Page 20 of A Wolfe in the Woods

Hewasrude. Through and through. But as the silence cut through the truck and we neared Everwick, turning off the main highway to lumber down Sandshore Drive, which led right toward the town square, I felt anger begin to burn.

What had happened at the upper cabin had been an accident, one I’d apologized for already. If he didn’t understand that, thenhewas being unreasonable.

See how far you get in the hospitality industry, Mr. Wolfe,I couldn’t help but think.

“Will you answer me one thing? Have we ever met before?” I asked quietly, my spine stiff. When I saw the town square come into view, I wasgratefulfor the little flame of anger because it helped dull the ache I felt at the familiarity.

He seemed to stiffen. “No.”

“Then what have I ever done to you? You seem toreallynot like me even though we’ve supposedly never met before.”

I wanted to know what his problem was. Or maybe he was just one of those people who enjoyed being an asshole…or he didn’t care to be liked.

In the end, he ignored my question entirely. Or maybe he just didn’t care to answer.

“An hour enough time?” he chuffed impatiently as he pulled up to the curb of the town square. He peered out the windshield, tracking people as they milled by. “I’ll be back then. If you’re not here, I’ll assume you found that taxi of yours.”

Unbelievable,I thought, seething, already fumbling for the door handle. The sooner I got away from him the better.

After I climbed out, I stooped down low to meet his icy eyes. “You know what? Don’t bother. I’ll find my own way back. Thanks for the ride.”

Asshole,I added silently as I slammed the truck door, harder than necessary, and stalked away. If I never saw Jonathan Wolfe again, that would suit me just fine.

Unknowingly, my feet pulled me toward a familiar place as I grappled with the encounter with the grumpy owner, trying to forget it. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of getting to me. The quicker I put him out of my mind, the better.

The circle of Acacia Whisperthorn trees greeted me when I finally realized where I’d ended up…and I felt my stomach tighten with both longing and grief, all thoughts of Jonathan Wolfe evaporating like the morning mist that rolled in from the coast.

The bark on the trees was smooth as glass, and I trailed my gaze up the nearest one, spying hunter-green leaves overhead with thorny tips. Its buds were closed right now. They only blossomed at night, revealing beautiful white-and-lavender flowers, fragrant like jasmine. These trees had been here longer than anyone knew.

Below the ring of trees was an old stone fountain, still bubbling. Beds of tended, colorful flowers and wobbling wood benches surrounded it. The cobblestone beneath my feet felt as familiar as the brininess from the sea in the air.

Thiswas the heart of Everwick-by-the-Sea, standing proudly in the middle of the busy and bustling town square, which hosted the annual Moonshade Berry Festival and weekly farmers’ market.

Just off the square stood the Everwick Library, a whitewashed building with stained-glass windows and an iron weathervane shaped like a quill. I knew that its shelves were deep and winding, its air perfumed with parchment and something floral from the tiny botanical garden behind it, which was tended to by volunteers and always in bloom, no matter the season. A few steps down the lane sat the local post office, no bigger than a cottage, with its green shuttered windows and flower boxes.

The buildings were old here but well loved, crooked in places, charming in ways that couldn’t be replicated. No streetlights, just lanterns. No house numbers, just names. No neon signs or big brands. Just local galleries, quiet coffee shops, and hidden bookstores tucked behind ivy-covered archways. The sea was always within earshot—its rhythm woven into the way people walked and talked. Wisteria climbed the sides of cottages with chimneys that leaned slightly to one side, framing garden gates that never quite closed all the way.

Shops still bore hand-painted signs, but some paths now led to exclusive bistros tucked into alleyways, where menus changed daily and wine was served by candlelight. Rooftop tables overlooked the ocean. Dishes came garnished with edible flowers and local sea salt. These places never advertised. You had to know they were there—or be lucky enough to discover them.

Everwick looked like it had been pulled directly from a fairytale with its patchwork of narrow lanes and sloping roofs, less like a town and more like a memory…one with salt in the air and stories of my childhood tucked into every corner.

Once it had been home.

Now it felt like an open wound.

Dragging in a deep breath, my eyes landed on the local grocery store on the next street off the square. It hadn’t changed since I’d been back in town for my grandmother’s funeral, and I headed there, a clear destination and purpose in mind, helping me focus.

The store was small but stocked, and as though working on auto-pilot, I gathered essentials for a week I wasn’t entirely certain I’d be seeing through: Milk, eggs, bread, cheese, fruit. Chocolate bars and ice cream were a necessity. A few frozen pizzas and a bagged salad.

Luckily, I didn’t recognize anyone in the store, though I kept my head ducked low. Even the teenage girl at the checkout, a fae with lilac-colored skin and tucked wings, I’d never seen before. My grandmother had known nearly everyone in Everwick, at least the old families. When I’d been growing up, you couldn’t go shopping in town without being stopped by a handful of people. But word might’ve been getting out, the little secret paradise along the coast attracting more and more people from the city.

The handle of my paper grocery bag cut into my palm as I darted out of the store. The summer sun was beating down on the town square, and my gaze cut toward the coast, which I could just see beyond the tops of trees in the distance.

Making the decision with a lurch in my belly, I turned north, heading toward the Aurealian Sea, my feet guiding me along a path I’d traveled hundreds of times, though cracks in the pavement had been repaired and new landscaping had been planted along the way.

The closer I got to the coast, the cooler it was, a breeze sweeping through my hair, wicking away the sweat on my skin. I took a slow, deep breath, the fresh air filling my lungs so easily it felt almost indulgent.

Beyond town, where the cliffs rose into a steep bluff, stood Moonbeam Point Lighthouse. Perched on the next ridge and usually swallowed by sea fog, it was visible from nearly every part of town and had been there for over a century. The rotating, steady light had once swept across the walls of my bedroom at my grandmother’s house, just as it did the waves below. It had lulled me to sleep more nights than I could count.