Since last week was Thanksgiving, there was no #ThursdayThreads but do not despair! There are words. Since I shared the models for Declan Donahue and Maggie O’Brien over the weekend, it’s time for y’all to get a hint of how they are together. There might be a tiny spoiler about a previous scene in the book, but by the time you get around to reading the behemouth (at 100+K words and counting), you’ll have forgotten this little scene. My dad was a good guy and never complained about watching me. My brother, on the other hand? Yeah…maybe I channeld him a little into Deck for this scene. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

Declan Donahue shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from rubbing at his temples. That action wouldn’t ease the headache forming there. Neither would arguing with the woman currently facing him down from across her front parlor. Who even had parlors in this day and age anyway? It was a living room, despite the fussy decorations and furniture she’d kept after inheriting the place. The outfit had wanted to buy the house when the old lady died but her granddaughter moved in lock, stock, and barrel before they could make an offer. Ronan was insistent they eventually own the whole block and have most of the Boru men settled there.

If we claim her, there’s no problem. He growled at his inner wolf’s insinuation. Maggie O’Brien was not his mate. His wolf howled with laughter.

Maggie scowled.  “Are you coming or not?”

“Do I have a choice?” Reading her experssion, he decided it would be best to just keep his mouth shut—and his thoughts to himself. Remember, you need her…cooperation, he reminded himself. Ronan told him to woo the townhouse out from under her. Easier said than done, especially since he’d ended up practically dead on her front stoop a month ago.

“You always have a choice, Declan.”

Of course he did. Not. He gestured toward the door. “The car’s at the curb.”

She preceded him out, turned to lock the door then skipped down the steps. His Land Rover was parked in its normal place. He ushered her into the front passenger seat before heading for the driver’s side.

Once they were on their way, Maggie asked, “Do you know where we’re going?”

He inhaled before calmly saying, “Yes. We won’t be late.” Was it too much to ask for a major traffic tie-up to delay them? Probably. Sadly, it was a short drive to his own personal hell. He found a spot and parked and they headed toward the auditorium. The only good thing so far was that she’d slipped her hand under his arm as they walked.
Inside, they were confronted by a din of noise and scurrying people. They found seats just as the house lights flashed. Moments later, they lowered to a gloomy cast that he could still see through. There were times he could curse the abilities that came with hosting his inner wolf.

The curtains parted, music swelled and now here he sat--trapped. How had he been brought so low? One of the scariest lawyers in Boston sitting in the dark watching Maggie’s nieces twirl around the recital stage in pink tutus. If any of the boys found out, he’d have to kill them all.

There you have it, just a quick slive of “normal” live for one of the Boston Wolves. Writers, if you’re looking for a little inspiration, try this phrase: **own personal hell**. That should give your characters something to thing about. Readers, do you like little scenes like this that don’t necessarily move the plot along but give a peek into the every day life of a character while nudging the relationship along? Inquiring writers want to know. Happy Hump Day, y’all!