The only reason Becca agreed to this date? Her sister threatened her with a never-ending parade of suitors if she refused.
Becca dreads the night of forced chit-chat with the one man she wants to see less than anyone else in the world. And to make matters worse, he turns up for their date early.
At least she only promised one date.
If you love your urban fantasy with a strong pulse of romance, get ready to fall in love with Amy Laurens’ Secret Breakers world in this action-packed, richly imagined stand-alone.
Trust Issues
Warm steam filled the air around Becca, faintly scented with fake apples from her shampoo. The hot water pattered down on her back, turning her skin red and, in theory, soothing away her tension. Of course, that would have been more easily facilitated had she not been in the midst of performing the contortions necessary to get her legs shaved, but she’d feel better once she was done. Probably.
Up, rinse, up, rinse; she scraped the blossom-pink razor over her pale legs, shaking it out in the main stream of the shower water at the top of each stroke. Steam billowed up in her face as she curled over her leg, warm against her cheeks and the inside of her nose.
There. Nearly done.
Honestly, the whole thing was an exercise in pointless futility. It wasn’t like the wolf was going to be staring at her legs. And if he did, so what? Why did she care what he thought?
She didn’t, that’s what. Jaw clenching, Becca pressed shower water from her eye with the tips of her fingers.
One last stroke.
Becca inhaled sharply as the razor sliced the sensitive skin over her Achilles heel, removing a good slice of flesh and making the water run momentarily red. She grabbed at her ankle with her free hand, trying to stem the bleeding with her thumb, and nearly slipped on the wet tiles. Her elbow smacked the bottles of hair products that lined the shower’s shelf—and the shelf itself—and she hopped madly, trying to regain her balance. Her weight fell against the cold glass of the shower screen—and the door screaked open, dumping her unceremoniously on the mat.
“Ow.” That was going to bruise her butt.
Disgusted, Becca threw the razor back into the shower and scrambled to her feet. She reached in and turned the water off, realising as she did that her right elbow was about as tender as her butt would be in the morning. She flung her dark blonde, wet hair out of her eyes. So much for getting pretty.
Stupid date. Stupid wolf.
Red streaks on the mat caught her eye as she snagged her white towel off the rail: her heel, still dripping blood.
Bloody hell.
Literally.
She gathered her wet hair to one side, picking it off her shoulders and neck, wrapped the towel around herself, and hobbled to the vanity. Somewhere in there, lost amid cobwebbed piles of lotions, powders and unused potions, was a packet of bandaids.
Becca crouched awkwardly, stretching into the back of the cupboard that stank of bleach and toothpaste—and jumped as her sore elbow connected with something cold: a festering bottle of nail polish that was only too happy to jump off the shelf and smash on the floor, bleeding its awful browny-coral innards all over the second bath mat.
The chemical scent of the polish hit her nostrils. Urgh. Someone remind me why I am doing this?
Perching on the edge of the bath, Becca applied the bandaid, a giant strip wider than two of her fingers, its ‘flesh’ tones doing nothing to blend in with the complexion her grandmother had liked to call porcelain. “Bloody Irish,” she muttered. She smoothed the plaster down, snatched up the bloodied bathmat and took it to the laundry, then stalked back to her room to dress.
Underwear, now that was a question. Not that there was any question of him seeing her underwear. She was widowed, not desperate. Even if, just occasionally, when he turned his big stupid wolf eyes on her she lost her mind just a little bit remembering what sex had been like.
But back to the underwear, she reminded herself as she finished towelling off and used the damp towel to twist up her hair. She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, which given she doubted she could even lift him off the ground amounted practically to not at all—but could she really bring herself to go plain black cotton on a date?
Ah, screw it. It wasn’t like the dress was that fitted or anything. Comfy it was. Becca fished her favourite pair of black undies out from the crumpled mess in her top drawer, donned a sensible—if slightly uplifting—bra, and from the very back of her other top drawer snatched out an old, dusty satin pencil case, the magenta one with the floral embroidery.
Despite nearly stabbing herself in the eye with mascara she hadn’t applied in years, and overdoing it with the big round hairbrush and the hairdryer so it looked like she was wearing a 1960s wig for a few minutes until she managed to de-volumise things a bit, Becca managed to finish getting ready with a relative minimum of fuss.
She slipped into her little black dress—always go with a classic on the first date, she’d decided; she still wasn’t actually sure whether she wanted to impress the wolf or scare him away—slipped her phone, driver’s licence and bank card into the cunningly placed pocket, straightened the short sleeves, and squished into a pair of heels that were dangerously tall and stunningly gorgeous: black satin with red and gold oriental designs brocaded into the fabric, nearly six inches high.
She wobbled for the first few steps before remembering how to balance right in them: Weight on the toes, pretend the shoes aren’t really there, just tip-toe along with your calves tight and your core strong.
You got this.
She caught sight of her reflection in her dresser mirror and sighed, confidence deflating. It had been so long since she’d done this. She’d been married to that two-faced jerk Nick for nearly three years, but they’d dated for another four or five before that.
She hadn’t first-dated since she was what, eighteen? Nineteen?
Becca ran a hand over her forehead and exhaled. Nick was gone now. He might have stolen eight years of her life and literally any chance she ever had at having children of her own—the familiar flutter of regret and longing trembled through her stomach—but he was gone.
And the wolf was safe, at least inasmuch as he wouldn’t lie to her upfront like Nick had.
Probably.
Maybe.
She hoped.
Really, there was no way to know. And trust wasn’t exactly her specialty, when she was used to being able to detect lies and secrets right there in the head of anybody around her.
Urgh. Why, why am I doing this? This is such a bad idea.
As if on cue, her phone buzzed.
A message from her sister Clare: I know he’s picking you up in fifteen minutes, which means you’re moping around wondering why you let me bully you into this, so I’m reminding you of our little bargain. Besides. He’s gorgeous. It’ll be good for you.
Becca’s lips quirked into a half smile. Her sister knew her all too well—hence the bargain, whereby Becca would be subjected to an endless stream of potential suitors every time she visited Clare if she didn’t agree to a date with the wolf. And simply avoiding Clare’s house wouldn’t have worked; Clare would have just hauled the suitors to her.
A knock sounded at the door.
Adrenalin leapt through Becca’s stomach and she bolted upright, stuffing her phone back into her pocket, then heading to the door.
“I’m sorry,” Wolf-boy said as she opened it. “I know it’s not fashionable to be early, but the traffic was better than I’d planned.”