“Don’t climb,” he said. “If anything shifts, step back.”

  “I’m not reckless.”

  “Good.”

  On the roof, rain slapped cold against him. He moved fast and sure, testing for soft spots, laying tarp where it would hold the flow. When the wind pulled, he braced, set anchors, and kept working until water ran clean away. By the time he climbed down, his jacket clung to him, heavy with rain.

  Diana stood ready, soaked at the shoulders, curls frizzed into defiance. She hadn’t budged. When he reached the bottom, she caught the ladder, hand close enough to his he could feel her warmth even through the storm chill.

  “Inside,” he said. “You’re drenched.”

  “I’ll make a towel offering to the laundry gods.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched.

  In the lobby, she fetched two towels. She tossed him one without fuss and scrubbed her own hair with the other. That simple domesticity pressed against his ribs in a way he didn’t like. He wiped rain from his neck and draped the towel on a chair.

  “I can pay for materials today,” she said. “Miriam left a fund for emergencies.”

  “I’ll bill each phase. No surprises.”

  He crouched by the north wall, running his hand along the baseboard. Moisture lurked in the seams. “I’ll brace this tonight. Tomorrow, we pull the clapboard and see how deep it goes.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  His gaze flicked to the ledger on the desk. Blank page, neat date across the top. He liked that she hadn’t filled it with false names. He liked that she talked to walls and listened back.

  “Rules,” he said. “Lobby stays clear when work starts. Only you, me, and anyone I bring. Volunteers can handle safe tasks.”

  “I can manage that.”

  “If you need the town involved, give them small wins. Tea hours. Story nights. People like to see progress with their own hands.”

  She blinked. “You’ve given this thought.”

  “People stay calm if they’ve got something useful to do.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and the way she said it carried weight. “I’ll draft a schedule and send it to the Council aide. You’ll look it over?”

  “Yeah.”

  He stood to mark measurements on the plaster. She drifted closer with the papers, their shoulders brushing again. Heat crawled across his skin, his wolf pressing close. He locked his jaw and kept writing.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, not stepping away. “I crowd when I think.”

  “It’s fine.”

  They worked in companionable silence, trading words only when needed. She asked questions without shame; he answered plain. When he told her a piece of trim was unsalvageable, she winced, then asked if they could reuse it as décor. He said yes. She smiled like he’d given her a gift.

  Rain eased outside, leaving the square wrapped in quiet mist. Rowan rolled the plan, slid it into a cardboard tube. “I’ll be back at dawn. North wall first, then stairs.”

  “Coffee will be ready,” she said.

  He slung his tool bag over his shoulder, then paused. “Back door swells. Use the front if you’re alone. Lock both. If anything feels off, call the Council line.”

  Her gaze met his. “Any reason I should expect trouble?”

  He breathed out slow. No sense borrowing fear for her yet. “Storms bring opportunists. They like shadows.”

  “All right.” Her eyes searched his, measuring him as much as the warning. “Thank you, Rowan.”

  He tipped two fingers from the brim of his cap. “Diana.”

  The porch met him with the scent of wet leaves and the lake beyond the trees. He told himself again this was just a job. Fix the core. Leave. His wolf didn’t agree. It paced inside him, shoving images into his mind: a warm lobby, names filling the ledger, a woman laughing because she’d finally found her place.

  Rowan went down the steps into the rain. He didn’t look back. He already knew the sound of that door closing.

  3

  DIANA

  The sound of hammering pulled Diana from sleep at quarter past six. She lay still, listening to the steady rhythm above her head, then smiled into her pillow. Rowan had said dawn. Apparently, he meant it.

  She dressed in jeans and a soft green sweater, braiding her hair back to keep it out of her face. The inn felt different this morning—more alive somehow, purpose thrumming through its bones. Coffee first, then she’d see what progress looked like.

  In the kitchen, a note leaned against the sugar bowl in Miriam’s tidy script: Back at nine with stories and tea. Don’t let him work without breakfast. – M.

  Diana smiled and put the kettle on. Through the window, Rowan’s truck was parked at an angle that shielded the work area from the morning sun. Thoughtful. She pulled bacon from the fridge and cracked eggs into a bowl.

  By eight-thirty, she carried a tray upstairs. Rowan knelt on the landing, prying loose floorboards with a crowbar. His flannel clung damp with sweat despite the cool air, sleeves rolled high to reveal forearms strong with corded muscle. He glanced up, pale eyes catching the light.

  “Coffee,” she said, setting the tray on a nearby sawbuck. “And fuel.”

  He rocked back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. “Didn’t expect room service.”

  “Miriam’s orders.” She passed him a steaming mug. “How’s it looking?”

  “Better than I thought.” He gestured at the exposed subfloor. “Rot didn’t spread far. I can sister new joists to the old ones. Solid for another century.”

  She crouched beside him, studying the wood dark with age but sound at its core. “Beautiful work. Whoever built this knew what they were doing.”

  “Henry Caldwell and half the town. Nineteen ninety.” Rowan accepted the plate of eggs and bacon. “Miriam’s husband led the crew.”

  “I didn’t know she’d been married.”

  “Lost him young. Heart attack. She never remarried. Said the inn was family enough.”

  Diana’s chest ached for Miriam, a woman who’d poured herself into these walls. “She chose well.”

  “She did.” His eyes met hers briefly before he bent back to his meal. “This is good. Thanks.”

  They ate in companionable quiet, birds calling from the lake’s edge and a doorbell chiming faintly from Griddle & Grind across the square.

  When she gathered the dishes, Rowan caught her wrist lightly. “Stairs are solid from here down. Watch the third step till I fix it this afternoon.”

  His hand was warm, callused. For a breath, neither of them moved. Then footsteps sounded below, and he let go.

  Miriam waited in the lobby, wrapped in a wool coat the color of autumn leaves, a wicker basket looped over one arm.

  “Good morning, dear.” Her smile was bright, spectacles glinting. “Ready for a proper introduction to your inheritance?”

  “Rowan says the bones are sound.”

  “Of course they are. Henry built this place to last.” Miriam opened the basket, producing a tin painted with roses and a thick folder. “Earl Grey with lavender—good for nerves. And these”—she tapped the folder—“are the stories that matter.”

  “Stories?”

  “Every inn needs mythology. Come on.”

  She led Diana through the lobby, pausing at the mantel where photographs crowded the shelf: wedding guests, children opening presents, strangers raising toasts.

  “That one’s from ’98,” Miriam said, tapping a photo of bundled-up families. “Blizzard trapped twelve strangers here for four days. They left as lifelong friends. Still exchange Christmas cards.”

  She pointed at another. “This was the night a siren sang in the parlor. Heartbroken over some sea prince. Keened till dawn, and by morning half the town was in love with her.”

  Diana studied the images, each one proof that the inn had always been more than shelter.

  “They all look… happy.”

  “Belonging is powerful magic,” Miriam said. “This place has always specialized in it.”

  Upstairs, the thud of Rowan’s work echoed faintly. Miriam’s eyes twinkled as she called, “Morning, Rowan. How’s the patient?”

  “Responding well,” he answered, and Diana heard a warmth in his tone she hadn’t before.

  “Good boy. Don’t let him skip lunch, Diana. Men forget to eat when they’re focused.”

  Heat touched her cheeks as they moved on.

  Miriam opened a guest room painted soft blue. “This suite’s seen three marriage proposals. Something about the light makes people brave.”

  The next held a story of a famous author, another of a father and daughter who reconciled over hot chocolate and Scrabble. Each space carried its own mythology, its own proof that this inn held lives and shaped them.

  “People come here when they need something they can’t name,” Miriam said as they paused at a window overlooking the square. “Your job is to help them find it.”

  Diana clutched the tea tin tighter. “But I’m human. What if I don’t⁠—”

  “Have the instincts?” Miriam cut her off gently. “Your gift is different, not lesser. You feel what others feel. That means you’ll know what guests need before they do. Trust it.”

  Diana looked down at the square. Locals bustled between shops, the Book Nook’s windows gleaming, the café chalkboard promising chai and gossip. Beneath it all, her sense picked up the steady hum of the Veil, woven into every heartbeat of town life.

  “You belong if you choose to,” Miriam said. “That’s the only rule that matters here. Choice, Diana. Not blood, not power, not history. Choice.”

  The truth settled into her bones like steeping tea. “I choose to.”

  “Good.” Miriam’s grin turned sly. “Now let’s make it official. Time to meet Twyla.”

  The café bell chimed as they stepped into warmth and cinnamon. Twyla Honeytree looked up from behind the counter, wheat-colored hair wrapped in a scarf, her smile radiant.

  “Miriam! And you must be Diana.” She rounded the counter with effortless grace. “Welcome to the heart of Hollow Oak.”

  “Thank you. This place is lovely,” Diana said, shaking her hand. Warmth rolled off Twyla, with a shimmer that hinted at her fae blood.

  “Coffee? Tea? Fresh scones begging for company?” Twyla grinned.

  “Coffee would be perfect.”

  Twyla worked the espresso machine, movements quick and sure. The café smelled of sugar, bread, and something floral that might have been magic.

  “So,” Twyla said, sliding over a mug, “how’s renovation? Heard hammering before the sun was up.”

  “Rowan’s making progress.” Diana took a sip. Perfect coffee.

  “Rowan Baneville,” Twyla said, voice light but speculative. “There’s a wolf who needs a good reason to stay.”

  Diana nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Twyla waved airily, but her grin was wicked. “First time he’s stuck with a project this big. First time he’s had the right motivation.”

  “Twyla,” Miriam warned, though her tone was amused.

  “What? Just observation.” Twyla reached under the counter and produced a wicker basket lined with gingham. “Take these to fuel the renovation. Can’t have hardworking wolves going hungry.”

  Diana accepted the basket, warm with fresh scones. “Thank you, but I’m not sure what you’re implying about⁠—”

  “About wolves needing reasons?” Twyla leaned closer. “Honey, some folks drift until they find something worth protecting. Worth building a future around.”

  Heat climbed Diana’s neck. “We just met yesterday.”

  “Time moves different in Hollow Oak,” Twyla said with a knowing smile. “Especially when the Veil nudges.”

  “The Veil doesn’t push,” Miriam corrected. “It clarifies.”

  Diana looked between them. “You’re matchmaking.”

  “We’re observing,” Twyla said sweetly. “But that wolf’s been circling the idea of home for months. First time he’s stepped inside somewhere.”

  She tucked extra pastries into the basket. “These are his favorites. Not that I’m suggesting anything.”

  “Of course not,” Diana said dryly.

  “Good. Suggestion implies subtlety.” Twyla laughed, bright as bells. “Wolves don’t do halfway. When they commit, it’s everything.”

  Diana’s gift stirred, catching genuine affection beneath Twyla’s teasing. They weren’t meddling just for fun. They cared—for her, for Rowan, for Hollow Oak.

  “He’s helping with renovations,” Diana said carefully.

  “For now,” Twyla agreed cheerfully, tying a ribbon on the basket. “But when the time comes, don’t let fear choose for you. Some things are worth the risk.”

  Diana clutched the basket, the words echoing as clearly as Miriam’s: You belong if you choose to.

  Outside, the hammering resumed, steady and sure, as if the inn itself approved.

  4

  ROWAN

  Rowan had already wolfed down two of Twyla’s scones by the time Diana came back with a handful of painter’s tape and a pencil behind her ear. Cinnamon clung to his tongue, sugar on the edge of his thumb. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand and set the empty napkin on the desk.

  “Fuel working?” she asked, eyeing the crumbs.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Thank Twyla,” she replied. “She thinks you require pastries to reach your potential.”

  He grunted, which only made her mouth tilt like she’d gotten exactly the reaction she wanted.

  They moved to the north wall. Morning light found its way through the cloudy window and made the dust look like a slow snowfall. He set his tape measure, squared his shoulders to the plaster, and started calling numbers.

  “Stud here,” he said, tapping the wall with his knuckle. “Sixteen inches to the next. Read me off the marks as I go.”

  She lifted the clipboard. “Sixteen, thirty-two, forty-eight…”

  He measured beams, catalogued problems, and pretended not to notice how she hummed when she was nervous. It was a tiny sound, almost not a note at all, more breath than melody. It drew along his spine in a way he refused to name.

  “Header’s good,” he said. “Sill’s where the trouble lives. We’ll brace it until I can open the exterior.”

  “Tell me where to stand,” she said. “And how not to be in the way.”

  “You’re not in the way.” He set his square, penciled a line. “Hold this end of the tape. Keep it flat.”

  She stepped in. They were shoulder to shoulder now, her sweater brushing his flannel, her perfume a quiet ribbon of vanilla and tea. He kept his focus on the steel tape and the numbers, on the steady work of making a weak thing strong.

  “Mark at seventy-two and a half,” he said.

  She reached to take the tape, fingers sure. Their hands touched, light as a match strike.

  The mate-bond recognition hit him hard. Silver bright. Undeniable. It rolled through his body and landed low, precise as a claim. Scents sharpened. The inn itself seemed to hum. His wolf rose, ears forward, eyes on her. Mine.

  He shut it down fast, buried deep like he’d practiced. He let out a short breath, masked the quake with a noncommittal grunt, and flattened the tape against the plaster.

  “Trim,” he said, voice steady by habit. “Casings here are two and a quarter. We can match, or go three if you want it chunkier. Classic look either way.”

  She blinked, the smallest hitch like she’d felt something too, then nodded and found her place again. “What do you prefer?”

  “Match what’s here,” he said. “Makes the building feel like itself.”

  “I like that,” she said quietly. “Being itself.”

  His pencil moved. “We’ll keep it honest, then.”

  They worked through the measurements. He called, she marked. He braced his boot against the baseboard and set a temp cleat while she steadied the level with careful fingers.

  “Hold,” he said.

  “Holding.”

  He drilled into the cleat and liked the bite of sound wood grabbing the screw. Progress. Order. Useful things.

  “Rowan,” she said after a bit, “how do you know where the trouble lives just by listening?”

  He set down the drill and pressed his palm flat to the wall again. “Old buildings talk. Some groans mean they’re settling happy. Some mean they want help.” He glanced at her. “You ever pick up a feeling in a room, even when no one’s in it?”

  Her mouth rounded with a soft laugh. “You have no idea.”

  He did, actually. He felt it every time she walked close and the air seemed to lean toward her.

  “Take the tape again,” he said, voice flat to hide the thought. “We need a second brace.”

  She moved closer. Their fingers met for a second time. His pulse kicked hard and even. The wolf inside him set a pace, circling, restless and ready. He kept his expression neutral and talked hardware.

  “We’ll need new shoe molding,” he said. “This piece is done.”

  “I like the name,” she said. “Shoe molding. It sounds friendly.”

  “Friendly is not usually how I’d describe trim,” he said, and her smile bloomed like he’d given her more than a line.

  A knock came at the open door. Miriam leaned in with two paper cups. “Tea for the boss and coffee for the muscle.” She handed Rowan the coffee without waiting to be told which was which. “How’s my patient?”

  “Stable,” Rowan said. “Better after lunch.”

  “Then don’t skip it,” Miriam replied, eyes dancing. “I made a stew. It’s sitting in my oven. Diana, grab it around noon. Feed that man.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Diana said, which seemed to please Miriam more than any promise about paint colors.

  When Miriam left, the room quieted again. Rain had stopped. The square outside sent in the soft shuffle of day. Rowan slotted a brace and let his weight push it into place.

  “You okay?” Diana asked, watching him. “You went quiet.”