault. It’s just history.”

  Diana hesitated. “Why me, though? We’ve never met. I don’t have innkeeping experience, and I’m… nobody special.”

  “Child,” Miriam said gently, “you’ve been searching for home your whole life. Your gift lets you feel what others feel, which means you’ll know exactly what your guests need before they do. More importantly, you answered the call. Not everyone would get on a bus with nothing but a suitcase and a stranger’s letter.”

  Diana’s throat tightened. “How did you know about⁠—”

  “Your gift?” Miriam cut in, voice calm. “Hollow Oak calls to people who need what it offers. And sometimes it needs what they offer in return. Everyone here is different in their own way. Like that wolf of a contractor who’s coming.”

  “A wolf?” Diana asked, brows lifting.

  “Yes, dear. Shifters, witches, fae, vampires—you’ll find them all in Hollow Oak. Safe haven, for us and for the ones who need it. And you will, too.”

  Diana swallowed. “So Rowan is a shifter.”

  “Through and through. An alpha at that. A man of few words, but his actions speak volumes. He’s come back to Hollow Oak, and you’ll find you two have more in common than you realize. You can’t run from that. You can’t hide from it, either.”

  Diana felt her empathic sense stir, that ripple of energy whenever someone spoke a truth too heavy to ignore. She didn’t understand the shape of it yet, only that Miriam believed what she said.

  “I’ll come by tomorrow to walk to the kitchen with you,” Miriam added. “Promised the Council I’d let you breathe on day one.”

  “Thank you. For the keys. For everything.”

  “Keys are simple,” Miriam said. “People are the adventure. Call if the boiler sings.”

  They hung up with the comfort of women who didn’t need to fuss.

  Diana tucked the phone away and headed downstairs. The kitchen smelled of copper pots and old rosemary. A scarred butcher block bore decades of knife marks. Two mugs sat upside down on a towel, as if waiting for her. She found the good kettle Miriam had mentioned, filled it, and let it heat while she stared out the window at her new world.

  Later, tea in hand, she returned to the desk and set it beside the ledger. “So,” she told the book, “you and me. We’re going to be organized and charming. Game nights. Story hours. Breakfasts people brag about years later.”

  She flipped to a fresh notebook page. Headings appeared under her pen: Paint colors. Safety inspection. Bed frames. Contractor meeting.

  Her empathic gift whispered again as she dri
fted into the parlor. It wasn’t sight or sound, more the echo of laughter pressed into wallpaper and grief made lighter by comfort. She stood in the center, closed her eyes, and whispered, “I want to keep whatever this is. I won’t scrub it out.”

  A low wind picked up, rattling the shutters. Rain began to patter against the roof, soft at first, then steadier. Diana reached for her notes when a new sound joined the storm—a measured scrape above her, heavy footsteps moving across shingles. Her heart jolted.

  Contractor. Rowan Baneville.

  She turned to the door just as a firm knock echoed through the lobby, reverberating against cedar and cinnamon and every promise she had just made.

  2

  ROWAN

  Rain ran off Rowan’s jacket in thin streams, dripping onto the inn’s porch as the storm pressed in around him. Old scars prickled beneath his shirt, the kind of warning that never lied. The storm had rolled in fast, autumn gray and sharp, but it wasn’t the weather that held him there. It was the light spilling from the inn’s windows, warm against the gloom. He’d meant to wait until morning. Instead, he knocked.

  Just a job, he told himself, flexing fingers that wanted to curl into fists. Fix the core, take the pay, move on. Nothing to do with the town that once let him walk away. Nothing to do with the fact that he’d come back anyway.

  The door opened, and his wolf went perfectly still.

  Diana Merrick stood framed in the glow of the lobby. Honey-blonde curls caught the light like threads of gold, her cardigan dusted with flour or maybe cleaning powder, sleeves shoved to her elbows. She looked like someone who worked until the job was done. But it was her eyes that stopped him—amber flecked with gold, steady, curious, unflinching.

  The wolf in him stirred, low and insistent. He crushed it back.

  “Ms. Merrick.” His voice came out rougher than he intended. Rain tapped against the porch roof. “Rowan Baneville. Council sent me about the renovations.”

  “Diana,” she corrected, stepping back. “Come in before you drown.”

  He crossed the threshold, careful not to brush her shoulder. The inn wrapped around him like memory: cedar beams, stone hearth, the faded rug where he’d once sat as a boy listening to Miriam’s stories. The smell was the same too—cedar and cinnamon, threaded now with chamomile and something sweeter, honey or vanilla.

  Focus. He forced his attention to the room. Water stains marred the ceiling. The front window rattled against its frame. The third floorboard sagged near the desk. The bones were speaking already.

  “Miriam said you’d be coming,” Diana said. She’d moved behind the reception desk, one hand resting on an open notebook. “Though I wasn’t expecting anyone in this weather.”

  “Storm doesn’t wait on convenience.” Rowan shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the coat tree. His flannel underneath was damp but serviceable. “Better to see what we’re dealing with before it gets worse.”

  She nodded. Her gaze lingered on his forearms where scars cut pale against tanned skin, old marks from claws and construction alike. Most people looked away. Diana didn’t. She studied them like they were a story she wanted to understand.

  “How long have you lived in Hollow Oak?” she asked.

  The question slid in sideways, too casual to be harmless. “Left for a while. Came back.”

  “Recently?”

  “Recent enough.” He brushed his hand along the banister. Solid oak, but the third step sagged. “Mind if I look around? Get a feel for what needs doing?”

  “Of course.” She grabbed a flashlight from the counter. “Lead the way.”

  They climbed the stairs, her light steps following the weight of his boots. The hallway carried the scent of lavender and dust, doors open to rooms that hadn’t held guests in too long. At the far end, a bucket caught water dripping steady from a warped window frame.

  “That’s been going on for weeks,” she said. “Miriam thought it was manageable, but⁠—”

  “It’s not.” Rowan crouched, checking the spread of water damage down the wall. “If we don’t get into this soon, the frame will rot. Might need replacing.”

  Her arms folded tight across her chest. “Expensive?”

  He glanced at her. She bit her lip, eyes sharp but worried. Something in his chest tugged hard, protective instinct he had no right to feel.

  “Depends how deep it goes,” he said. “Could be a day’s work, could be a week.” He stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Won’t know till I strip the siding.”

  “And you’ll handle it?” she pressed. “The Council didn’t just assign you to write notes?”

  “I’ll do what needs doing.” His voice came out firm, more promise than he’d meant.

  She studied him for a beat, then nodded, tension easing from her shoulders. “Where do we start then? Roof or rot?”

  The practical question hit deeper than it should have. The way she said we landed heavier still, like he was already part of her plan. Like she trusted him, and trust was a thing Hollow Oak had never given back easily.

  “Roof,” he said. “Storm’s not done, and you’ll want to be watertight before the real weather sets in. After that, we’ll see what the bones tell us.”

  “The bones?”

  “Every old building has a story. You just have to listen to hear what it needs.”

  Diana tilted her head. “And what’s this one telling you?”

  Rowan’s gaze moved over the place. He’d run these halls as a boy, carried trays for Miriam, memorized which groans were harmless and which spelled trouble. The inn had been a sanctuary once, back when he’d needed one.

  “That it’s been waiting,” he said finally.

  “For what?”

  For you, his wolf whispered. He clamped down on the thought. “For someone to care for it properly again.”

  Her smile was soft, unguarded. “I can do that.”

  His throat tightened. He turned, cleared his voice. “We should check the porch.”

  They stepped outside. Rain fell steady, drumming against shingles. Across the square, Griddle & Grind glowed golden, Twyla’s chalkboard luring the late crowd. The Book Nook sign creaked, and Rowan could picture Lucien scowling at a customer who dog-eared a page. The town hadn’t changed. He wasn’t sure if that was comfort or curse.

  Diana hugged her cardigan closer. “I’ve got the Council’s safety checklist and a map Miriam left. Want copies?”

  “Show me both. I’ll make a work order and you can sign off. We’ll take it in phases. You stay open limited, or close till I clear it.”

  “Limited,” she decided. “I’d rather move slow than make a mess.”

  “Good.”

  Back in the lobby, she spread the papers across the desk. His hand dwarfed the pages as he wrote notes in the margins, circling the north wall, underlining stair issues, adding a line under smoke alarms. She leaned in to point something out, her sleeve brushing his arm.

  “Here,” she said, tapping the map. “The parlor wall. It feels tired.”

  He pressed his palm against the plaster, listening. The timber hummed under his skin. “You’re right.” Her eyes lit like he’d passed some private test.

  “Can I ask something not about drywall?”

  “Ask.”

  “You grew up here. The way you move through the building, the way you look at the square—it shows.”

  He didn’t answer. Some truths sat too heavy to spill. “You’ve got Council backing,” he said instead. “Not everyone gets that. Use it. Put your permits where folks can see them. If anyone gets cute about you being human, point at the paperwork.”

  She exhaled, not relief exactly, but steadiness. “I can do that.”

  A metallic tang brushed his senses. Roof leak spreading. “I’m going up,” he said. “Tarp, then brace the north sill. I’ll need a key for the service door.”

  She tugged Miriam’s keyring from her pocket, slipping one free. “Need help? Holding the ladder, handing nails?”

  “Hold the ladder. That’s all. No climbing in this weather.”

  She nodded like it was an honor. He pretended it wasn’t.

  At his truck, he grabbed a folded tarp and roofing paper. The ladder went up easy. Diana planted her hands firmly on the rails, feet braced. His wolf approved. People who held steady were rarer than people who talked.