4. Bella

4

BELLA

B urgundy velvet hugs my curves like a long-lost lover's embrace. I look a hell of a lot sexier than my usual mom-iform of yoga pants and stained tees. It's a dress from another era, B.G. (Before Ginny), when I was a wild child with a penchant for dancing barefoot under the moon, my laughter as carefree as my lack of responsibilities.

Tonight, B.G. Bella is making a reappearance, if only for a little while. I don't usually have cravings for returning to this Bohemian way of living. Most of the time, all I want to do is hug the young thing I was eight years ago and tell her life will get better in unimaginable ways, even if it will also be harder. But on this particular occasion, Ginny is away at her best friend's place for the night. We're driving down to Whispering Pines tomorrow morning. I'm feeling…let's just say I'd like to have one responsibly irresponsible night.

I move away from the wardrobe and toward the mirror. There is a portrait of Dianthe, Lady of the Hunt , fastened to the wall above the mirror’s golden frame. Don't ask me. A few days ago, Ginny became convinced she was a wolf-cub and wouldn't listen to any other stories except those involving, well, wolves. While reading to her, I learned about free, wild, beautiful Diana—and honestly, I was impressed. The latest book I was writing was a shifter romance, and it feature a lot of werewolves. In a split-second decision, I decide I won't be Bella tonight. I will pretend to be a fierce, otherworldly like the heroine in the book.The mirror now reflects a woman with smoldering eyes and a soft, lush smile. Damn, I look good—and I only say this because, on most days, I just settle for looking like a functional trainwreck.

My eyes mist over slightly. Don't get me wrong, I love being a mom. It's the most difficult and best thing I've ever done, and nothing else will ever come close. My own mama used to tell me life would change in unimaginable ways, and the ground would shift beneath my feet. I didn't get it then, not until I held my baby in my arms.

Mom herself was asked all the time if she wanted to have a son as well as a daughter. She always laughed and said that she was perfectly happy with just a daughter. She chose to raise me with her full, fierce heart. She made me strong, gave me wings, but told me to be mindful of never hurting others along the way. I've tried to follow her words for most of my life, and I think that they have helped immensely in raising Ginny. My daughter will grow up with a life of unabashed freedom, but I'll be damned if she doesn't learn to be responsible about not hurting herself and others—as far as it is possible.

I sigh and nod at my reflection. Enough with the nostalgic pining. I have places to be.

About an hour later, I’ve reached my destination.

The bar is a familiar haunt, illuminated with an artistic smattering of lights. The air is filled the scents of whiskey and secrets. The bartender, a silver fox with a twinkle in his eye, raises a brow as I saunter up to the counter. "Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. It's been a while, Bells."

I flash him a grin. In the earlier days, this grin signaled I was up to no good. I hope I'm on the same track now. "I'm not Bella tonight."

He quirks a brow at me. "Is that right? Well, what would not-Bella like to drink?"

"Whiskey, make it a double," I reply smoothly.

He slides a tumbler across the worn wood, the amber liquid a siren song. "Strong woman, strong drink," he murmurs, his gaze lingering on my cleavage. I wink, taking a sip and relishing the fire that erupts in the heart of my tummy.

The music, a sultry saxophone solo, pulls me onto the dance floor. I close my eyes, letting the rhythm take over. My hips sway, my hair whips around my face, and for a few glorious moments, I'm one with the music and the world around me.

Then, strong hands grip my waist, pulling me flush against a hard body. I open my eyes to find a man with stormy eyes and a devilish grin looking at me. "Care to share the dance floor?" he asks, his voice a low growl.

"Why not?" I purr, matching his intensity.

We move together, our bodies alive and coiled. His hands roam, igniting sparks wherever they touch. It's been too long since I've felt this alive.

He dips his head, his breath hot against my ear. "You're a mystery," he whispers. "I want to unravel you, piece by piece."

My fingers trail down his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath his shirt. "And you," I say, my voice husky, "are the perfect distraction."

The dance ends, and I slide back to the bar, making sure to keep the swaying rhythm of my body intact. Just like I'd wanted, the man follows me. Something about him is oddly familiar. He has some years on me, but I don't mind that, not when he clearly knows his way around the dance floor and a lady's heart. The anchor tattoo on his exposed chest, that snarky smile. Sinful, I find myself thinking, then want to take the word back in surprise.

Honestly, I hadn't expected I'd meet someone, much less be attracted to them. My failed attachment to River had turned me to stone, and then, after Ginny, there just wasn't enough time. I hadn't realized when the responsibilities had reduced in their acuteness, but I felt curiously light, like I wasn’t shackled to my past any longer.

The handsome stranger drops down on the stool beside me and rotates mine so I face him. The frank intensity in his gaze sends a fresh river of goosebumps up my spine. "Who are you?" he asks, his voice warm like hot honey.

"Freya," I murmur, looking away from him. Somehow, it's hard to lie to this man. I tell myself it's in that "I know how you look naked" gaze of his.

"Freya," he repeats, rolling the name on his tongue. "So, Freya, what say we get out of here?"

"Sure," I fire back, "but only if you let me take charge."

His brows shoot up, but so do his lips. I love his smile. I love feeling this way.

"Lead the way, Freya," he says, his voice a husky invitation, his hand warm on the small of my back.

"One sec," I tell the man, a hand on his chest to keep him from following me out the door. I flash a wink to the bartender, who gives me a knowing nod and an upturned thumb. No doubt, he thinks I've bagged myself a hottie, and he's absolutely right.

"All clear," I say in a sing-song tone, linking my arm through his and pulling him into the night. The streets of Spokane sparkle under the moonlight, the city's pulse thrumming beneath our feet.

"Someone's eager." He chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates against my skin.

"I've got a place in mind," I confess, "and if you don't like it, you can just blame my questionable taste in dive bars." I’m teasing, but I'm confident he'll love it.

"Dive bars, huh? You're full of surprises, Freya," he says, and his grin makes my knees weak. Good thing I've linked our arms together, or I might have stumbled.

A few blocks later, we arrive at a neon sign blinking the words, “The Rusty Nail”. It's not fancy, but it's good. I push open the door, a wave of warmth and the smell of greasy fries washing over us. The regulars look up from their drinks, their eyes widening when they see my companion. I shoot them a playful glare, and they quickly return to their conversations.

"You frequent this place often?" he asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Only when I need a stiff drink and some good company," I reply, leading him to my usual booth tucked away in the back.

In all honesty, I've come here a lot over the last few months when Ginny is staying with a friend or with my parents. I love the nondescript surroundings and how everyone knows me but doesn't feel the dire need to engage me in conversations I'm not ready to have.

"Am I the good company or the stiff drink?" he asks, raising a brow.

"That depends," I say, grabbing two menus and tossing one at him. "What are you in the mood for?"

He scans the menu, a smirk playing on his lips. "I'm feeling adventurous."

"Good," I declare, flagging down my favorite waitress, Betty. "We'll have two Fat Bastard Burgers, extra pickles and onions, a side of chili cheese fries to share, and two of whatever you’ve got on tap."

Betty winks at me. "Coming right up, doll."

"Fat Bastard Burgers?" he questions, a hint of laughter in his voice.

"Don't knock it ‘til you've tried it," I warn. Then I add with a conspiratorial whisper, "They’re the perfect cure for a night of questionable decisions."

He leans back against the booth, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Is that a challenge, Freya?"

"Maybe," I purr, leaning closer. "Maybe not."

The burgers arrive, towering stacks of juicy beef, crispy bacon, and melted cheese. It's a glorious mess, and I can't wait to dig in.

"You were right," he admits after the first bite. "This is delicious."

"Told ‘ya," I say around a mouthful of burger. We eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the clinking of silverware and the occasional moan of pure foodie bliss.

When we're done, I lean back, patting my stomach with a satisfied sigh. "So," I ask, "What do you think of The Rusty Nail?"

"It's certainly…unique," he says diplomatically.

"That's one way to put it." I laugh. "So, I've told you my name. Who are you?"

A deep, rich burst of laughter erupts from his mouth. "Well, you've taken me out and fed me, so I guess it's only fair for me to give you my name. I'm Wyatt."

"Wyatt," I repeat. God, he looks so familiar…I've heard this name, too. I shake my head.

Wyatt throws his napkin down on the table. "So, what say we have a little more fun?"

Normally, I'd question my sanity for following a stranger into the night. But something about him feels…different. Familiar. And I'm not one to ignore a tingling sense of adventure. I let him lead me out into the night.

"Where to, mystery man?" I ask, a playful lilt in my voice.

He replies with a low, rumbling chuckle that makes me want him all the more. "Patience, my dear. The night is young."

We weave through the quiet streets of Spokane, the city lights painting the sky with a muted glow. He steers me toward Riverfront Park, where the iconic clock tower stands sentinel over Spokane Falls. The roar of the water rings in my ears and stirs something wild and raw in my heart.

"I haven't been here in ages," I admit, my gaze sweeping across the illuminated park.

"Then allow me to reintroduce you," he says, his hand finding mine.

We walk along the riverbank, the moon casting long shadows on the water. He stops at a vendor's cart, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Sugar dust?" he asks, holding out a paper cone filled with the sweet, powdery confection.

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "What's sugar dust?"

"Only the best way to end a night," he replies, his voice a low purr.

He dips his finger into the cone, then gently traces the outline of my lips with the sugary dust. His touch is electrifying, sending a jolt of heat through my body. Before I can react, he leans in, his lips capturing mine in a slow, deep kiss.

The sugar dust melts on my tongue, its sweetness mingling with the taste of him. The kiss is a symphony of desire, a dance of tongues and teeth. It's everything I've craved and more.

When we finally break apart, I'm breathless, my heart pounding in my chest. "Wow," I gasp, my fingers still tingling from his touch.

He smiles, a slow, satisfied grin that makes my knees weak. "Told you it was the best way to end a night."

We continue our stroll, hand in hand, the silence between us decidedly full. We find a hidden bench tucked away in a secluded corner of the park, the city lights a twinkling backdrop. He pulls me onto his lap, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me like a warm embrace.

I rest my head against his shoulder, the steady beat of his heart thudding on my skin. "This has been…" I search for the right words, "unexpected."

"But in a good way?" he asks, his voice a low rumble against my ear.

I tilt my head up to meet his gaze, the moonlight illuminating his features. "In the best way."

We share another kiss, slower and deeper than the first. His hands move to my hair, gently untangling the pins that hold it in place. My hair cascades down my back.

He buries his face in my neck, inhaling my scent. "You smell like wildflowers," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire.

"And you smell like danger," I reply, my heart fluttering unreasonably.

He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. "Is that a problem?"

I shake my head, my fingers tracing the lines of his face. "Not at all."

Raw, electric chemistry fills the space between us. I can't deny the pull I feel toward him, the desire to unravel the layers of who he is.

My apartment is only a few blocks away, and I'm not ready for this night to end. Once we reach the gate, I nod at him. "This is me."

He stops in front of my building, his hand cupping my cheek. "I should go," he says, his voice a reluctant whisper.

I reach up, my fingers brushing his lips. "Or you could stay," I suggest, my voice barely above a breath.

A slow smile spreads across his face, complimenting the unmistakable hint of triumph in his eyes. "Is that an invitation, Freya?"

I pull him closer, our bodies pressed together. "It's whatever you want it to be."

He doesn't need another invitation.