Page 31 of Another Man’s Treasure

She looks up with a mischievous grin. “You smell different, Ozifer. Sexier or something.”

I roar with laughter. “Or like mule? Oh yeah, I bet that’s on account of all the fake dating I’m doing. It’s the worst sort of edging because we have to pretend to be lovey-dovey, but it’s not real, and there’s no delicious hookup at the end. I’m quite certain I’m simply overdue for about forty skincare treatments I missed out on while riding.”

She steps away. “I guess the twenty grand is your hookup, although if my nose is correct, you actually like him.”

I scoff. “Do not. It’s all fake, madam. Although,” I lean in close to her ear, “he dry-humped me in the tent when we were riding his property. He was asleep and didn’t know what he was doing. And let me tell you that thing between his thighs? Oh my gods, I was salivating. I’d pay at least twenty dollars to accidentally see it sometime.”

She slaps my shoulder playfully. “Oh yeah, you like him. I’m calling it now.”

I look off into the distance as I shake my head. “Naw, I don’t. But I’m coming to understand him, that’s for sure.” Which is true, but only a partial truth.

I’ll never tell anyone how much I like him, because Wilder Lane—and this romance—are a means to an end. But if that’s the case, why doesn’t thinking that feel quite right? Why does it leave a bitter, sour taste in my mouth?

There’s a real chance we could be friends, at least, I think that’s why.

Right?

* * *

Later on, Bluebell hands me a mug of steaming hot chocolate as we observe the gulch pond, already full of monsters ice skating across its frozen surface. “Is Wilder meeting us here, or what’s up?”

I blow on the piping hot drink, eyeing her over the edge of the mug. “Pretty sure he is. I left early, so I haven’t talked to him since⁠—”

“Oz, there you are.” Saint appears at my right, holding a glass of hot spiked cider. He looks at Bluebell and Lemon. “And who might these beauties be?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at how he immediately reduces them to their looks. They are gorgeous, but when he says it like that, it’s just creepy. What the hells did I ever see in him? Wilder would never say something like that about the girls. At my feet, Ginger lets out a soft growl.

When Saint reaches out a hand and pats the top of her head, she snaps at him, hackles raised as her lips curl back into a vicious expression. Admittedly it’s a bit hard to take her too seriously in her pink conversation heart down jacket and snow boots.

“You were saying?” I shoot Saint a look that screams for him to stop touching my damn dog.

Bluebell drops to a knee and hugs the pit hell to her chest, planting a series of chaotic kisses all over the dog’s face and ears, completely ignoring Saint’s question.

My girl, what a badass.

“Lemon Zayle,” Lemon croons, holding her hand out. “We’ve met many times in Rainbow.”

“Gods, that’s right!” Saint says with a laugh, shaking her hand. “Lemon Denton, right? House Denton? Your family’s potions shop is legendary, of course.”

Lemon keeps the bright smile. “It’s Zayle now. I don’t work for my family’s shop anymore. I work for Glimmer up at the end of Main Street.”

Saint’s smile falls. “Oh, that’s unfortunate.”

“It’s not,” Lemon corrects. “It’s exactly where I want to be.” She looks at me. “Furyon just arrived to get the auction stuff finalized. I’m gonna go help him, but don’t forget to be on stage at about eight p.m., alright?”

I offer her a quick salute. “Will do, bestie.”

Bluebell rises, and Saint’s attention turns to her. She doesn’t bother to answer his question though. Instead, she smiles at me. “Your honey bun just arrived, Oz, so I’m gonna leave you to greet him, but I’ll catch you later, alright?”

Smiling, I turn and look around. When I see Wilder making his way through the check-in tent, I grin and flash Saint a look. “Gotta go…”

He says nothing as I jog toward the check-in tent situated on the northeast corner of the gulch’s small pond. When I reach his side, I sling both arms around him and hug him tight.

Wilder looks surprised, but quickly schools his expression into a sexy smile. “Hey, baby,” he murmurs, bending down to kiss the top of my head.

My horns flex and straighten at the obvious, easy affection. It might be fake, but it’s still better than anything Saint ever did.

Wilder reaches for my hand, and I slip my fingers through his, angling them since he’s got five, and I only have three. Shuffling my wings with pleasure, I watch him as we walk onto the frozen, rocky beach.