He was going to change his mind. Wallaig regretted extending her the invitation. Amantha could tell by the look on his face. Hardly conclusive. A pretty thin reason to believe he was about to ditch her. She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. Reading another person’s expressions wasn’t her forte, but as disappointment hit her where it hurt, intuition backed up the conclusion.

He felt sorry for her.

Much like someone would when coming across a stray dog in the street.

The realization made her chest ache. His pity should’ve pissed her off. Should’ve stiffened her spine, made her shrug and say she didn’t care. Too bad she’d never been good at lying to herself. Nothing good came from sticking her head in the sand, and as Wallaig laced his fingers between the spread of his knees and leaned toward her—no doubt about to break the news he planned to leave without her—Amantha didn’t want to accept it.

Not like she had all those times growing up.

She’d learned a few things in the last couple of years. Now, she knew how to ask for what she needed. And like it or not, the entire situation wore NEED like a label. She needed to see her best friend. Needed out of her tiny apartment. Needed to feel like a part of something…if only for a day. But most of all, and perhaps the worst, she didn’t want Wallaig to leave her behind.

The admission startled her a little.

Amantha frowned. No way should she be this attached to a guy she’d just met. She’d spent a total of fifteen minutes in his company. Just enough time to scratch the surface—to know he possessed a good heart, a generous one given he’d risked his neck to bring her Elise’s letters. Maybe that was her problem. Wallaig had been kind to her. Patient too, sitting with her, answering questions, helping her figure things out. But as she stared at him, something odd happened…her interest in him turned into full blown infatuation. Not smart. Nowhere near advisable, but somehow, completely unavoidable.

“Amantha,” he murmured, his voice so deep vibrations erupted inside her, setting off an odd chain reaction.

Tingles slid up her spine, over the tops of her shoulders, then along the back of her head. A strange buzz started up between her temples.

He drew a breath, no doubt about to say more.

She held up her hand, asking him to wait as the hum expanded. Her vision blurred as the prickling sensation boiled over, breaking through mental boundaries, broadening her horizons in ways she didn’t understand. A click echoed inside her head. A connection formed, shifting perception, feeding her information, making awareness bloom. Like an airborne virus, his intentions entered her veins. And all of a sudden, she knew what he was thinking.

Wallaig didn’t want to deny her. He wanted to take her home.

But something held him back.

Clinging to the connection, she searched for the reason. The answer came through loud and clear. God, it was weird, but she’d tapped into him somehow. Now, she picked his thoughts right out of thin air. He worried about her safety and his ability to protect her on the flight home. Was unsure how his dragon brothers would react to him breaking protocol and pack rules. Amantha drew in a much-needed breath as his words tumbled through her head. The flight home. Protocol and pack rules. Dragon brothers. Odd expressions. Ones most people never used, so…her eyes narrowed…why was Wallaig?

Done waiting, Wallaig shifted on the loveseat. “Listen, kazlita, I know what I said, but—”

“Okay, here’s the plan,” she said, cutting him off. She refused to let him offer the lame ass excuse running around inside his brain. No way would she accept being blown off. Not this time. Not while her head buzzed and the connection grew, tightening its hold, making the thought of him leaving untenable. She’d spent a lifetime being abandoned—first by her father, then by her mother, and lastly, by the foster care system—but not tonight…and not by Wallaig. In a flap, she threw the letters onto the coffee table and scrambled out of her chair. “Half an hour, and we’re out of here.”

Surprised by her sudden movement, he leaned back in his seat. “Half an hour?”

“I have another batch of muffins to make. Blueberry Oatmeal.” Screw the bran muffins. Her client’s customers would have to make do with a few less calories today. “I’ll mix’em up fast and pop’em in the oven. Twenty minutes, that’s all it’ll take. After that, I’ll put the last batch in boxes. Frank has a key. He’ll pick everything up and—”

He growled. “Who the hell is Frank?”

“The delivery guy. He drops the orders off for me at each cafe. Oh, and after that I’ll pack a bag.”

“A bag?”

“Of course, I’ll need a few things,” she said, talking fast, hoping to confuse him into going along. “I’ll pack one for Elise too. Just a few of her favorite things. She left all her stuff behind, you know?”

Frowning behind his sunglasses, he opened his mouth to answer.

The timer buzzed.

“Great!” Clapping her hands, she treated him to a sunny smile, then sped past him into the kitchen. “The apple spice muffins are done. Perfect timing.”

Mouth hanging open, he turned to watch her go.

With quick hands, she snatched oven mitts off the counter and slid to a stop in front of the double ovens. Holding her breath, praying he didn’t say what he was thinking, she cranked both doors open and pulled the tins from the oven. A gorgeous mix of apple and spice rolled into the room. Wallaig rumbled his approval, the sound more growl than word.

“Would you like one? They’re really good.” Turning, she set her bounty on the cooling racks, tossed her oven mitts aside, and picked up a fork. She wiggled a muffin free with the tines and without looking, tossed it in his direction. The treat sailed through the air. A second before he caught it, she murmured, “Careful, it’s hot.”

He plucked her gift out of mid-air. “You think feeding me will change anything?”

“Yes,” she said without knowing why. Pure conjecture driven by female intuition. “It’ll keep your mouth shut for a few more minutes.”

He snorted. “And after that?”

“I’ll give you a scone. Or a piece of lemon cake. Maybe the entire loaf.” Yes, lemon. Seemed like the right answer. For some reason, she knew lemon infused treats were his favorite. Nice information to have, but as Wallaig turned the muffin over in his hand, she wondered whether distracting him with sweets would be enough. She hoped so, but just in case, sweetened the deal by grabbing the butter dish from beside the toaster and pulling a knife from the utensil drawer. Amantha set the entire mess down at the end of the kitchen island. “Better with butter, don’t you think?”

His lips twitched. He shook his head, but didn’t shoot her down. Footfalls thumping, he walked over and picked up the knife. “You’re a terror, lass.”

“Maybe,” she said, grinning.

Slathering butter on his muffin, he smiled back.

A ripple of awareness shivered through her. The connection strengthened, funnelling into a current that made her body buzz and her attraction to him grow. Heaven help her, he was something. So well put together. Handsome without a trace of frat boy, he was all man, no polish. All ruthless vibe and chiseled cheekbones. His height didn’t hurt his cause either, and God…the way he moved, long lean muscles in concert with a confident stride made her hormones sing and dance and…make all kinds of lude suggestions behind the curtain.

Wallaig would no doubt be good in bed.

He carried himself like a man who know how to please a woman. Guys with lots of experience usually did, and as she liberated the last muffin from the tin and set it on the cooling rack, Amantha imagined the possibilities. Hot, sweaty sex with Wallaig. Oh, baby. He wouldn’t be polite. He would take what he wanted, be bossy and demanding while giving his partner more pleasure than she could handle.

The image set off a firestorm inside her mind. Her cheeks heated. She wiggled where she stood beside the island, her libido awake for the first time in months. God, she wanted that—wanted him wrapped around her and…merde. Not the best thought. She needed to shut her inner sex tap off right now. She had muffins to make and no time to screw around. Wallaig might turn his fine ass toward the door any second and never look back.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, she took stock of the ingredients in front of her. Flour, sugar, a bag of oatmeal. Baking powder, salt, a pallet of eggs. Wooden spoons at the ready and…huh. No bowl. She glanced over her shoulder and spotted the clean ones across the kitchen.

“Hey, Wallaig?” Dragging the flour closer, she picked up a measuring up. “Could you grab the big bowl on the top shelf for me?”

A heartbeat passed. No answer.

Hand hovering above the bag, Amantha looked his way and stilled. Something was wrong. He didn’t look right. Nor had he heard her. Ignoring her, he stood unmoving, brows furrowed, attention locked on the large windows in her living room.

His gaze snapped toward the ceiling. “Shite.”

She put the measuring cup down. “What is it?”

“Trouble.” Tossing what remained of his muffin aside, he stepped around the end of the island and into her personal space. “Do you have a winter coat, Amantha?”

“Yeah.”

“What about warm boots?”

She nodded. “I’ve got a toque and mittens too. Why?”

“Where are they?”

“Coat rack,” she said, pointing at the front entrance. “What’s going on?”

Wallaig didn’t answer. He herded her out of the kitchen, half carrying her towards the door. As his boots touched down on the welcome mat, he glanced at the ceiling again. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “We need to go.”

“What—right now?”

“Aye.”

“But my muffins.”

“Forget about the bloody muffins. Here….” Grabbing her coat off the hook, he wrapped it around her. “Arms in.”

Shock made her slow.

His impatient growl sped her up.

She shoved her arms into the sleeves as he knelt and picked up her boots. A large hand gripped her calf. Heat bled through her pyjama bottoms, sending tingles up her leg. He tugged. Deciphering the unspoken message, Amantha lifted her foot. With more speed than grace, Wallaig pulled on her made-for-twenty-below-zero Sorel’s—first one, then the other. He laced up each one, treating her like a two-year-old, then stood and zipped her ski jacket as well. A hat went on her head. Her mittens got tugged out of her pocket and slipped onto her hands.

Five point five seconds…that’s all it took for him to bundle her into her winter gear. For what purpose? She had no earthly idea. And no wonder. Her brain wasn’t working right. Critical thinking—the capacity to reason and react—failed her. No need to look for another explanation. Nothing else explained why she stood stock-still, acting like a puppet, allowing him to pull her strings while staring at him as though he’d lost his mind.

“Let’s go, lass. We need to move before they land on the roof.”

Land on the roof? She frowned. Seriously? What the hell was he talking about? She opened her mouth to ask. Wallaig didn’t give her the chance to voice the question. Yanking the door open, he lifted her off her feet and, without a backward glance, carried her out of her apartment and into the hall.