If she was staying there, she couldn’t be a relative come to visit family in Hideaway Cove. And Harrison hadn’t heard of any new shifters coming to town. So she was probably human, a random tourist who’d stumbled on their coastal sanctuary.
Harrison imagined barging in there and asking the inn’s owner, little old Marjorie Hanson, if he could speak to her guest, and groaned. Even if he didn’t freak the hell out of the blonde woman by demanding to be introduced to her, that was a bad idea. It would be a one way ticket to being the talk of the town. And making the woman the talk of the town, too.
As much as he loved his home, he couldn’t think of any worse fate for a visitor to Hideaway. Telepathic gossip moved faster than light; everywhere she went, she’d be the subject of whispers she couldn’t even hear.
No. He couldn’t do that to her.
Not to his mate.