This, I think, is Lowe. Not Lowe the Alpha, Lowe the brother, Lowe the friend, or the son, or the unfortunate husband of the equally unfortunate wife. Just: Lowe. Tired, I think. Lonely, I assume. Angry, I bet. And I don’t want to disturb his rare moment alone, but the breeze lifts, blowing in his direction and carrying my scent.
He instantly spins around. To me. And when his eyes become all pupils, I lift my hand and awkwardly wave.
“Ana told me about the roof,” I say, apologetic. I’m intruding on a cherished private moment. “I can leave . . .”
He shakes his head stoically. I swallow a laugh.
“If you sit here”—I point to my right—“you’ll be between me and the wind. No bouillabaisse smell.”
His lips twitch, but he makes his way to the spot I was pointing at, his large body folding nex
