Page 46 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Alana had to admit that she was pleasantly surprised to see him. He’d been nothing but cordial since their session, something she appreciates more than she’s willing to let on. He’s just as playful and charming, no sense of awkwardness or indication that he was forcing himself to be around her. But there hasn’t been any real attempt from him to see her again. At least, not outside his extra rounds at the bakery or a text here and there. Not that Alana had expected more. She hoped for it, of course. But, no, never expected. It cemented the idea that while their time had been fun, anything outside of a casual friendship or another paid rendezvous was not in the cards.

“I just—I just wanted to see you,” he stutters, gaze downcast. “Went to the bakery, and you weren’t there. Citlalli extended an invite, and I know I probably should have left well enough alone, but I couldn’t.”

As Alana continues to clean the massacre that is his face, his freckles come back into view. Subtle, muted by sun exposure.

“Yeah? And why is that? You miss me as a client that badly?”

Cyrus huffs a quiet laugh. “Something like that,” he answers, his voice a low baritone that sends Alana’s insides in several different directions. Then, a sigh. “Alana, listen, I’ve…I’ve been wanting to tell you something.” Cyrus turns towards her. He’s awkwardly huge in the confines of such a small space, but he makes it work. Eyes like copper and brownstone search hers for several seconds—seconds that drag on for impossibly too long. His mouth opens then closes, like his tongue is tripping over whatever it is he wants to say.

“Yes, Cyrus?” Worry and anticipation etch themselves in the sound of his name. She tilts her head, a hand on his knee.

The wolf shifter exhales. “I—”

“Alana! Get down here so we can cut the cake! Nana can only hold off Uncle Terry for so long, you know how he gets around sweets. Diabetes ain’t ever stopped this man, and Nana won’t either!”

The sound of her cousin’s voice yelling up the stairs is enough to pull her back into focus. Right. Her party.

A deep sigh leaves her, and she steps around Cyrus to yell out the door, “Be right there!” When she turns back to him, she offers an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I should, um, probably get back down there before the chaos starts. I have seen that man throw hands for dessert before. Can we revisit this? I still want to hear what you have to say.”

Cyrus’ shoulders sag, and those warm brown eyes of his look at her like he wants to ask her to stay. “Of course. And don’t apologize.” His expression softens as he takes her hand. The touch is grounding, and the kiss he places on her knuckles is even more so. “Go on, get out of here. Go enjoy yourself, I’ll catch up later.”

Warmth spreads up Alana’s wrist, through her arm, and settles in her chest. A spark ignites there—unfamiliar and blistering to life like a struck match. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” she asks.

Ignoring the second call up from her cousin, she rests a hand against the shifter’s forehead. It’s slick with a thin layer of sweat, feverish under the pads of her fingers. Alana was warm herself, but even then, it was a stark contrast. One would think she just placed an ice pack on him with how quickly he leans into her palm.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, none too convincing even though he tries to be with that smile. “Just a little overheated from the sun. I’ll be fine. Please, Alana. Go enjoy your party.”

Alana’s brows knit together, lips drawn in a line. “Okay. Get some water and please use the guest room to lie down if you need to. I’ll see you downstairs.”

An array of cheers greets Alana’s belated arrival, and she’s soon swarmed by family and friends ready to embarrass her with their dirty-minded assumptions as to what took so long. She evades the narrowed gaze of her grandmother when someone utters an unsubtle joke in her vicinity. She bores into the back of Alana’s head, and there was a time it would have bothered her a lot more than it does right now. All she can focus on is the pleasant warmth tucked away in the palm of her hand.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CYRUS

Just breathe, you old hound.

A plastic water bottle cracks and crinkles under the force of Cyrus’ hand as he drains its contents in a few long gulps. Its abrasive chill is a welcome contrast to his sweltering insides. He’d snagged a second one after making his way outside, downing that one too before stealing a seat on some lawn chairs away from the masses. This was beginning to feel like more than heat exhaustion. Working outside for a majority of the day meant that Cyrus had grown accustomed to the signs of it. This? This is driving him crazy.

He’d gotten dressed back in his normal attire, but what he really wants is to change back into those hoochie daddy shorts Alana’s dad had given him.

Anything just to cool off.

Cyrus grunts as he wipes the sweat off his brow. It had gotten better when Alana left. When the bathroom door closed, he could breathe a little easier, and the anxious thrumming beneath his skin lessened. So much so, that he found himself well enough to join back in the fun not long after. Because the sooner he could talk to Alana again, the sooner he could get this question off his chest. And the sooner he could get this question off his chest, the sooner his brain could relax. Though, as luck would have it, no quicker than he stepped out onto the porch did the temperature start to dial up again.

Thankfully, Alana’s family is nothing if not hospitable. While Alana opened presents and congregated with her cousins, one of her aunties took pity on his poorly concealed suffering and offered a glass of tea as she passed by. Everyone else seemed self-aware enough to offer him some breathing room. And even with that breathing room, it was easy to lose track of time around the Darling clan.

The sun has long since disappeared beyond the horizon. Paint strokes of burnt orange and pinks are now replaced with a violet night and stars bright enough to see through thin clouds. Though while the sun has laid its head to rest, the liveliness of the party surely hasn’t.

Music continues to blare out from the speakers, and folks — influenced by a few too many drinks—have taken to the dance floor. Alana has joined them, moving fluidly along to the music in a line dance that she’s probably been doing since the day she learned how to walk.

A quiet chuckle leaves him. He nurses his second glass of iced tea while watching the fun from afar. He’d join her, if not for the throbbing at the back of his head that urges him to stay put. It’s a dull, aching kind of pain that he can’t seem to will away. Maybe that volleyball did more damage than he thought. Rolling his shoulders, the shifter sighs and takes another sip of his drink in hopes of drowning it out. It provides little relief, this time.

His only distraction, which frankly isn’t much of a distraction at all, continues to be watching Alana intermingle with her friends and family. He can see her smile from where he sits, bright like silver moonlight. And it’s enough to send another wave of warmth winding down every soft spot within him, equally as overwhelming as it is pleasant. Basking in the presence of that smile too long makes his skin itch, and he flushes so hot that he could probably fry an egg on his forehead.

Cyrus’ foot taps against the ground in a frantic attempt to get his body to relax a bit. It works until he catches movement in the crowd. He trains his eyes on Connor weaving his way through people to take Alana’s hand. He’s got a smile on his face as he whisks her away to dance, and Cyrus trembles with thinly veiled agitation. Alana appears anything but uncomfortable with the interaction. Yet, there’s an urge to stomp over there and scoop her up into his arms, to drag her off somewhere, seat her in his lap, and glare at him or anyone else who tries to come a little too close. Something to make it clear she wasn’t available.

Only, that’s not entirely true, now is it?