7. Gage

CHAPTER 7

GAGE

W hy are you angry at our mate? Gage’s Mal demanded. We just found him. Do you want to make him leave?

He wasn’t completely honest with us. He didn’t tell the whole truth about who he was—or why he was here.

We haven’t known him long. And we were busy with other things. Perhaps you should have sniffed his butt, his Mal suggested helpfully.

Sniffing wasn’t exactly what had crossed Gage’s mind in the dreams that woke him, lonely and hard. Licking, fingering, and fucking sound like more fun.

I liked him, his Mal sulked. I don’t want him to go away. He is mate.

I need to be able to trust him, Gage argued.

He did not tell you everything all at once. How is that not trusting? Too much to tell, too little time. His dog consciousness was certainly persuasive, Gage had to admit.

He and Scott only had a few days together and a couple of dates. Gage certainly hadn’t unloaded his whole sad backstory about family friction, ex-lovers, and all the reasons he ended up in Fox Hollow. Or mentioned that he was a shifter. Not that he didn’t plan to share, but there hadn’t been time.

And I’m not sworn to secrecy by the government.

Gage realized he had been staring at his computer screen for minutes without doing anything. He let out a long sigh and reached for his cold cup of coffee.

I overreacted.

You think? his Mal snarked back. Bite first, ask questions later? If I’d have done that, I’d have gotten sent to a trainer.

I’m not good at dating. Or letting down my guard. Or falling in love. Gage’s track record for relationships was spotty at best. He had viewed dating as a distraction from his goal of creating new recipes and building the brewery. While that was all-consuming for a while, he kept himself too busy to realize how lonely it was despite evenings spent surrounded by people.

Guess I’m not as over Kris as I thought. Gage had dated Kris in college and thought they had something special, although he had never been tempted to disclose his shifter side.

Still, they seemed like a good pair, and Gage enjoyed Kris’s company. Until he found out that Kris had been dating him to get close to one of his friends. That blew up spectacularly, splitting their friend group and leaving hurt feelings all around. Gage lost both Kris and his friend, their gang was never the same afterward, and Gage ended up feeling like the bad guy because he called Kris out on not being truthful.

Kris is not Scott’s problem. Never blame the grass when the garden hose sprays you.

Is that some weird Malinois secret wisdom?

He could have sworn his dog snickered. It’s still true.

Gage sat on the stool in his brewery’s kitchen where he prepared the mixtures that went in the vats to make the beer.

I don’t know what to do. I was really hurt because Scott told others something personal before he told me. I overreacted. Liam thinks I’m an idiot. Scott probably never wants to see me again. The thought of not reconciling with Scott made his heart hurt.

Mates, remember? Trust that. And go scoop your own poop, as we say , his Mal said.

I made the mess; I need to clean it up.

Before he worked up the nerve to call Scott, Gage scrolled through several message boards for craft brewers. He wondered if there was a similar non-supernatural effort to what SPAM was doing to find unscrupulous brewers adulterating their batches with questionable or illegal additives.

Gage hoped not. Craft beer was a relatively recent passion for him, but he had fallen in love with the whole process. He loved working with brew masters to design a new taste profile, watching over the batch as it matured, and holding his breath as tasters got to sample. When it was good, Gage felt euphoric. And when it was bad…a whole vat could go down the drain.

I made a fool of myself. Now I’ve got to eat crow.

Crow? I don’t think that would taste good, his Mal objected.

Not real crow.

How do we eat it if it isn’t real? His Mal wanted to know.

It’s a saying, like your bits of wisdom about poop. It means to swallow your pride and admit that you were wrong. Which tastes bad. Like crow. Or poop.

Actually— his Mal started to object.

Yuck. I don’t want to know. TMI, dude.

Do I make fun of you when you eat fish? his Mal said.

Actually, yes.

Gage figured there wasn’t going to be a better time to swallow his pride and dialed Scott’s number. When Scott didn’t pick up, Gage wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to go too long without trying to fix things between them, but it wasn’t the sort of thing he liked leaving on voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Gage. I’m sorry. Please call me. I overreacted, and I want to fix things. I care about you.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, so he ended the call.

Once you fix things, will there be licking and humping? his Mal asked, sounding a little too curious.

Don’t be vulgar. But yes, with luck. I hope so.

Will we be happy? I don’t feel good in my middle.

Gage frowned, worried. Are we sick?

My heart hurts, and my stomach makes me think we should go eat grass.

Gage gave a sad chuckle. That’s the downside of being in love. When it’s good, you feel like you’ve had too much really strong beer. And when it hits a snag, you feel like you drank too much cheap beer, and you want to puke.

It had been a long time since Gage had been in a relationship. Maybe too long. I’ve forgotten how it works.

He didn’t really believe that, but he was willing to admit that his people skills were rusty on the dating side. Getting along with total strangers in the taproom was one thing. Being vulnerable and admitting that he wasn’t self-sufficient took skills he hadn’t used in a long time.

Maybe I can make a peace offering. I’m connected to a lot of other small-batch and craft brewers in private groups online. I could ask questions to see if they’ve heard about people trying weird additives. They wouldn’t know it was for shifters and supernaturals, but there might be rumors.

Gage logged in to one of the more active groups and did a quick search to make sure no one else had already broached the subject. Nothing seemed to have been posted, so he took the leap.

I’m hearing rumors of brewers experimenting with enhanced formulations to appeal to patrons with higher-than-average metabolisms. Has anyone had luck with that?

Gage figured the post was normal enough not to raise eyebrows but tapped into the essence of what the rogue beermakers were doing. It could take hours to get responses, depending on who was online, so he skimmed a few other chat threads since he hadn’t been in the group in a while.

A side thread about additives ranged from flavorings to sweeteners to instructions for making weed-infused brew. He skimmed over those but didn’t see anything unusual or supernatural about the posts.

He switched over to a server that was only for users with paranormal abilities. The moderators were cyber-witches who could verify users’ claims and ruthlessly bounced pretenders. That kept it safe for conversations that didn’t need to reach the mundanes.

Gage posted the same question and hit enter. Figuring it would take a while to get responses, he checked his email, signed off on invoices, and was just about to listen to voicemail before his computer pinged.

The people doing the experimenting are a pretty closed group and a rough crowd , one response read. Might be good to keep your distance.

People used pseudonyms on the server, so Gage doubted he could find out real names without major hacking. The response intrigued him, and he wondered if the rough crowd were normal competitors or more like the troublemakers focused on a supernatural clientele.

Cut-throat competitors? he asked, purposely misunderstanding.

The reply came back quickly. That’s one way to put it. Just trust me, you won’t want to mess with these folks.

Gage tried to come at the subject from a couple of directions, asking about ingredients and brewing methods. No one seemed inclined to provide details, but the posts all warned him away from asking questions.

That response didn’t give him details, but it supported Scott’s warning that the people involved were more dangerous than the usual highly competitive beer fans.

Then Gage spotted a sub-chat marked special cases. Curious, he clicked on the link.

“This discussion group is for brewers and beer lovers whose physical conditions require specialized formulation,” the description said. “You will be required to disclose your condition in order to join.”

Since Gage had created a profile under a false name, he played along. “Shifter,” he typed in the corresponding box.

That won him a password. “Pay dirt,” he said. He made a note of it before clicking and scrolling down the topics.

“Best beer additives for shifters over fifty pounds. Beer additives to avoid for vampires. Natural ingredients that react badly with magical abilities,” he murmured as he scanned the topics.

Anyone outside the community might take the list as a joke or the overdramatic styling of goths, but the details struck Gage as authentic.

He skimmed the topics without commenting, trying to remain as relatively anonymous as possible until he knew what—and who—he was dealing with. The last thing he needed was trouble following him back to the taproom.

Another half hour made it clear that he wasn’t the only one brewing for shifter metabolisms and that there seemed to be some degree of disagreement over which additives or ingredients were permissible and which were not. Fortunately, since Gage preferred an all-natural approach, nothing he had used in his first batches ran afoul of the consensus of allowable mixtures.

Now and then, he picked up a veiled warning in the comments about being careful of buying from unfamiliar suppliers, or using ingredients from unproven sources. The writers didn’t come right out and say that doing so had consequences for magical and psychic talents, but anyone aware of such things would get the message.

Buried deep in the threads was a discussion of which additives might spell trouble with law enforcement or the conventions of different supernatural groups. Some of the concerns focused on whether the enhanced brews could cause a person with special abilities to lose control or impair their judgment to the degree that they posed a threat to others.

While that wasn’t different from the danger of overconsumption for people without magic, not knowing one’s limit for a witch or a vampire could have more dire outcomes than getting in a fender-bender or stumbling down the steps.

Reading between the lines, the biggest warning lay in reminding readers with special abilities that they remained safer by not doing anything to confirm their existence. While a pack of drunk wolf shifters might howl at the moon, a gang of blitzed vampires could lay waste to an entire hamlet and out the magical community to their mundane neighbors.

All of which were concerns Gage had considered before opening the taproom. He had long conversations with his neighbors in the Fox Hollow community on the pros and cons, and while everyone acknowledged the potential downside, support for the taproom had been overwhelming.

We’ve lived among mundanes for thousands of years , one person responded to the survey. They tell tales about the ones who weren’t good keeping secrets, but in all those years, no one has proven our existence because a were or vamp got shit-faced and ate a town.

Gage thought back about incidents that history blamed on bad grain or fermentation gone awry. Now, he wondered whether the problems enshrined in those accounts had more to do with someone meddling with the recipe than a weakness of the audience.

His mind wandered, and he checked his phone, hoping for a message from Scott. The sharpness of his disappointment only served to reinforce his and Mal’s conviction that he and Scott were mates and meant to be.

Is he safe? He’s in Fox Hollow to poke around and ask the hard questions. Did he ask the wrong people and get found out? And if he disappears, who do I notify?

Gage had no idea how to get in touch with Scott’s people at SPAM and wasn’t sure he wanted to attract their notice.

Instead, he focused his attention on organizing paranormal participant tasting panels for his new brew, Moonlit Nights. Two panels with different people, covering a wide variety of supernatural abilities, animal types, and body sizes would give him a good idea of the potency of the new beer and its appeal.

Once the panels were scheduled, Gage moved on to the request from the Fox Hollow Hotel to do a special tasting event. They could run it with open sign-up and crosscheck later to see who had abilities and who didn’t. That way, Gage could get feedback from mundane drinkers as well as his true target audience. Ideally, people without paranormal talents could still enjoy the beers without any ill effects, like any normal brew, and those with abilities could feel relaxed and buzzed.

Would Scott come? Have I ruined everything?

If they really were fated mates, it should take more than a minor tiff to seriously damage their relationship. But their pairing was so new and felt so fragile that Gage couldn’t help worrying.

Once he finished the day’s paperwork and emails, he checked his phone again, hoping for a response. He had a signal, but Scott hadn’t replied.

Gage didn’t know whether to be hurt, pissed off, or worried. He knew that the most likely reason Scott wasn’t picking up on the call was work-related.

He came here to do a job, not look for love. He’s still got bad guys to bust, even if we’re at odds. So he’s probably just working, looking for those bootleggers. Maybe he wouldn’t have asked for my help even if we hadn’t argued, but I’d feel better if we were together. I might be able to protect him.

We could sniff them out, his Mal offered. We have a much better nose. And shifters have a different scent. We could be of service.

Gage had noticed a long time ago that shifters and weres of an animal smelled different than the normal creature itself. A shifter wolf, a werewolf, and a wolf-wolf had subtle variations in their scent that he could pick up in his animal form but which didn’t register when he was human.

I don’t know how much help he’s allowed to ask for on secret government stuff, Gage said. That’s the whole secret part.

Silly not to ask. We know the woods. And we could keep him safe.

Gage agreed with his Mal, but he didn’t know that Scott would see things the same way. Most of all, he worried about Scott poking around looking for information on the smugglers who clearly didn’t want to be found.

He wasn’t expecting a repeat of Prohibition-era machine guns and bootlegger brawls, but then again, maybe that wasn’t so far-fetched if the coyotes had money on the line. They weren’t likely to roll over quietly and let the feds shut them down. Gage wondered why Scott had been sent in alone, without a team.

Maybe the idea was that he would get the lay of the land and report back, and a team would show up. Of course by then, if the bad guys caught on, they could be long gone.

If Scott’s intel was correct, the bootleggers posed a threat to the entire supernatural community. Unsafe products undermined trust, and bad mixes meant people could get hurt. Since potency was at the heart of the issue, reformulations done without concern for safety could leave customers sick or worse. Untried additives could trigger allergies or make it difficult for customers to respect their limits.

It was a bad business all the way around, and Gage knew he should be glad that the powers that be were looking into it to protect them, but part of him worried about outsiders learning more about their community. He wasn’t including Scott in that description, but it definitely extended to his bosses and the brass in Washington, DC.

Gage checked his email and phone messages one more time, then decided that he needed a break. His landscaper friend had told him that the next property was already marked for holes whenever Gage had time to dig, and Gage thought that sounded like the perfect thing to take his mind off Scott, smugglers, and bad beer.

He turned up the radio on the drive over, doing his best to keep from dwelling on his worries. When Gage reached the new location, a large lawn in back of a rental home, he shifted in the car and bounded toward the stakes that marked where new trees would be planted.

The cool air perked him up, and the breeze ruffled his fur. Gage’s Mal ran zoomies around the perimeter a few times to stretch, getting lost in the sheer joy of movement. His large, muscular body was built for speed, and when he really got going, he had all four paws off the ground between strides.

Ears twitching, tongue lolling, Gage gave himself over to his Mal, pushing worries aside. Once he had run off some anxiety, Gage trotted back to the water dish his client provided that automatically filled so he could refresh himself between digs.

He felt better already and eyed the first spot where a hole was needed. Dirt flew as he sank his claws into the moist ground, sending soil flying. His big paws didn’t take long to make a difference. Gage opened up a shallow hole of the size indicated by the stakes, then dove in to make it deep enough for planting. He didn’t stop until just his head remained above ground when he sat inside.

Half a dozen spots were marked, but Gage knew the landscaper’s timeline and realized that he didn’t have to dig them all today. He satisfied himself by digging a second pit, then trotted to where a hose had been rigged up so he could stay in his dog form and still turn the water on and off to clean up. That avoided neighbors seeing a naked man frolicking with the garden sprayer and calling the cops.

Once was embarrassing enough.

Gage shook off. It didn’t take much with his short, slick coat. He stretched to his full length and arched his back, feeling the burn. Gage threw his head back and took in a deep breath, then froze.

Coyote.

He had only run into the scavengers a few times while he was in his fur. The average coyote was a bit shorter and weighed less than the average Belgian Malinois, and Gage was on the taller and stockier end of the spectrum for his breed. That was an advantage one-on-one, but coyotes ran in packs. While Gage felt confident he could hold his own against one of the scavengers, he wouldn’t want to try his luck against a group.

Sometimes a coyote is just a coyote , Gage thought, realizing that merely picking up the scent didn’t mean these were smugglers Scott was after. He had heard that some of the animals in the Adirondacks were coyote-wolf hybrids while others had domesticated dog ancestry.

Gage caught the scent again, stronger now. He had no desire to have a confrontation, but it intrigued him to find the coyotes relatively close to town. Gage knew that the crafty predators were famous for their adaptability and often coexisted with humans in towns and cities. But this felt less like sharing territory and more like an incursion.

Curious, he followed the scent. Gage didn’t spend much time prowling, well aware that strangers might see his guard dog as a threat, shoot first, and ask questions later. He had roamed this section of woods often and not encountered coyotes, so he was intrigued whether their presence now was coincidental or had something to do with Scott’s investigation.

I’ll just check it out, and if there’s something suspicious, I’ll report it to Scott when we talk again. I won’t try to do anything on my own.

As he slipped closer, he heard human voices.

“Need to change our route. Let things cool down,” one man said.

“Fuck that. Everything else is cross-country or out of our way. The more round trips, the more money,” a second man countered.

“What are they going to do? Try to trap us? We can get out of those,” a third person argued.

“Yeah, but hunting and trapping is legal here,” the first man pointed out. “We get shot in our fur, we’re still shot.”

“Don’t get shot,” the third man replied.

“I told Big John that we needed to switch things up, not have a routine,” the second speaker said. “The money’s good, but I’ve got no intention of ending up in jail—or Animal Control.”

“You’re overreacting. No one is paying any attention.” The first man sounded confident. Gage wondered if he was one of the bosses or just a courier.

“There’s a fed sniffing around,” the second speaker said. “That’s bad news.”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” speaker three said. “People have all sorts of tragic accidents up here in the big woods.” Their chuckles raised Gage’s hackles.

He didn’t like the odds of three to one, and Gage had no way of knowing whether more of their pack lurked under the trees. Gage knew he couldn’t stick around in case the wind changed and they caught his scent. While he was confident about his fighting skills—having learned the hard way in tussles with his four military brothers—Gage knew the best fight was the one avoided.

Save it for backing up Scott. It sounds like we can help, Gage thought.

His Malinois instantly bristled. No one hurts our mate.

Gage made it back to the car without pursuit. He climbed inside before he shifted, then locked the doors and dressed.

Do I tell the sheriff? I don’t want to compromise Scott’s investigation. I trust Sheriff Armel, and Scott did brief him. Gage felt a twinge of guilt about his jealousy. I was thinking like a boyfriend. Scott was thinking like an agent. I owe him an apology.

Gage checked his rearview mirror frequently on the drive back, but since he had left the woods before the coyotes, he didn’t think they could have beaten him to the road. Whether or not they sensed his presence and alerted a comrade by phone, he didn’t know, so he stayed wary.

When he reached Fox Hollow, he let out a breath of relief. He decided to go to Scott’s motel and beg forgiveness, patching up their relationship and assuring himself that Scott was okay. Gage had no trouble following Scott’s scent to the right room, but his SUV was gone, and no one answered when he knocked.

Standing outside the unit, Gage tried to reach him again, but the call went to voicemail. “Scott—please pick up. I’m worried. I’m sorry I was an asshole. I’ll make it up to you. I want to work this out. And I’ve got a lead, I think, on your case. Please—call.”

He checked his messages just in case but found nothing. Dammit, Scott! Check your phone.

Please be okay. I need to apologize and move on to hot makeup sex.

Gage drove straight to the police station. He asked for the sheriff at the front desk, and a few minutes later, Armel bustled out.

“What’s up, Gage?” Armel greeted him. “Need a permit for a kegger?”

Gage managed a weak smile in response. “Nothing quite that fun. Can we talk in your office? This is me doing the see something/say something drill.”

Armel quickly sobered. “Sure. Right this way.” He glanced at the officer at the desk. “Hold my calls.”

Armel ushered Gage into his office and shut the door before moving around his massive desk to the tall chair behind it. Gage took a seat in front.

“There’s a pack of coyotes behind the golf course plotting trouble.” He explained how he happened to be in the vicinity.

“You heard them yourself?” Armel prodded.

Gage nodded, still debating how to handle the rest of it. He decided that honesty was his best choice, even if some of his knowledge was hearsay.

“I know about Scott being a federal agent and that he’s here looking for bootleggers,” Gage blurted. “These guys in the woods—they knew the feds were onto them, and they plan to get rid of him if he gets in their way.”

“Whoa. Slow your roll. Back up and explain,” Armel said. “You were out there, why?”

Gage explained about the hole digging, expecting a smart remark from the sheriff.

“Glad you found a way to work off that big Mal energy without digging a trench through town,” Armel said. “I’ll mention you to the Parks and Rec manager. You could end up with an excavation business on the side.”

“Anyhow, I caught the coyotes’ scent and went to see what was going on. They were in human form—still stank.” He recounted what he had overheard. Armel’s smile faded, then disappeared altogether, turning to a worried frown.

“You’re sure?”

Gage cocked his head and gave him a look that was pure Malinois.

“Okay, okay. Don’t bite. Had to ask,” Armel held up a hand in appeasement. “Shit. I don’t like that at all. Have you heard from Scott?”

Gage squirmed in his chair. “No. I tried to call, but it went to voicemail. We had a tiff?—”

Armel cocked an eyebrow. “Tiff? Something I ought to know?”

Gage looked away. “We really hit it off, and then we had an argument. It wasn’t such a big deal that he wouldn’t return my call, so now I’m worried.”

Armel sniffed the air, and Gage belatedly recalled that bears had the best sense of smell of any animal. “Mates?”

“We’re still working that out,” Gage replied. “But yes.”

“Lord love a duck,” Armel muttered under his breath. “Spare me the lovers’ quarrel.”

“It’s not like that,” Gage said, although it really was. “He wasn’t sure he could trust me because I make paranormally enhanced beer—although mine is all natural and locally—legally —sourced. Liam found out about him being a spy and mentioned it, but Scott hadn’t told me, even after we…never mind.

“Anyhow, I’m worried. Even if Scott is totally okay, we’ve got bad guys smuggling stuff near town, and someone’s going to get hurt sooner or later—tourists or locals. Not counting the dangerous cargo. And I don’t want anyone else thinking my beer is contraband.”

Armel raised an eyebrow. “I am aware of the situation,” he said in a wry tone.

Gage tried to ignore that Scott had confided in yet another person, even if it made perfect sense. “Yeah. Of course. The coyotes have a very distinctive odor even when they’re in human form. Smells a lot like trash.”

“Well, that fits,” Armel grumbled. “Did you get a look at the men in the forest?”

“Just a glimpse. They looked like every bad stereotype of biker toughs—leathers, scruffy, pretty rough. They’d definitely stand out if they came into town like that,” Gage said.

Plenty of motorcycle groups came through the Adirondacks in the summer, and almost none caused trouble as far as Gage heard. Armel had a reputation as a no-nonsense sheriff who didn’t put up with problems, and Fox Hollow’s tight community could close ranks to protect the residents. Troublemakers went elsewhere.

Armel ran a hand back through his thick brown hair. “Shit. We’ve got lots of campers in the woods and tourists in the area. We do not need a Capone-level shootout.”

Gage’s heart fell at the thought. He didn’t want Scott or any of his friends getting hurt in the crossfire.

“The rest of my family is military,” Gage told the sheriff. “Special forces, police, search and rescue. My dad was a bomb squad veteran who raised us more like cadets, assuming we’d all follow in his pawprints. They did—I wanted to brew beer.

“But I know how to track and fight. And if they have my mate, I need to be part of the plan, or I’ll insert myself anyhow,” he said, part volunteering and part warning.

Armel muttered something under his breath Gage didn’t catch, and he figured it was just as well.

“You’re saying I should put you in protective custody?—”

“No! I’m saying I want in on the action if Scott needs rescuing. And if you need backup running those coyotes so far out of town they can’t find their way back.”

Armel chuckled. “Don’t get your hackles raised. I get it. Good to know I couldn’t keep you out of it if I tried. I worked with a Malinois once. He made the German shepherds look like sheep. Toughest cop I ever knew. Other than one Yorkie shifter who was positively psycho.”

He held out his hand, and Gage saw the faint white scars of two small incisors. “See this? That damn Yorkie thought I was reaching for his lunch.”

“He bit a bear?”

“He would have bitten Godzilla if it came between him and his food. Like I said—psycho.”

Gage thanked the sheriff and promised to let him know if he heard from Scott.

Are you just going to leave it like that? Our mate is missing, his Mal demanded.

Hell, no. But I’ve got to figure out how to look for him without interfering with a federal investigation—or making things worse. I don’t want to blow his cover.

You don’t want to blow his cover, just him, his Mal added with a snicker.

Not the right time. We need to make sure he’s safe, help him catch the bad guys, and then we can get our sexy on.

Gage drove to the library, feeling twitchy. He couldn’t go back to the taproom and focus on doing paperwork, and his head bartender was in charge of setting up tonight’s event, so Gage would just be in the way.

He checked—once more—that all the shipments had come in and been put away, and that no one had called out. That meant he technically didn’t have anything urgent to do until the night’s event at the taproom.

Gage tried calling Scott again, with no luck and no answer to his email or text. He forced himself to think.

Am I being ghosted?

He never wanted to be one of those guys who couldn’t take a hint. But the vibes he had gotten from Scott were full speed ahead, the sex had been hot, and other than the tiff over Scott not confiding in him, nothing else had gone wrong. Scott had seemed honestly excited about getting together again and taking their relationship further.

And there’s no denying the definite mate connection. I should be able to trust that above everything else and to know if he was lying. Withholding information isn’t being completely truthful, but it’s not exactly a lie. Maybe I’d suck at being a secret agent’s partner. It would take some getting used to.

Gage thought about that for a moment. He had let Scott’s job title slide off him like it was emergency room physician or firefighter—demanding jobs with long hours and danger. But the people in first responder roles weren’t spies. They didn’t have to infiltrate enemy organizations under false identities or be sent undercover into life-or-death situations.

I don’t honestly know if I can do that. I think we could be great together, and I’m already falling in love with him, but would the life break us up?

Gage had grown up around military families, and he knew that sometimes the stress, relocations, danger, and secrecy took its toll on marriages. That was one reason he didn’t want to follow his family tradition. He valued the sacrifice and commitment, but he wanted to brew beer that made people happy and let them forget their troubles.

Does that mean we’re doomed from the start? I don’t want to make him choose between me and his job, and I don’t think I’d be happy leaving Fox Hollow at this point. I’ve never heard of SPAM. Maybe it doesn’t work like the CIA or FBI. Maybe he doesn’t have to go away for long periods of time. After all, Fox Hollow isn’t far from Albany. And there are other, very normal, jobs that require travel. The choices are pretty limited here in Fox Hollow. It wouldn’t be fair to say he has to relocate or only do a job that is needed here.

But I don’t want to leave the taproom. Sure, I could start over somewhere else, but my community is here in Fox Hollow. I love what I’ve built. Can we make this work?

The questions made Gage’s heart hurt. His Mal whined and nudged his mind, offering solidarity and comfort.

He is mate. We will figure it out, his Mal insisted.

Gage didn’t know of anyone who had found their fated mate and didn’t stay together unless one of them died. Even then, mates rarely outlived each other by long.

I hope so. I already feel too much for him for this not to be fated. We’re still getting to know each other and yet I feel like he’s always been a part of me.

That means it’s real, his shifter side replied.