Page 19 of Match Made In Growl

"The archaeologist," he said instead, and immediately wanted to throw his mug at the wall.

Kieran picked up his coffee and took a slow, measured sip. "She's respected, Criss. She's got a reputation in this town."

"I'm not going to damage her reputation."

"I didn't say you would. I'm saying she's not one of your Savannah bartenders."

"She wasn't. Trust me." The words came out before he could edit them.

The kitchen clock ticked loudly and somewhere outside, a bird was working through its morning repertoire with aggressive optimism.

"So what happened?" Kieran asked.

"What do you think happened? We had a drink, we talked, we went home together. Standard operating procedure." Criss set his mug on the counter and crossed his arms. "It's not a big deal."

"Then why are you standing in my kitchen at seven-thirty looking like you didn't sleep?"

"Because your guest cabin mattress is terrible."

"I built that mattress frame myself."

"And the frame is great. The mattress is an atrocity."

Kieran studied him for a long moment, those hazel eyes with their gold-green depth doing the thing that made Criss feel like a document being read in a language he hadn't agreed to be written in. His cousin had always been able to see more than Criss wanted to show, a skill that had been annoying when they were teenagers and was borderline invasive now.

"Your tiger's wound up," Kieran said quietly. "I can feel it from here."

"Spring weather. It makes everyone edgy."

"It's not the weather." Kieran leaned back as his hands wrapped around his mug, and there was something in his expression that Criss had never seen directed at him before. Not concern, exactly. Recognition. "I'm not going to tell you what it means, because you'd just argue with me. But I'm going to say one thing, and then I'll drop it."

"Can't wait."

"If she matters, don't play games with her. And if she doesn't matter, then figure out why your tiger is climbing the walls at seven in the morning over a woman you'll never see again, especially once she leaves."

Criss wanted to fire back with something sharp and dismissive. He wanted to laugh it off, grab a muffin, and head outside to split wood until his arms gave out and his brain stopped circling.

Instead, he stood in Kieran's kitchen and said nothing, which was the most honest thing he'd communicated in months.

Kieran nodded once, picked up his paper, and went back to reading.

The back door opened and Freya came in carrying a basket of fresh-cut herbs, her copper-auburn waves loose around her shoulders and her green eyes brightening when she saw Criss. She was barefoot, dirt on her knees, and their daughter Sage wrapped around one leg.

"Criss. You're up early." She set the basket on the counter and kissed Kieran on the temple as she passed, leaving Sage to climb onto her father’s lap. "There are cinnamon rolls in the oven. Five more minutes."

"You're a saint, Freya."

"I'm a witch who likes to bake. Saints don't charge for herb consultations." She pulled a mug from the cabinet and poured her own coffee, lighter than the men's, with honey stirred in. "Are you helping with setup for the workshop this weekend? I could use someone tall."

"Kieran's tall."

"Kieran's busy. And you owe me for eating all the apple butter last week."

"I ate most of the apple butter."

Freya gave him a look so similar to Kieran's that Criss briefly wondered if mate bonds came with synchronized facial expressions. "Saturday morning. Nine o'clock. Don't be late."

“Yeah, don’t be late!” Sage giggled as she tried to speed past Criss before he could tickle her for her taunts.