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Back Claws and Crochet Save as PDF
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. Untitled
  3. CLAWS & CROCHET
  4. NEWSLETTER SIGN UP
  5. CONTENT WARNING
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58. Epilogue
  64. EPILOGUE
  65. VISIT FOLK HAVEN
  66. SEDUCED BY A SELKIE
  67. NEWSLETTER SIGN UP
  68. ALSO BY LAUREN CONNOLLY
  69. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

It shouldn’t surprise me that my family knew Zoey’s. Pine Falls isn’t big, and apparently, Selena Gunner spent eighteen years of her life here.

But from what Mason just said, I’m not sure knew is a strong enough word to describe whatever relationship they had.

“Did you two … date?”

Hell, this is weird. My father died when I was young, so Mason took on that role. We don’t really talk about women. Especially not the mother of the girl I’m falling for.

He offers me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “She left.” He shrugs and walks away.

Fuck.

I think Selena Gunner broke my uncle’s heart.

35

ZOEY

“Maybe a sexy demon lady …” I murmur to myself, pencil poised over my sketch pad.

Sunlight spills in from the window above the kitchen sink, bathing the cabin in a warm afternoon glow. Good light for my current project.

Different ideas flip through my mind. I’m imagining a pinup girl from hell. Maybe lounging on a bed of fire. Just need to make sure it has a nice curved shape that’ll sit evenly on the surface of a motorcycle helmet.

I want my design to be perfect. Badass. Something the wearer will be proud to show off. Because the only way to put this art on display will be if the guy actually wears his helmet.

Some people might think I’m overly cautious, harping on this helmet thing. But I know I’m right.

Mom doesn’t talk about her childhood much. She lost her dad at a pretty young age, so I guess there wasn’t a lot she could tell me about my grandfather. But there is one thing I know.

How he died.

My grandfather went on a late-night ride on his motorcycle and got into an accident. She never said exactly what part of the crash caused his death, but I know that one of the few rules she insisted my dad follow was to always wear his helmet while riding. The same went for my brothers and me when we took out our bicycles or a set of roller skates.

She wasn’t mean about it.

Mom would walk up to me, cup my face in her hands, and press a kiss to my forehead. Then, she’d whisper, “I love this head more than anything in the world. I don’t want to see anything bad happen to it. Please, wear a helmet.”

Who can say no to that? None of us ever did.

So, here I am, trying to jazz up a boring black helmet, crafting it into something Warner doesn’t just feel obligated to put on.

Instead, I want him to be excited about it.

“Who am I kidding? He’s not a demon-lady kind of guy.” I tap my pencil on the paper.

Then, it hits me. So obvious that I laugh at myself.