Don't Call Me Luna

Chapter Six

KATANA

Market Forces and Other Disasters

The problem with sharing candy bars as peace offerings was that I had no f*****g clue what came next. Do we pretend the kitchen thing didn't happen? Do we acknowledge the weird tension that made my skin feel too tight whenever Dave Westwood looked at me like I was something worth figuring out? Do we talk about how I'd basically admitted to being broken while he stood there radiating the kind of patient understanding that made me want to either kiss him or punch him?

I'd gone with Option D: Pretend everything was normal while internally screaming.

"Market day." I announced to the assembled masses in what used to be our chapel, now serving as command center for Operation Don't Starve. "Everyone knows the drill. Decorative items only. Hand-painted mason jars repurposed as decorative vases. Nobody mentions alcohol content, proof levels, or the fact that Margot's special batch can make you see your dead relatives."

"They're very chatty dead relatives," Margot called out helpfully. "Lots of opinions about modern dating."

"Moving on." I caught Dave's eye across the room and felt that stupid flutter in my chest that had been plaguing me since the chocolate incident. He looked tired, probably because he'd spent the night in a trailer with a ghost who had strong feelings about bathroom etiquette. "Dave, I've changed my mind: you're staying here."

"Like hell I am."

The automatic opposition hit me like déjà vu. Every alpha I'd ever dealt with tried to challenge me, assert dominance, prove they belonged at the top of whatever hierarchy their ego required. When I said stay, they argued. When I said jump, they wanted to know how high before deciding it wasn't high enough.

Dave just looked at me like I was being unreasonable.

Which was worse, somehow.

"You'll be recognized." I tried the practical approach. "Westwoods don't exactly blend in with moonshine distributors. You get spotted, we all get fucked."

"I can handle a simple farmers market."

"You can handle a simple farmers market the way a peacock can handle camouflage." Cheryl materialized with her magic bag of solutions, producing thick-rimmed glasses that had seen better decades. "However, Clark Kent had the right idea."

She handed Dave the glasses with the ceremonial gravity of someone bestowing sacred artifacts. He put them on, and the silence that followed had weight.

Holy. f*****g. Hell.

The man had gone from stupidly attractive to catastrophically gorgeous. The glasses somehow made his eyes look bigger, more intense, while adding this whole sexy professor thing that made my brain short-circuit and my wolf start purring like a damn house cat.

I wasn't the only one having problems. Methany actually gasped. Tommy made a noise that sounded like someone had punched him in the solar plexus. Even Crash and Burn, who'd seen some s**t in their time, were staring like they'd witnessed a miracle.

"Take them off." My voice came out rougher than intended. "Right now."

"Why?"

"Because you look like you teach advanced anatomy with hands-on demonstrations." I grabbed the trucker hat I'd been saving for special occasions—bright red with "I Voted for the Other Guy" emblazoned across the front in patriotic fury. "This should help."

Dave took the hat, read the message, and rolled his eyes with the long-suffering patience of someone who'd clearly dealt with worse indignities. "Really?"

"Really. You want to blend in at a Kentucky farmers market, you wear the hat and pretend to have opinions about NASCAR."

"Fine. But I'm drawing the line at overalls."

"Don't tempt me."

He put on the hat, and somehow the combination of sexy professor glasses and political spite made him look even more devastating. Like Clark Kent decided to run for office on a platform of making everyone question their life-long political stance.

We loaded Eddie's truck with our "decorative vases" while I tried not to think about how Dave's jeans fit when he bent over to lift boxes. Or how his forearms looked when he hefted cases like they weighed nothing. Or how he'd taste if I just grabbed him and—

Focus, Lightfoot. Survival first, s****l frustration later.

The Lexington farmers market sprawled across the old tobacco warehouse district like organized chaos. Vendors hawked everything from actual vegetables to crafts that defied both artistic vision and good taste. We set up between a soap maker who believed crystals enhanced lather and an elderly woman selling what she claimed were "heirloom tomatoes" but looked suspiciously like regular tomatoes with short-king issues.

"Remember," I told Dave as we arranged our completely innocent decorative vases, "you're a friend of the family helping out. Nothing more complicated than that."

"Got it."

"And stop looking so..."

"So what?"

"So f*****g helpful. You're making the rest of us look bad."

But it was too late. Women had already started circling our booth like sharks who'd caught the scent of something delicious. They approached with the calculated casualness of shoppers who definitely weren't shopping for whatever we were officially selling.

"These vases are lovely." A suburban mom with highlights that didn't come from drugstore hair dye, picked up one of our mason jars, turning it in the light. "Very rustic. What would you recommend for, say, storing homemade preserves?"

"These particular vases are decorative only." Dave's voice carried that butter-smooth drawl that made my knees forget their structural purpose. "Though I suppose if someone were to use them for preserves, they'd want something with a tight seal. Mason jar threading, maybe. Something that could handle pressure."

"Pressure?"

"Fermentation. Expansion. The natural processes that occur when organic materials interact with time and... chemistry."

Jesus Christ, the man was explaining moonshine production like he was discussing wine pairings. And the woman was hanging on every word like he was revealing the secrets of the universe.

"How fascinating. I'll take six."

"Excellent choice."

Within an hour, we'd attracted a crowd that would have made a boy band jealous. Women of all ages found excuses to linger near our booth, asking Dave questions about everything from preservation techniques to the weather. He answered with patient charm, somehow managing to provide useful information without actually saying anything incriminating.

I watched him work the crowd and felt something ugly twist in my chest. Jealousy, probably, mixed with territorial instincts that had no business existing. These women looked at him like he was something they could take home, keep, make part of their safe suburban lives.

They had no idea what they were dealing with. Dave Westwood wasn't some farmer's market eye-candy. He was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with muscles or magic and everything to do with the way he made you believe things could be different. Better. Worth fighting for.

"Excuse me." A voice cut through my territorial brooding with the precision of a scalpel. "Dave? Dave Westwood?"

The man approaching our booth looked like he'd stepped out of a catalog for People Who Made Better Life Choices. Pressed khakis, polo shirt, the kind of confidence that came from never having to worry about where your next meal was coming from. He stared at Dave like he'd discovered a long-lost relative in a zoo.

"Preston." Dave's voice went carefully neutral. "How are you?"

"How am I?" Preston's gaze swept from Dave's ridiculous hat to our definitely-not-moonshine display to me, standing there in jeans that had holes in strategic places and a t-shirt that had given up pretending to be respectable. "I'm wondering what the hell you're doing here. With... this."

"These are my friends."

"Friends." Preston said the word like it tasted rotten. "Right. Is this some kind of charity project? Slumming with the locals? What's next, helping them apply for food stamps?"

The noise that came out of my throat wasn't quite a growl, but it made Preston take a step back. Which was smart of him, because I was approximately three seconds from introducing his face to my fist.

"Actually," I said, voice sweet as antifreeze, "Dave's been helping us expand our small business. Teaching us about customer service. Marketing. You know, useful skills for productive members of society."

"Right. And what exactly is your business?"

"We make decorative items. As you can see." I gestured to our display of innocent mason jars. "Hand-painted vases. Very popular with people who appreciate authentic craftsmanship."

"Authentic." Preston's laugh was ugly, sharp. "That's one word for it."

"Another word might be 'profitable.'" Dave stepped slightly forward, and something in his posture made Preston's smirk falter. "We're running about a three hundred percent markup on materials. Not bad for honest work."

"Honest work." Preston recovered his sneer with admirable speed. "Dave, what would your father say if he saw you here? Playing at being common with people who probably can't spell 'entrepreneur'?"

That did it. My Diet Coke was in my hand and flying toward Preston's face before conscious thought engaged. The dark liquid caught him square in the eyes, 32 ounces of caffeinated commentary on his life choices.

"Oops." I watched him sputter and drip with the satisfaction of someone who'd finally found a productive use for soft drinks. "Clumsy me. Though technically, that's assault with a carbonated beverage. Much less serious than assault with actual intent to harm."

"You crazy b***h—"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence." Dave's voice dropped to register that made the air itself go still. Not loud, not aggressive, just absolutely certain in the way that mountains were certain about their own immovability. "If I were you."

Something shifted in Dave's posture, something that made my wolf wary and pay careful attention. He wasn't using traditional dominance—no eye contact challenges, no territorial displays—but suddenly the space around him felt different. Charged. Like standing too close to something with its own gravitational field.

Preston looked up at Dave—really looked, probably for the first time—and seemed to realize that he was five-foot-nine on his best day while Dave was six-foot-six without trying. The height difference was one thing. The way Dave held that height, like he'd never needed to prove anything to anyone, was another entirely.

"Now," Dave continued in that same terrifyingly calm voice, "I think you should apologize to the lady. And then I think you should leave."

"Apologize? To her?"

"To her. For the language. For the assumptions. For generally existing in a way that makes decent people uncomfortable."

Preston's face cycled through several colors before settling on puce. "This is insane. You're throwing your life away for... for trailer trash playing at—"

"Preston." Dave didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. "Leave. Now. Before I stop being polite."

Something in Dave's tone made Preston finally understand that wealthy privilege meant exactly f**k-all when you were dealing with someone who'd learned authority in military courtrooms and perfected it in supernatural law practice. He backed away, dripping Diet Coke and wounded dignity.

"This isn't over," he muttered, but he was already leaving.

"Yes, it is," Dave said simply.

Preston fled toward the parking lot, probably to call his daddy and complain about the rude people who'd ruined his slumming expedition. The crowd that had gathered to watch our impromptu entertainment began dispersing, though several customers made sure to buy our decorative vases before leaving.

"Well," I said when the excitement died down, "that was fun."

"You didn't have to do that." Dave turned to me, and something in his expression made my chest tight. "Throw your drink at him."

"Sure I did. He was being an asshole."

"He was being Preston. It's his natural state."

"Still needed correction."

Dave's mouth quirked up at the corner, which did interesting things to my pulse rate. "Thank you. For defending... this." He gestured at our booth, our business, the life we'd built from scraps and stubbornness.

"Thank you for being scary. That alpha thing you did was..." I caught myself before finishing that sentence, because admitting that Dave radiating quiet authority had made my wolf roll over and beg would probably violate several of my personal rules about dignity.

"Alpha thing?"

"Nothing. Forget I said anything."

But he was looking at me with that expression that meant he was filing information away for later use, probably in ways that would make me regret being honest.

We packed up the booth in comfortable silence, having sold all of our inventory to women who definitely weren't planning to use mason jars for flower arrangements. The ride back to the compound was quiet except for Eddie's humming and Methany's running commentary on Preston's "aura of douchebaggery."

"Not bad for a day's work," Cheryl announced as we tallied profits. "Though we might want to avoid that particular market for a few weeks. Just in case Preston decides to make trouble."

"Let him try." I was still riding the high of successful commerce and public humiliation of entitled assholes. "We'll be ready."

"Speaking of ready," Dave appeared at my elbow as we finished unloading, "what should we have for dinner?"

"Whatever you decide, I guess."

"Actually," he said, and something in his voice made me look at him more carefully, "I was wondering if you might want to cook together tonight. If you're not busy."

The offer hit me sideways. Nine days of Dave cooking for ninety-seven people with the patient efficiency of someone who'd found his calling, and now he was asking if I wanted to help. Not needed help—wanted my participation.

"I don't really cook."

"I noticed. But you might enjoy it. If you gave it a chance."

There was some wary hesitation in his voice, like he was offering more than kitchen duty and we both knew it. Partnership instead of charity. Collaboration instead of rescue.

My wolf stirred with interest, and my human half considered the various ways this could go wrong. Cooking together meant close quarters, shared tasks, the kind of domestic intimacy that led to poor decisions and morning-after regrets.

On the other hand, I'd been looking forward to washing dishes with him for three days running, which probably meant I was already in deeper trouble than cooking could create.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing fancy. Maybe something that uses the vegetables from your uncle's garden. I can also defrost the rest of the chicken. Simple, but good."

"I can do simple."

"I know you can."

The way he said it, like he was stating fact rather than offering encouragement, made something warm and dangerous unfurl in my chest. Dave Westwood looked at me like I was capable of things I'd never attempted, like the potential he saw was just waiting for the right opportunity to surface.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "Let's cook something."

His smile could have powered the entire compound. "Great. I'll meet you in the kitchen in an hour?"

"It's a date."

The words slipped out before I could stop them, hanging in the air between us like a challenge neither of us was ready to acknowledge. Dave's eyes went dark, and for a moment I thought he might say something that would change everything.

Instead, he nodded once. "It's a date."

He walked away, leaving me standing in the compound's main area with the taste of possibility on my tongue and the growing certainty that I was about to make the kind of mistake that felt less like error and more like destiny.

Nine days. The man had been here nine days, and already I was planning domestic activities like some kind of suburban housewife with lovingly named weapons and worse impulse control.

But as I watched him disappear into the murder trailer to change out of his farmers market disguise, I couldn't bring myself to regret the invitation. Some mistakes were worth making.

Some dates were worth the risk.