She Will Be Mine (New Horizon Book 2)

Chapter 14: Ronnie

I hope it's not some sort of sign or bad omen that on one of the few days when I actually put a little thought into my appearance, my little sister destroys all my careful work with one half-glass of milk at lunch. So, now I find myself hurrying to put together another comfortable outfit that looks decent enough without accentuating that extra flab around my middle when I sit down. Quickly pulling out a pair of dark, stretchy skinny jeans and another loose-fitting blouse, I scramble to throw on my fresh clothes, only to realize that I can still smell the milk on me.

Great. This is going to require a whole new shower, which will destroy the makeup I spent over an hour on, not because I put that much on but because I'm so bad at doing it. I know I don't have time to repeat that whole process, so I decide to just wash it off completely and accept the fact that Jason gets me in my natural form.

But to be fair, that's how he usually gets me. I just wanted to show him that I put in a little extra effort for him. I've read that it's important.

When I finally make it back down the hall, my mom is standing there talking to someone, I assume one of the twins.

"Hey, kid," she says when she notices me, as always. She takes a second to look me over and adds, "I like that outfit better anyway."

I appreciate what she's trying to do, but I don't believe her first of all, and secondly, now I'm wondering what might have been wrong with the first one that I didn't even notice. She should know better than to say something like that to me. It will only send my mind into a tailspin.

But I let it go, focusing on telling her the important part, that it took so long because I had to take a whole other shower thanks to Ashley. I'm going to be upset about that for a while considering that the milk only got spilled because she was goofing off at the table, and Mom didn't back me up when I scolded her about it and told her to knock it off. Mom knows the girls won't listen to me as well when she's around, but she never does anything about it, which only serves to further undermine my authority with them.

I don't know. Maybe I'm just more irritable today because my nerves are on edge. Most of this stuff wouldn't bother me much on a normal day.

I'm in the middle of telling my mom that I hope Jason won't be here for a little bit when I look up and notice that he's already here waiting for me. He's who she's been talking to. Though I appreciate that he's a few minutes early and normally that would be perfect, I had hoped that he'd be late this one time. I could use a few minutes to compose myself and try to get my nerves under control.

Not that it would have helped. The sight of him has my heart doing that thing it does when he's around where it feels like it might beat all the way through my ribs and jump right out of my chest. My palms immediately get sweaty enough that I almost drop my phone, and I trip a little on the living room carpet. I hate the effect he has on me, making me lose control and stumble over my words and everything else at the mere sight of him.

But I do appreciate the sight of him. I've been periodically pulling up that selfie he sent me last week, trying to study his features in a setting where I'm more comfortable. I don't think I otherwise would have had the opportunity to notice his hazel eyes, which are gold toward the centers and green around the outer edges of his irises. Not with how I never seem to be able to look directly at him when he's in front of me. And then there's his dark, wavy hair that's just long enough to curl around his ears, and the strong, sculpted features of his face.

I remember that face seeming intimidating and fierce when I first set eyes on him, and his eyes were a bright golden-brown, but that was his wolf I met back then. In that photo he sent, he looks more like the guy I met at my commencement. Friendlier, more approachable. Less terrifying. And dare I even say handsome. That could be why I have such a hard time looking straight at him. He's still intimidating, but in a different way.

"Oh. You're here," is all I seem to be able to offer him in way of greeting. At least I didn't stutter.

"I'm here," he chuckles in response. "But there's no rush if you need a few more minutes. I heard about the milk fiasco."

"N-no, it's okay."

Damn it. There's that pesky nerves-induced stutter. Get it together, Ronnie.

"I just need my shoes," I add carefully, making sure to think it out ahead of time and form all my words properly.

I point just behind and beside him to where the coat tree and shoe racks are, and he seems to take the hint, sliding out of my way so I can get over there without having to brush past him.

"Just as a heads up, Warren might be here when you get back," my mom warns me.

I freeze in place with my shoes in hand, taking that in. I don't appreciate that she waited until now to spring that on me. I'm looking forward to my plans with Jason, but I also know it's going to take a lot out of me. I won't have the mental energy leftover to be meeting someone new. In fact, I was hoping to just come back and chill in my bed or maybe even take a bath. I won't be able to relax enough to do either with a stranger in the house.

But I'm not going to bother saying any of that. This is her house, and her day off. She can do what she wants with them. I've spent over a week wishing she would treat me less preciously, so I can't get upset that she's finally doing exactly that.

"Okay," is all I say instead, turning my focus to putting on my shoes.

I glance at my jacket hanging on the coat tree, wishing it was chilly enough for it so I could use it to cover myself a little better, but the weather has been too warm for that. Not only would it make me sweaty and miserable, but I'd probably just seem odd to Jason.

"I'm ready," I announce.

"Have fun, kids," my mom says, reaching for me for a goodbye hug.

Then I let Jason lead me outside to his car. His very shiny, practically brand-new sports car. I don't know why I didn't expect him to have such a nice car, but I didn't.

"Is this a rental or something?" I can't help asking, though I immediately feel stupid about it.

"No, it was a present from my parents for my sweet sixteen. I considered flying over here and renting something, but honestly, I knew even before I left that I wanted to stick around, and I didn't want to be stuck with a rental for that long."

"Yeah, that would be expensive."

I can't seem to stop making stupid comments. If he has a car like this and can somehow afford staying in a motel all summer, then he probably isn't worried about the cost of things.

I don't know whether my mom is watching us out the window, but I kind of hope she is when I realize he's going to open my door for me. She would appreciate such a gentlemanly gesture.

Once we're both settled into our seats and he has the car on with the air running, he hesitates and turns to me.

"Look, Ronnie, I know you're incredibly nervous. I don't know if it helps or not, but me too," he admits, giving me a lopsided smile that makes him look a bit like an excited little boy. "I'm legitimately freaking out having you this close to me finally. I just thought you should know that."

It does help some to know that I'm not alone. He always seems fairly composed, and the only time that I've noticed even a hint of nerves from him was when he was interacting with my mom the other day. It made sense once he confessed that he was terrified of her when he first met her.

"I don't actually know whether this will help, but I kind of want to show you something," he continues before I get a chance to respond. "It will involve touching, but just a little bit and only for as long as you want."

Uh oh. I think I know what he wants to show me. From the reading I've done about mates and mate bonds, I'm aware of the bit where touching your mate can be comforting. The problem is that touching your mate also tends to facilitate bonding, creating and strengthening a physical connection. And then there's the fact that I hate to be touched. I have to get used to someone touching me, and I'm not sure I want to go there with him already.

I realize I've just been sitting and staring at where he is resting his arm on the console between us without saying anything, and try to snap myself out of it to answer him.

"I uh. Um."

Ugh, come on. Why can't I ever just speak plainly?

Thankfully, he jumps in to rescue me again.

"I know you hate touching, but I've been reading up on that sensory processing thing you were telling me about, and I think touching me might actually help you, as weird as that sounds. It might even help both of our nerves. I just want to try it. If it makes things worse for you, then I apologize in advance, and we won't do it again."

I can't seem to force any actual words to come out again, and he takes pity on me.

"It's okay. I didn't mean to make you more nervous with this, and I'm sorry for that. Look, I'll just leave my hand here, and you can take it if you want to." He moves his arm slightly, leaving his hand palm-up and available for me to take. "If not, we'll just go. No pressure."

I don't know how long I spend staring at his hand before I finally decide to be brave and go for it. The sight of my small hand against his large, broad one is almost laughable, though he doesn't seem to mind. He smiles brightly at me, watching and waiting for my reaction after I allow him to close his hand around mine.

It's startling, but not unpleasant. It's actually opposite of what I was expecting. I thought the tingling sensations described in the books I've read would make the normal feeling of insects crawling all over my skin so much worse, but it doesn't. The sensations in my skin actually quiet down. I feel it mostly where he's touching me, but there's a minimal, residual effect all over me. It feels kind of like a warm bath.

"Oh my gosh," I exclaim, laughing nervously. "Whoa."

"I can't tell whether that's good or bad."

"Good. I mean, yeah. Good. Better, yes."

"Okay, good," he chuckles. I glance up at him and realize there's relief written across his expression.

"How did you know it would do that?"

There's no way that there's information out there about mate bonds and their effects that I haven't read. But if there is, I want to know about it.

"Well, I looked up the sensory processing stuff like I said, and when I came across the part where it was talking about the overactivity in the brain and nervous system, I started to suspect the possibility that our bond could help you. If it's linked at least in part to a physical problem, then I don't see how it's much different than seeking comfort from your mate when you're injured. But I'm not a doctor, so I called one, a werewolf doctor that I know from back home. He said he couldn't promise it, but my hypothesis held merit and he'd love to know how it turns out if I get a chance to try it."

"Well, I guess you can tell him –" I start to suggest, changing course partway through when a better idea occurs to me. "I mean, actually, can I talk to him sometime?"

Maybe there aren't books out there already written about this, but I wouldn't mind talking to an expert. A werewolf doctor, no less. I've never even met one.

"Probably, though you'd probably also have to visit my pack to do it," he tells me.

The underlying hopefulness when he says that isn't lost on me. He would like very much for me to go back there. It's not the hard no for me that it was a couple weeks ago, but I'm also not all the way there yet.

"I suppose we should get going, though. That bookstore is only open a few more hours," he says, breaking the silence of the past few moments when I was just staring at our linked hands and wondering how it's even possible that someone touching me can actually feel better than not being touched.

I have no idea what must have been running through his head that whole time, but I don't disagree that it's time to get going. He gives my hand one last squeeze before taking his away, which I have to admit makes me a little sad. I like that feeling, and I miss it already.

"You can have it back whenever you like, but I need it for a minute to back us out of here," he seems to speak directly to my thoughts, the way he seems to have a way of doing.

I manage to resist the urge to grab for his hand until we're parked out front of the bookstore and he comes around to open my door for me again. He offers it to help me out of the car, and surprisingly, I don't hesitate to take it this time. I know that's not lost on him when he grins back at me, seeming pleased that I'm allowing him that small amount of contact.

I don't really have any good reason not to, unless I let the anxious thoughts in my head get to me, which I'm trying desperately not to do right now. I want to enjoy this. I can worry what it all means later.

He holds the front door to the store open for me too, and I actually manage to use real words to thank him for it this time. Maybe he's right that touching him helps to calm my nerves some.

I watch with silent glee as he pauses just inside the door, taking it all in. This place doesn't feel like any other bookstore. It's more like a classy home filled with books, from the elegant chandeliers that hang in the entryway and along the hall, to the handcrafted bookshelves along the walls. The floors are natural hardwood and covered with attractive rugs that are tastefully placed, and even the counter where purchases are made fits in with the décor.

"Wow. It's gorgeous in here," he exclaims, still looking around wide-eyed and curious. "I feel like I should have expected this, but I didn't. I don't think there's a single fluorescent light in here."

"And thank goodness for that. I can't stand the buzzing of fluorescent lights, not to mention the glaring brightness."

"I don't love them either," he comments, giving me an appreciative look. "You know, your overactive senses might have a lot in common with mine, except my body is better equipped to deal with them."

"That's a thought that has crossed my mind before, back when I lived with Aly. I just wish I could have your metabolism too."

"Yeah, I bet," he laughs, his eyes seeming to sparkle at me.

Feeling a bit breathless from how he's looking at me, I decide to distract myself with the task at hand. Books. They're everywhere, and we're here to shop for some.

"So, mystery is always a good place to start," I tell him, pointing to that section. "Seems like every time I look, there are plenty of new ones that I haven't seen before."

"Yeah, it's a popular genre with a pretty steady line-up of new releases," he agrees.

With a gentle tug on my hand, he turns and takes us over that way. As we're rifling through some of the newer releases set out on the display tables, he seems to want to chat about anything and everything, especially as it relates to books and reading.

Having company while book shopping is a new experience for me. I'm used to just silently, methodically browsing through my favorite spots and picking up something that catches my eye here and there. The only dialogue is between me and the books, and it's all in my head. Shopping with him is quite a different experience, but not an unpleasant one.

"The trouble that I have with most mysteries is that they're often not all that mysterious," he comments after we've been browsing a bit. "Predictable is more like it. And even when I find an author I really like, sometimes it's so hit and miss."

"I know that struggle. And yet, I find it worth the trouble to pick up the ten or so duds I might have to read through to get to the really good one."

"Agreed," he says decisively, nodding his head slightly. "Do you ever find yourself trying to savor the experience by doing dumb things like stopping to take an exceptionally long shower when you suspect you might be getting to the good part? As if you can somehow extend the fictional timeline by forcing yourself to endure the not knowing just a little bit longer than necessary."

"Yeah," I laugh. "But most times, I end up cutting my shower short and hurrying out to get back to my book, reading it half-dressed and with shampoo suds in my hair because it turns out I can't wait after all."

"Uh yeah, guilty as charged," he agrees, a genuine blush rising to his cheeks like I really did call him out on a secret he didn't want me to know. "Do you find it more satisfying when you do manage to predict the outcome to the mystery, or when you don't?"

"That depends entirely on the book, and the journey it takes me on to get there. I do like the ones that keep me guessing. Red herrings annoy me most of the time, but when they're done well, I can appreciate it anyway."

I pick up another book to flip through as I consider what he asked in more detail before finally I decide, "I guess I'd say I like it when I manage to guess the outcome early on but then the rest of the book keeps me doubting myself until that satisfying moment when I find out I was right all along and should have just trusted my instincts."

"Good answer," he says, giving me a look that leaves me blushing again.

I clear my throat, adding the two books I've been fondling to the basket he's carrying, and moving past him to the fantasy section.

"Which books smell the best to you?" he asks after a few minutes of quiet browsing. "New ones, or old ones?"

His question makes me laugh, but not because I find it ridiculous. It's funny because I didn't realize he'd be a book-smeller too, and I didn't expect that question from him.

I glance up and meet his gaze for a second, noting his self-satisfied smirk, and have to look down almost immediately. I'm getting more comfortable being here with him, but apparently, not that comfortable yet.

"Old ones," I finally answer. "The good and musty ones from the library, specifically."

"Ah I see. You're a dirty old book lover," he teases.

The double meaning isn't lost on me, and I can feel the heat of the intense blush that rises not only to my cheeks, but to my entire face along with my neck and ears.

"I like those ones printed on the super bright white paper that still smell like the toner from a laser printer, but I also appreciate the old book smell, to be fair. I guess that makes me a dirty old book lover too."

A comeback to his "dirty old book lover" jab pops in my head when he confesses his own preferences, and I wish I had the confidence to actually say it. I think he'd laugh. Not today though.

I don't know how long we spend together in that bookstore because the time seems to fly by, which is not what I expected. I was actually afraid that having him with me would interrupt my flow and I'd end up being annoyed by him or something, but it's been quite a pleasant experience. He seems to know when to be quiet and when I'm okay with talking, and he makes for pretty good company.

Though it's tempting to put his claims of superhuman strength to the test, I'm finished after I've picked out about twenty books in total, some completely new to me and others the hardcover version of books I already own. He picked out some for himself too, and in my head, I'm wondering how serious he was about sharing joint custody with me. I kind of want to read his books too.

Once our purchases are secured in their bags on the floor in the back of his car and we're both buckled into the front seats, an overwhelming feeling of dread suddenly washes over me. It's weird and unexpected considering what a good time I've been having with him.

And then it dawns on me what it's really about. I'm not ready to go home yet. Warren is going to be there, and I'm not ready to meet him right now.

"What's wrong?" Jason asks me, somehow sensing that something's off despite my best efforts to hide it.

"I kind of don't want to go back home while Mom's guy is going to be there," I confess softly.

"Then don't. You can come back with me to my room until later. We can order a pizza or something for dinner," he offers, sounding pretty excited about the prospect.

But I'm not sure that's such a good idea either. I eventually adapted to being out in public with him, but alone with him in private? That's a whole other issue.

"No funny business, either. I promise," he adds, probably sensing my hesitancy. "You can come and put your books to bed, and then we'll just hang out and watch movies or something. Completely casual, and only if you're comfortable once we get there. If you're not, I'll take you home, no hard feelings or questions asked."

How is it that he always seems to come up with such perfect things to say, while I mostly stumble over simple words whenever I open my mouth?

It's the offer to "put my books to bed" that I'm having the most trouble passing up. I know he paid for all these so I don't have much room to be bossy or complain too much, but I would feel a lot better having some say in how he handles them.

"Okay," I timidly agree after what felt like hours passed while I was considering his offer.

"Okay?" he questions, and I wonder if I spoke so softly that he couldn't hear it until he adds, "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," I say as convincingly as I can manage, considering that I'm not at all sure if this is a good idea. It will be awkward, at best.

"Okay," he agrees, reaching out his hand for me to take again.

Just like in my driveway, he sits and lets me hold onto him for a few minutes, and then gives my hand another quick, reassuring squeeze before releasing it so he can drive.

To his motel room. Where we'll be alone. I should feel terrified, but surprisingly, I trust him enough that I don't. I might even be looking forward to it.