“Of course it doesn’t. As long as it’s only headaches we’re talking about. If the memory lapses, muscle tremors, or periods of mental disorientation come back, you can’t ignore it.”

“I won’t.” But he refused to let fear keep him away from Shaya ever again. So unless the other symptoms returned, he wouldn’t allow himself to even speculate if the headaches were anything to be worried about. Unlocking the door to his motor home, Nick said, “I need painkillers and sleep. You need to go home. Once again, I’m firing you.”

Derren gave him a curt nod. “If that’s what you want.”

What Nick wanted was Shaya. But he fully understood that the process of winning her trust would be gradual. She was upset, confused, and angry—and justifiably so. He knew he was going to need to be patient, understanding, and sensitive. Patient he could do—he was more patient than most. Understanding and sensitive…He wasn’t much good at that stuff, never had been, so this would be new territory.

He’d have to resist kissing her again. He wouldn’t stop touching her altogether—he needed her comfortable with and used to his touch. But if he laid another heavy kiss on her, she might think he was trying to use their attraction against her to persuade her. Being that they were mates and the urges were so strong, it probably wouldn’t be hard to seduce her. But he didn’t want that to be why she came to him. He wanted it to be about more than the physical side of things. Unfortunately, resisting her was going to be hard as all shit since he was literally hardwired—body, mind, heart, and soul—to want her.

Groveling wouldn’t do him any good—not that he knew how to grovel anyway—because the last thing Shaya would ever be attracted to or respect was someone worthy of pity. His and his wolf’s pride would balk at it anyway. There was apologizing, and there was acting like a desperate, creepy ass**le. He’d done the whole apologizing thing, and now he needed to show her that it hadn’t been an empty apology.

To achieve that, what he needed right now was a solid plan of action. Nick had always been good with plans. He’d have to insert himself in her life, show her he was there to stay. Words would never be enough, particularly since she didn’t trust him. He would need to be persistent, but not push her, not seem as though he was putting pressure on her as that would only worsen the situation.

God, he was going to have to do the gift thing too, wasn’t he? He was bad at that. He knew that Shaya wouldn’t want clichés. No, she was the type to appreciate personal gestures. But what were personal gestures? Shit, this was going to be hard as hell. Nick didn’t do romance, never had.

Another thing he would be sure not to do was expect anything in return. He would take things at her pace…but he wouldn’t let her make him give up. He couldn’t. He truly hadn’t known it was possible for him to feel pain on this scale, hadn’t realized it was possible to feel so torn up inside. He’d known different types of pain in his life, but none of it equaled this—not what had happened to make his wolf surface, not what had happened that got him sent to juvie, and not even finding out that his cognitive functions were degenerating. None of it equaled the pain of being without his mate. He knew without a doubt that nothing could.

She was going to be late for work again. Groan. On the upside, it was the earliest that she’d ever been late. In pretty much a daze after a crappy night’s sleep, Shaya left the house and began walking briskly down her driveway. And came to an abrupt halt at the sight of something parked at the end of it. It looked like a humungous bus. Coming close, she tried to peer through the blackened windows, but they were too high up.

Seeing movement in her peripheral vision, she swerved to see a Mercedes convertible pulling up behind the bus. Then the bane of her existence was waltzing toward her, carrying Starbucks takeout. Again he looked dangerous and indomitable. Again he emanated an unflappable confidence. Again he had her traitorous body heating and tingling, readying itself for him—so not good.

Why couldn’t he look like Sloth from The Goonies or something? She scowled. “You’re still here?” At his presence and scent, her wolf stirred and stretched out inside her, her dark mood lifting.

Nick arched a brow at her tone. “Good morning to you too, baby. And yes, my head healed nicely, thanks.” His wolf liked her sassiness, was even amused by it—and it took a hell of a lot to amuse his wolf. “Coffee?”

She barely refrained from shivering at the sound of that masterful voice that she was sure had been designed to taunt, intimidate, and arouse. Determined to ignore the effect he had on her, Shaya moved her attention to the cup he was holding out to her and wondered if he’d known she was a sucker for Starbucks coffee. “What flavor is it?”

“Caramel macchiato, of course.”

Yep, he’d known. And he thought buying her a cup of coffee would help even things out? Pfft. Still, it would be a shame to let the coffee go to waste. It would certainly be unreasonable to refuse to drink it based on the buyer. So she snatched it.

“You’re welcome.”

Feeling something lick her free hand, she jolted. Glancing down, she found a panting, playful-looking, tail-wagging Labrador. She’d been so transfixed by Nick that she hadn’t even sensed the dog…a dog that was now being happily stroked by Nick. She shot him a questioning look.

“Shaya, this is Bruce. Bruce, Shaya.”

“Bruce? He’s yours?”

He scratched the dog between his ears. “He was supposed to be my brother’s dog, but for some odd reason, he’s always followed me around. I’m better with animals than I am with people.” And he preferred animals to people, actually.

Frowning, she watched as Bruce scratched at the door of the large bus. Taking out a set of keys from his pocket, Nick unlocked it and the dog trotted inside.

“He’s a lazy shit. Likes to lie in front of the TV all day.”

“Wait, this bus is yours?”

“It’s a Winnebago,” he corrected, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her. He wasn’t a touchy-feely person, but Shaya’s skin called to him. Seemingly of its own accord, his gaze flicked to her sensual lips. God, what a mouth. He wanted to taste it again. Thoroughly and commandingly. Then he would bite that bottom lip, mark it.

“A Winne-what?”

“A Winnebago.”

“Like the one in Meet the Fockers? Hang on, how can you drive this and the Mercedes?”