Sloane
“I’m sorry,” I said slowly, planting my hands on my hips, “did you call meshort?”
I glared straight at Lock.
And I meant it: the problem—the man towered over everything. Standing on the porch as if he owned the place, he made Callan’s six-foot-two frame shrink. Broad shoulders, arms thick with muscle, and that same posture Callan carried sometimes, the kind that made you instinctively straighten up around them.
Lock looked down at me as if I amounted to a mildly entertaining animal.
Completely straight-faced.
“Naw, darlin’,” he said. “I called you a fairy.”
He paused.
Then he winked.
“Nothing wrong with small.”
Before I could even process the audacity of that wink, Callan shoved him on the shoulder.
“Hands off, dude,” Callan said.
Lock rocked half a step back but didn’t look bothered in the slightest.
Callan jerked a thumb toward me.
“This fairy is mine. Go find your own.”
I snorted.
Lock burst out laughing.
“Well, hell,” he said. “Didn’t know we were staking claims.”
I crossed my arms, trying to look offended, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me.
“You’re both ridiculous.”
“Runs in the family,” Lock said easily.
He pushed himself off the porch railing and grabbed the medical kit he’d been using on Callan’s ankle, snapping it shut.
“Let’s get your people settled before it’s fully dark.”
God, yes, the thought of a real bed nearly buckled my knees.
Lock headed toward the cabin door.
“I’ll throw together some food. Nothing fancy, but it’ll be hot.”
My stomach answered before my brain could.
“After that,” he added, glancing back at us, “you guys can get cleaned up.”
I froze.
“Shower?”