juliet

We arriveat the Gare d’autocars de Montréal station a little after seven a.m. I’m stiff from sleeping in a weird position all night, but surprisingly rested and filled with hope.

Maybe it’s the fact that we’re well on our way to replaceing help or how easily we made it to the city or the sunny day waiting for us outside the station, but I feel good about our chances of making things right at Lost Moon.

Ford seems to be in decent spirits as well.

There’s a spring in his step as we cross to the park on the other side of the street to grab coffees from the street vendor with the five-dollar bill I found on the ground near the ladies’ room. So far, the universe seems to be looking out for us, and I’m grateful. I really don’t want to test my alleged pickpocket skills unless I absolutely have to. Getting arrested isn’t something I want to risk when we’re so close to getting help.

Once we’ve secured coffees, we make more peanut butter sandwiches and wander through the tidy streets, taking in the historic churches and lines of Victorian homes not far from the station. There’s a bed-and-breakfast advertising rooms for fifty dollars—a steal, Ford assures me—but we don’t have fifty dollars and a tiny place like that isn’t as easy to sneak into as a larger hotel and probably wouldn’t have a business center anyway.

So, we keep walking, chatting about Lost Moon and everything I’ve forgotten about our time there, until we replace a big, swanky hotel with a smartly dressed doorman and several valet staff lingering by the car park station. It’s so early that there aren’t any cars pulling through the drive, but plenty of guests are coming and going, grabbing breakfast from one of the nearby restaurants or heading out for a day of sightseeing. Ford and I wait until a group of college-aged kids with matching “staff” t-shirts and duffels like ours head into the hotel with bags of fast food and blend in with their group.

Once inside, Ford leads the way past the front desk into a large lobby filled with sofas, armchairs, and several small tables tucked against one wall by the bookshelves. It’s overflowing with young rugby players, toting big bags of gear and sucking down protein shakes as they scroll through their phones. The college kids we followed in seem to be counselors, making me think it must be summer training camp time.

Somehow, I know that some serious high school players spend their summers travelling from one collegiate camp to another, honing their skills in hopes of landing a place on a college team.

Maybe I knew someone who played rugby?

I search my mind, all the way to the very back where I sometimes sense pieces of my old life are hiding, cloaked in the shadows, but I get nothing but a soft assurance that my rugby knowledge can be trusted. Shaking off the frustration associated with not knowing if my old memories are gone for good or not, I weave my way around a group of boys laughing together over a video on one’s tablet and follow Ford over to the bookshelves.

We settle into seats at one of the tables at the edge of the space and sip our coffees as Ford discreetly cases the joint.

“Looks like the business center is on the second floor,” he murmurs after a few minutes. “There’s a sign beside the elevator.”

“Okay, so we finish our coffee and head up?” I ask, studying the couple stepping into the elevator on the other side of the lobby. “It doesn’t look like you need a key or anything, right?”

“Not to get on the elevator, anyway,” he agrees. “Maybe to get into the business center, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“It’s going to be open,” I say. “I can feel it. The Fates are on our side.”

His lips hook up. “Such optimism.”

“Optimism is good.”

“It is. It’s just weird. For you.”

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t get to do that. If you’re not going to answer my questions about my past, you don’t get to drop sneaky little clues anytime you feel like it. It’s all or nothing. Those are the rules.”

“So, you don’t want to hear that bossiness is totally on brand for Juliet Zion?” he teases, the sparkle in his silver eyes making me wish we had time to relax, flirt, and get to know each other again.

I like flirting with Ford. And sleeping snuggled against his delicious-smelling chest last night is on my list of Top Ten Best Life Experiences so far.

But until proven otherwise, we’re on a mission to save our friends.

The hope that we might be able to call off this rescue makes me even more eager to head upstairs. If Layla and everyone else at Lost Moon are actually okay, maybe Ford and I can hang out in Montreal for a few days and just…be together. I can tell he doesn’t know quite how to feel about the new me, but I’m positive that if he gives me a chance, we can replace our way back to each other. I feel such a deep connection to him. I can’t imagine a future where we aren’t on the same team.

And hopefully sharing the same bed…

I fully understand that lusting over him while fleeing people who want us dead is probably crazy, but I can’t help it. The more time I spend with him, the more positive I am that we belong together, that we’re the kind of thing that’s written in the stars.

“I don’t have to hear that bossy is on brand,” I tease back. “I can feel it in my bones. I was born to boss you around.”

He laughs. “Pint-sized tyrant.”

“Better believe it,” I say, wishing I could lean across the table and k**s that smirk off his face. “Let’s go. The suspense is killing me.”

He stands, tossing his coffee in a trash can in the corner before moving toward the elevator. I join him, looping my arm through his as we wait for the car to arrive.

I beam up at him as I murmur, “I’m going to pretend like we’re newlyweds and I’m so smitten with you that I can’t look anywhere else. Good way to avoid looking suspicious, right?”

He beams back at me, bending to brush the tip of his nose against mine as he murmurs, “Absolutely. People will be so grossed out by our PDA, they’ll avert their eyes and we’ll move about completely unmolested.”

I tip my chin up, pulse spiking as my lips move close enough to his for his sugar and cream coffee breath to warm my mouth. “Oh no, I think I might like a little molesting. As long as you’re the one doing it.”

“Bad girl,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist and hugging me close to his incredible body.

“And proud of it,” I whisper, wrinkling my nose as the elevator doors ding open. “To be continued.”

He moves into the car, pressing the button for the second floor. “Hopefully we’ll have the business center to ourselves. These aren’t the kind of calls we want being overheard.”

“Fingers crossed,” I say, barely resisting the urge to twine my arms around his neck. But we’re not in public anymore and I don’t have a good excuse to have my hands all over him.

We exit the car on the second floor and follow the signs to the business center. There’s a keycard sensor on the door, but luckily a man with a cell phone pressed to his ear is exiting with a pile of papers just as we’re heading in.

He holds the door for us, flashing a tight smile as he tells the person on the other end of the line, “Yes, I was able to print out the contract. I’m taking it up to my room to sign and scan into the Dropbox folder now.”

“Business, business, business,” Ford mumbles beneath his breath as the man leaves and we head over to the farthest computer. There are four in the room, as well as a printer, a water cooler with tiny paper cups on top, and a bowl full of apples on the table beside it.

I snag an apple and hover beside Ford’s chair as he accesses the internet and opens a private browser. He creates a new email address, claims an internet phone number with an area code based in San Diego, California, and by the time I toss my apple core in the trash we’re ready to call Lost Moon.

Ford glances over his shoulder at the empty hallway outside the glass door. “All right. This is it. If someone comes in, distract them, and I’ll end the call as quickly as I can.”

I nod, rubbing my palms together, like a faith healer about to lay hands on an ailing parishioner and spirit him back to full health.

I want to believe in miracles. I want to believe that our friends and the good people at Lost Moon rose up and overpowered the bad guys. Or maybe even that some of the bad guys realized what they were doing was wrong and changed their minds about aiding and abetting a coup.

Maybe some of Ford’s friends saw what went down in the ocean and turned on Beck, realizing that if Beck could plan to murder an Alpha wolf, he’d pretended to take under his wing that none of them were safe.

But even before call after call is sent straight to voicemail, my gut knows better. My stomach is a lead weight dragging at my core, making sure my feet stay firmly on solid ground.

“That was Natalie’s,” Ford says soberly, ending the call. “And I’ve already tried Layla, Catherine, and Alexander.”

“Should we try the main office?” I ask. “Or is that a lost cause?”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Ford says. “At best, it would confirm that we’re alive and still concerned about what’s going on at Lost Moon. At worst, they might have a way of tracking the number to this IP address that I don’t know about. And if things were okay on campus, at least one of them would have answered. The chances that all four of them forgot to charge their phones at the same time are pretty damned slim.”

I pace back and forth behind his chair, chewing on my bottom l*p. “And there isn’t anyone else you could call? Someone who might not be under house arrest, maybe?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, one of your wolf friends. You said you were pretending to be part of the New Lupine Brotherhood to gather intel. Did you meet anyone while you were there who didn’t seem to be completely on board with the crazy, either? A lot of people just want to please, you know. They’ll go along with the group to keep from making waves or attracting the wrong kind of attention. But some of those people might have had a change of heart once they saw Beck try to kill you and realized he was helping facilitate a hostile takeover of the school.”

“I’m not sure that anyone except you saw what happened with Beck,” Ford says. “You were the only one with a bird’s eyes view.”

“Still,” I press. “Don’t you think the takeover might have scared some people? And that one of them might welcome a call from someone trying to help put things right?”

Ford shifts to face me as I perch on the desk beside his computer. “Maybe. I can think of a few but only one gave me his cell number. Trevor. He’s just a kid, though, only nineteen and very impressed with Beck’s power and money. But he also seemed like a good guy.”

“Try him,” I encourage. “What’s the worst that can happen? He hangs up and goes to tell Beck that you called?”

“Or gives the number to Hammer and his people to trace,” Ford says, “and we’re sitting ducks here. The bus doesn’t leave until five, remember.”

I curse beneath my breath, the impatient side of myself warring with the cautious one. “Okay, so we wait. We kill some time, then come back and try Trevor closer to five. That way, even if they do trace the number, we’ll be gone before they can possibly reach Montreal.”

“Sounds good.” Ford logs out of the account and stands. “So…how should we kill time?”

“Let’s not kill it,” I say, taking his hand. “Let’s enjoy it. I know our friends are probably in trouble and the phone calls didn’t work out the way we’d hoped, but this is still a day we won’t get back again. We shouldn’t waste it.”

“Okay.” He squeezes my hand but still looks sad, which gives me an idea.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing my duffel from the ground beside his chair and pulling him toward the door.

“Where are we going?” he asks, grabbing the other bag.

“Back to the park where we got our coffee,” I say, smiling at him over my shoulder. “I saw something there that you need in your life. And no, I won’t tell you what it is. It’s a surprise.”

He frowns. “All right. But just remember, we don’t have any money. Unless you want to count the change from the coffee.”

“It’s fine, we won’t need money,” I assure him. “The best things in life are free, Ford. And I’m about to prove it to you.”

He grunts and grumbles and frowns some more, but I ignore him, smiling as I pat his shoulder on the way down the elevator. “That’s right. Get all your crankiness out now, Mr. Growly, and prepare yourself to have an unexpectedly lovely day.”

He makes a soft pained sound, but when I ask him what’s wrong, he just shrugs and says, “Stomach cramp. Too much peanut butter, I guess, but it’s fine now.”

I know he’s lying, but I have no idea why.

It makes me wish all over again that he would tell me more about myself and our past together, just to help me keep from hurting him, if nothing else.

But he won’t.

So, I’ll just have to focus on making good memories with him and hope they’ll be enough.