A/N: Hi friends! Thank you RoseGoldCrystal, Guest, ReluctantWriter12 and IseeDaylight for your input. 3 Reviews are what keep my fingers flying! I hope you all have had a good May so far. I am looking forward to summer; any fun plans ahead for the summer months for you all? In the meantime, please enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think of it! Please forgive me any errors...I'm so tired and hope I edited it okay! Next chapter is going to be steamy...I'm giving you advance warning! It's a-comin'!

JULY 8 – continued - PAUL'S POV

It was quite an adjustment, getting used to sharing space in his chest with Rachel. It started off as just a flicker, and within hours had turned into a full-blown supernatural line tied directly to his Imprint's emotions. While he occasionally felt faint stirrings of sexual interest, Paul was disappointed to find that what Rachel mostly felt around him was…irritation.

He tried to convince himself that her annoyance could be underlined with sexual frustration, but, after thirty minutes at the dinner table with her…nope, it was mostly just straight-up negative energy.

She was pretty good at hiding it, most of the time. Even when her temper simmered, her dark lashes would lower over her cheeks as she'd inhale deeply. Didn't she ever lose it? Rage, scream? Or was everything leashed back in, pushed behind gritted teeth and flashing eyes? He once again found himself admiring her self-control…but also wanting to see her let it go. Let go of whatever it was that she was binding up so tight in her chest that it made him want to rub his own.

He knew what it was, though. Her brother. Jake's "sabbatical."

Paul stared at her profile. Rachel's frustration was a metallic taste under his tongue. She rose from the table, dark eyes flinty with hostility…directed at him. He continued to stare at the space she occupied even as the front door slammed.

"She'll come around," Billy said quietly. He took a long pull from his beer.

Paul pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "She wants nothing to do with me."

"She doesn't know what to do with you right now. But look at Sam, at Jared. It always works out." Billy stared at him seriously. "I think you're a good kid, Paul. Otherwise I wouldn't be supporting this."

A defeated grimace pulled at the edge of his mouth. "You'd fight the imprint?"

"No. No one can fight the imprint. It's a gift from the Ancestors. But I wouldn't give you an open invitation if I didn't like you."

"Open invitation?" Paul lifted his eyebrows.

"You're welcome in my home. The imprint is as much a gift to her as it is to you."

"But we're not telling her yet, right?"

Billy sighed. "Since Sarah died, Rachel's instinct has been to run away. She makes excuses not to come back unless her sister's here. I was hoping she'd come back this summer and see it's not so bad back here. It's just home– not a trap." He expelled a long sigh.

Paul gritted his teeth. "So much for that."

Seemingly Billy mistook the reason for his words. "It's a gift, Paul."

Well, he fucking knew that. Maybe not twenty-four hours ago— but now that Rachel had shot back into his world, he realized that the Ancestors were wiser than he could ever hope to be. What he once mocked in his brothers— Jared's earnest desperation to see Kim every day, Sam's unswerving attention on Emily whenever she was in the room– he now understood was just immaturity. His derision was plain idiocy. They were lucky to get such incredible mates. And now? Well. He was luckier than all of them. Because…Rachel.

He could barely look at her without wanting to reach out and touch her hair; the scent of her made him dream of a future he'd never thought he'd have. When she congratulated him on his upcoming home, the pride he felt was deep and overwhelming. He could– and would– provide for her, for them.

He wanted to know every crevice of Rachel's sparkling brain; he wanted to earn a place in her heart. She deserved someone strong and good– so he'd be that, for her. He might've had a shitty start at it, but he'd figure it out quick enough. She just had to give him a shot.

She could keep her high standards because he'd fucking do anything to meet them. He'd make her proud to be his mate.

"I'll be good to her, Billy." His voice was low and somber.

"I know."

"Thank you for your support."

"Well, I figured you'd need it." Billy finished his beer with a gulp. "She won't accept anything but the best. She's Sarah's kid. I'm glad to say my girls never settle, not for anything."

"She won't have to." I'll give her anything she wants.

Just then– a new smell tickled his nostrils; salty, bright. As if on cue, his heart– Rachel's flickering part of it– fell flat with disappointment before…before….

He could smell her tears. And his imprint's heart was aching.

Paul didn't mean to leave Billy so suddenly, but he practically stumbled in his urgency to follow the electric link leading to Rachel. Hunched over on the porch, her arms stretched out straight and resting across her knees; her face planted against the tops of her upper arms. Her cell phone lay on the wood beside her.

"Rachel?" he asked, voice tight. He rarely let sadness into his own psyche (anger was so much easier to work with), so– fuck, what to do with this? Knowing it was hers made it even worse.

"What?" she asked sharply, but didn't lift her face.

He awkwardly approached, breathing in the night air. The moss on the tree nearby, the gravel of the road– but mostly, her exquisite scent marred by the acetic tears on her cheeks. He wondered, briefly, how much more poignant this would all feel in his wolf's form. He hadn't yet taken form since meeting Rachel…and for once he didn't feel the demand of the wolf yanking at his consciousness, biting for control. His wolven instincts were subdued, watchful as he learned his imprint.

And for the better, too. He didn't necessarily want anyone else to barge their way into this, yet; Rachel was a mystery to him, still, in many ways. He needed to get his bearings, first, before he opened up his mind to the fucking pack link. And after all the smartass comments he'd made over the last year…yeah, Paul anticipated a lot of grief for this one.

He'd happily bear it, though. Because his mate was fucking perfect.

If only he could take away the sadness that wrapped itself around her like a shroud.

He sat beside her; she didn't argue, or say anything. But she did lift her head. Staring at her profile again, he was hit with the same strange admiration he felt for her years ago: if anyone deserved a happy ending, it might as well be Rachel Black.

"I'm sorry if you're upset because of me," he finally said, voice quiet so as to not rankle her more.

"It's not you," she replied, voice just as soft. "It's everything else about this place."

Everything else? His instincts rejoiced at her word choice; he had to forcibly tamp down his excitement, knowing she didn't really mean anything weighty by it. "You hate being here that much?"

"I just don't belong here."

Paul's brows pinched together. Pretty much the worst phrase a guy could hear from his Imprint. "Where do you belong?"

"That's part of why I'm so frustrated," she admitted. "I don't know. I just keep thinking, 'I'll know when I find it.' And so being back here makes me feel like I'm just wasting time. I gotta keep pushing forward, nose to the grindstone–" she cut herself off suddenly.

Her sudden silence made him particularly interested. "What?"

"You're not my therapist." A small smile tickled the corner of her mouth. "I'm sorry. You're just my little brother's friend and here I am, dumping all this philosophical personal strife on your shoulders."

"I've got big enough shoulders," he said lightly, but sincerely. "If you need someone to talk to…to help sort stuff like that out…"

"I wouldn't ask that of you," she interrupted.

"But you could," he said, significantly.

"But I won't," she insisted, quietly, slanting him a look that had his blood burning with a thousand questions.

He didn't know what to do with a single one of those questions; moreover, he didn't know what to do with this fucking heart of his. He hadn't had to worry about it before– especially not around women– and now, suddenly, it was too big and too itchy and too heavy for his chest. Any time it had gotten like this before (thinking too long about the days before the divorce, for instance), he'd pivot and let something simple– usually anger– take the wheel. To sit with this sort of unfamiliar discomfort was…well, uncomfortable as shit.

"Y'know," he finally said, turning his eyes back to the ever-darkening yard beyond. "I never told you but…it meant a lot to me, when you signed that detention slip."

After a pause, she cleared her throat and said, "You got lucky. I didn't break the rules often."

He smiled involuntarily. "No shit."

"No shit," she agreed.

"I hope you have since." At her questioning look, he clarified, "Broken the rules. Life's too short not to break the rules occasionally."

"That's what people say when they don't have much to lose."

"Probably true." Except now, he had everything to lose…he had his soulmate, right next to him, who apparently didn't see him as a viable option. Who might not want the life he could offer. Who had a life she was building without him. "But it's also what people say when they know that taking a risk could win them so much more than playing by the rules ever could."

Her eyes searched his. "That might be true," she conceded. Her smile faded into Rachel Black's signature 'poker face.' It landed somewhere between probing and haughty. He couldn't tell what was happening behind those calculating eyes, but he felt a myriad of her emotions blossom in his chest. Guilt, confusion…fondness. Attraction.

"I thought you'd put up a bigger fight than that," he said off-the-cuff, smiling and hoping he could coax some levity out of her again. It was in there, still– he could feel the desire to be playful, spinning at the edges of her other emotions. He was a bit giddy, himself, trying to just ride out the wave of these weird foreign feelings…feelings he just had to exist with, because shutting them off wasn't an option. Would he ever adjust to this? Did the other guys feel it like this?

"I feel like you're trying to wrongly brand me as a contrarian."

"Oh no, I'd never think that. That's just the fancy college word for rebel…which you aren't, are you, Rachel?" Now he grinned outrightly at her. "I just think you're a stickler."

"A stickler?" she repeated, eyes getting that dangerous sparkle in them.

"A stickler for the rules."

"You called me a ball-buster on the beach. So which is it?"

"Both. A ball-busting stickler," he teased.

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "I am not. I just have a high standard for myself."

"And everyone else?" he asked silkily.

"And everyone else," she told him, firmly.

"Wanna know what I think?"

She tilted her head at him, and the curiosity in her gaze completely belied the sarcasm of her next statement: "I'm on the edge of my seat, waiting to hear Paul Lahote's opinion."

She was so saucy. He bit his lip, leaning closer. "I think you gotta break some more rules. High standards or not…it might be worth the risk."

Rachel's eyes dropped to his lips, and for one long, charged (hopeful) moment, Paul thought she was going to kiss him. Years of practice – and too many women to count– had his body going still at the prospect; his wolfen instincts took it a step further, making him suddenly ravenous to know for the first time what his mate tasted like, to know how her lips would fit against his. He barely stopped himself from reaching for her, resisting the urge to run his fingers across her jaw and pull her close.

Her gaze lifted to meet his; the shrewdness there was even more captivating when she was only inches away. "Are you flirting with me, Paul?"

God, no games with this chick. "Yeah. I've been trying to. All day, in fact."

"I thought I wasn't your type."

"You weren't. But doesn't change the fact that I like you. I've always had a thing for you."

"Now I know you're lying." Her gaze shuttered and she sat back, as if she had him figured out. Disappointment began to bleed into the playfulness of their interaction.

"I'm not lying," he said, exasperation catching his voice. He couldn't lose her sincere attention, because if she ruled him out as unworthy or malicious in any way….God knew if he'd ever get another shot. To hell with it: "You're smarter than anyone I've ever met; I like how you stand your ground. You do it in a way where people still like you when you're done. You're– you're a good person but you command respect just by being in the room. You have high standards, like you said, and the world knows it. You're also pretty in a really unexpected way." He swallowed thickly; even without admitting the imprint, this felt very raw. Even if he couldn't give her all honesty right now, he had to give her as much as he could. Awkwardly, he added, "Almost everything about you is kinda unexpected, so…yeah, I'm flirting with you."

RACHEL'S POV

This was the guy who had slept with half of the women in Washington? Really? He'd talked such a big game as a freshman…and after seeing how handsome he'd become, and hearing Leah's complaints, she was certain he'd be an absolute player, brimming with charisma.

He'd been performing up to that role, too. But then, he gave her…that. Whatever that was.

"That was the weirdest compliment any guy's ever given me." She sat back on the heels of her hands. "And I went out with a wannabe poet once, so trust me when I say– that takes the cake. Unexpectedly pretty isn't usually what a guy closes with when he's trying to get with a girl. Hmm."

His jaw clenched. "I mean– I was trying to be honest."

"Clearly" she agreed. She couldn't refute that. Her limbs felt staticky and light, charged with some strange magnetism that she'd never experienced with anyone before.

"What did you want, if not honesty?"

"I can tell you what I expected." She turned back to him, unabashedly letting herself study his physique for a minute. He wore a short sleeve shirt, even out here in the damp rainy evening. His arms were impressive, like something from a Cosmopolitan spread featuring "Bad Boys with Biceps." He'd been honest with her, so she had no problem returning it. "I expected charisma. Smooth-talking. Something to really make a gal drop her panties."

His jaw was so tight that he looked like he'd been carved out of straight granite. With a tone of voice just as hard, he said, "Did you not hear me say how much I like you? I basically said I fucking admire you–"

"Let me finish, please." When he relaxed somewhat, she continued, "I expected a smooth-talking player who'd drop the usual lines and flaunt his sex appeal, you know? But those certainly weren't any lines I'd ever heard before. It means more because it was honest. So thank you, Paul."

He was looking at her again. That vulnerable look was back, and it made her throat feel tight…a glimpse of the man she'd seen on the beach, who looked at her with such tenderness that she'd been half sure it was her imagination. "Give me a chance to get to know you, Rachel."

Rachel's heartbeat accelerated. Something deep inside of her tightened with the admission, and her hands twitched with the sudden impulse to grab Paul and see if he was the source of that static magnetism shimmering through her skin–

Her fingers brushed her cell phone, still lying silent and dark at her side.

Right. CJ. Isn't heartache from one impossible fling enough? She wasn't even twenty-four hours out from her breakup…and here she was, making it worse by preening under the compliments of a cocky eighteen-year-old.

An eighteen-year-old who knew more about her brother's mystery disappearance than she did. She flicked her bangs, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "I'm going to be honest, too. I'm not in a place– I'm not looking for anything with a guy right now."

The side of Paul's sensuously curved mouth quirked up. "Noted. But sure sounds like you could use a friend. Makes La Push a little more bearable, huh, to have a friend you can count on?"

"And you're that friend?" she asked, bemused.

"Absolutely. Like I said, I've got wide shoulders to carry all your troubles." He gestured to– well, yeah, an expanse of shoulders that could only be fully appreciated with a generous tape-measure. Rachel resisted the urge to lick her lips. "And I can definitely show you a good time."

I'd settle for some eye-candy and some actual fucking information about my brother. But…well, a drink sounded good, too. After a long day that started with tears and Laffy Taffy, and had only gotten more confusing and bizarre as the hours wore on…Rachel felt she had earned a Washington Apple, served cold and tart-sweet.

Her eyes swept down to her (blank, silent) cell phone one last time, then back up to his. To hell with it. "Hey, you wanna go get a drink?"

"What happened to your concerns over my legality?" he asked, but he was already rising to a stand.

"If my dad can't even be bothered to care, why should I?" she asked smartly. "You said you could show me a good time. Can you get into a bar? You sure look like you'd be able to pass."

"They don't question it," he said, confidently. "I'm proud of you– taking a risk tonight, huh? Skirting the law by hanging out with a minor at a bar?"

"A calculated risk," she hedged. She would not get frisky with him, though. She had enough willpower to resist that, at least. She'd risked her heart enough today, and the stupid organ felt like a beaten pulp in her chest. Shoving the cell phone in her hoodie's pocket, she rose.

"Fuck yeah." He offered her a hand to help her stand, then glanced at the pouring rain. "I– uh, well, I didn't drive here. Caught a ride with your dad and Sue when I saw them in town."

"Then I guess I'm driving. Hold up while I get my keys." She popped back into the house, and for an instant was about to call out to her dad– but at the last minute, snapped her mouth shut. Her dad didn't care to share about Jake's whereabouts, so why should she feel obligated to share her own?

You're an independent woman. Not a little girl who owes anyone anything. She snatched her keys off the hook near the door.

She and Paul made a mad dash across the yard; rather, she ran, but Paul practically teleported. One moment he was next to her, the next, he was flinging himself into the passenger seat, shaking rain off his shoulders.

She– rather gracelessly– slipped in a few seconds later. "Jesus, you're fast!"

He grinned at her. "Good genes. Now, you'll want to turn left down your road, and head about seven miles east– we're going to Gal Louie's, between Forks and the Rez–"

"I know it."

As they drove, Paul talked a bit more about the place he'd hoped to buy off Buck Roffey. She nodded along, offering generic opinions on the improvements he rattled off. He sometimes asked weirdly specific questions ("What do you think is better? White walls or color? Oh yeah? Hmm. Have you seen those houses with kitchen islands? Do you like them?") but it was fun to hear him dream aloud. The place sounded pretty move-in ready.

"You live with your dad, right? How's that been?"

Paul was quiet for a second, and Rachel wondered if maybe she was being insensitive by asking. When he did answer, she expected that tight, borderline-pissed voice she'd heard so many times…but his answer was careful, and perhaps a little…tired? Unexpected indeed.

"He's alright. The usual problems of a boozer. Can't hold a job for too long. Disappears for weeks."

She was once again reminded– as much as she was actively angry at her father right now, she wouldn't trade Billy for anyone. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Paul agreed, softly. She knew if she looked at him, she'd see a relaxed face with those vulnerable eyes and– well, she wasn't sure what exactly to do with that version of Paul yet. "I guess it's lucky. I basically have the house to myself for a few weeks whenever he does this, which is loads better than having him around."

"Does he– umm…"

"Just ask whatever it is, Rachel." Out of her peripheral, she saw him glance her way.

"Okay. Does he– does he get physical with you?" She sort of already knew, and it made her feel nauseous.

Surprisingly, Paul answered, "No."

"Oh!"

"Not anymore," he clarified.

Fuck. She stared hard ahead, trying to control the moisture that was gathering in her eyes. She'd already cried off her mascara on the porch; she was sure she looked a mess and she didn't want to make a scene while behind the wheel. But Paul's words left her feeling deeply sad– hurting for him.

His hand appeared in her vision, lightly covering hers on the wheel. "It's okay, Rach. I'm good."

"I'm sorry," she blurted out. Apologizing for embarrassing him? For crying like some sort of loon tonight, at every provocation? She so rarely cried, yet here she was– crying twice in front of him in a single hour. She whispered again, "Sorry."

Or maybe…she was apologizing for the unfairness of what had happened to him.

His hand covered her right hand on the steering wheel; briefly, she lifted her left to sit on top of his, encasing his single hand in a gesture to convey the words she couldn't say, and didn't know how to articulate.

Just…sorry.

"It's okay."

After a second, when she was able to find the words, she murmured, "I'm sorry you ever felt unsafe, Paul. You shouldn't have had to."

He squeezed her hand.

She replaced her other hand on the wheel, inhaling a breath through her nose. He took his hand back, and for a second they sat in silence.

Then, slowly, she became aware of how hot his hand was. Was it just because she was cold, from the rain? Or was she imagining this heat?

His voice brought her back to the moment. "There's nothing I can't protect myself from anymore. Or others. That's the good thing to come out of a shitty homelife, I'm realizing."

Without meaning to, she slanted a quick look across the car. With those muscles, she had zero doubt that he would ever be made a victim again.

"I don't take steroids," he said lightly when he caught her checking him out. A grin spread over his face, and her heart skipped a beat. "But if I hadn't had this whole transformation, I sure as hell would've considered popping whatever roids I had to if I'd known how quickly an asshole like Randy is put in his place by a 6'6 dude weighing 235."

She laughed. Paul seemed satisfied with himself before warning gently, "Now watch the road. This weather sucks."

Gal Louie's was the dive that Rachel remembered. Still, Rachel refused to go into a public space looking like a swollen-eyed rat. She gestured for Paul to open her glove box and hand her the pouch within.

"You look beautiful," Paul said quietly, as Rachel quickly retouched her makeup. "You don't have to–"

"I know I don't have to," she interrupted. "It's for me, not anyone else. I like looking good."

"Well, mission accomplished."

She blinked, a blush warming her cheeks. "You are smooth."

"I knew you'd think so, if you gave me a chance."

She snorted.

"Let me know when you start to feel the panty-dropping effect."

She capped her eyeliner pencil, a grin spreading over her face despite herself. "It won't happen, Paul. I've got too good of self-control."

"We'll see, Rach."

They grinned at each other, and the feeling that this was natural– as if they'd been best friends for years, or something– was enough to make Rachel forget the cold dampness of her hoodie and sundress...yes, being with Paul was warm, good.

"Let's get in there," she finally murmured. "The rain isn't going to stop so no use putting it off."

Once again, Paul beat her to the door before she was even a quarter-of-the-way. He held it open as she rushed in. And, true to his word, Paul wasn't even carded as he sauntered in; Rachel wasn't so lucky. Paul made a face over the door-guy's shoulder as Rachel dutifully stood still, letting the burly old man compare her face to the one on her license. When she was given the all clear, Paul beckoned her to a pair of old leather chairs along the bar, closest to the broken old jukebox.

"Are you a regular or something?"

"Not every day or anything," he said with a touch of defensiveness. "But I came for the first time when I was seventeen, before I even phased, so they really don't think twice now."

Her brow cocked. "Phased? What do you mean phased?"

Paul stiffened. Over the music and din of the bar, he said, "Did I say 'phased?'"

"I think so." She shrugged. "Forget it. What do you drink?"

"I like beer. I can do mixed drinks, too. Don't much like wine."

"I'm doing a Washington Apple."

Paul's brows rose. "You think they can make that fancy shit here?"

"They better damn figure it out," Rachel said, sweetly. The bar was loud but Paul seemed to have no problem hearing her, because he grinned and shook his head.

The bartender must've had to refer to notes, but she got her poison as requested. It was a little heavy on the schnapps, but it hit the spot. She toasted to Paul, clinking the rim of her glass against his Budweiser bottle.

He held her gaze as they took a long draw each; the warmth she'd felt in the car was in his eyes again, smoldering low in a way that would make any woman melt.

"I think you gotta break some more rules. High standards or not…it might be worth the risk."

She suppressed a shiver; Paul's eyes sharpened, as if he was reading her mind, or could sense the arousal that just flitted over her skin. When he pressed his lips to the rim of his glass, her eyes tracked the movement somewhat helplessly. An unfamiliar feeling- craving- blossomed low in her tummy. With seemingly deliberate slowness, his tongue swiped across his lower lip to catch any moisture from his drink.

He really did have a sinful mouth.

Nope, nope, nope. What did you just say to him? It won't happen. Stop. He's all-talk, and this is the game he's been playing forever. You know this.

Good thing Rachel was the pinnacle of self-discipline.

.she hoped.

-
A/N: Spoiler: she isn't, and she's going to totally melt because...it's Paul. C'mon. We all would, right? But it ain't gonna be easy on 'em! Angst and fighting the temptation is what we romance lovers want, huh? Please review and let me know your thoughts!