The Belle and the Beard (The Santillian Triplets, #3)

by Kate Canterbary

She believed in the restorative power of baked goods, particularly those meant to be sliced, warmed, and slathered in butter.

If I timed it right, there were days when I didn't have to speak to anyone until after lunch. Those were the best days.

Wolves weren't sly or cunning, and they weren't exactly brazen either. They were bold in a simplistic sort of way. They went after what they wanted—and that was that.

"I'm not comfortable with you being right," she replied. "It's like writing with the wrong hand." "Sure it is, sweetheart."

"There's a difference between relying on yourself and insisting you don't need anyone under any circumstance." He waved an irritable hand at the house. "It just means you went through a fuckton of shit alone and haven't realized it's not supposed to be that way."

"I never pay much attention to rules. I look for ways to get around them."

I wanted to cross the kitchen and stand beside him while he prepared the meal, letting our hands and hips bump as we worked together. I wanted to drop my head onto his shoulder and be content for one minute. I wanted to wrap my arms around this thick torso and bury my face in his shirt.

"Nothing blooms in every season," I said. "You shouldn't expect that of yourself when it doesn't occur in nature."

But that wasn't what I wanted. It wasn't about letting it happen. It was about letting go. It was not having to make one more decision. It was being safe and trusting that I'd get what I needed just as much as he would.

"We can talk about the Three Hunters another time," he said, his hands sliding to my hips. "Same with Smaug and the Lonely Mountain. You asked me to stop smushing you so that's what I'm doing now."

I didn't know but I had the sense people weren't supposed to be one stationary, static thing their entire lives. People were supposed to live a lot of lives in their time on this planet. They were supposed to reinvent themselves and reevaluate their beliefs. They were supposed to look back and shake their head at the things they did before they knew better.

They were supposed to get all the second chances.

And yet, when I gathered a sleeping Jasper into my arms and closed my eyes for the night, I thought about all the lives we were allowed to live with the time we had, and I whispered into her hair, "I wish you were mine to keep."

But my life has many facets and the people I spend time with should be reflective of that. I can't throw myself all in one direction and still expect to feel whole."

"Just as soon as you say you don't hate me."

"Just so you know, I love it when you're impossible."

"There's a room back there." "I figured as much," I said, my voice low. "Make sure you lock the door," he murmured. "Uncle Bart got lost on his way to the bathroom and…well, thankfully he has no idea what's going on at any moment ever but make sure you lock it." "What are you, seventeen? Of course I'll lock the fucking door."

Much like my own identity, it was about minds and hearts, not parts.

There's no limit on the number of acts in your play. You get as many as you want. You just have to keep getting on stage."

"Because I know what it sounds like when you're in the middle of a storm and you can't see the hand in front of your face. And I know you're in that storm now. It's different than mine but it's still a god-awful storm. I know it and I know you, and I know you'll make it through."

We named them Sawyer Reuel and Savannah Eowyn.