The Witch And The Werewolf. Michele HaufЧитать онлайн книгу.
a spell over a foamy brew. “So, Lars, uh...what can you tell me about yourself? I mean, I don’t want this to sound like fifty questions.”
“Fifty? You have that many questions for me in such a short time? I’m impressed.” He pushed his glass aside and leaned his elbows on the table. She wanted to touch him once more. Just to be sure that what she’d felt was real. “I live out past Oak Grove. I come to town once a week for groceries and a pint. Just remembered this place was here so thought I’d stop in. I’m definitely coming back.”
“And what is it you do, exactly?” Because if he didn’t have a real job, she’d get suspicious. And fast.
“I...well, you could sort of call it security. On a private compound.”
“Ah-huh.”
That was vague. And she was getting more nervous about the guy by the second. But really, if he was the one, would he know things about her? Things she didn’t want him to know.
“I’m also remodeling the cabin I live in. I like making things with my hands.” He splayed them both on the table to reveal long, calloused fingers.
Oh, those were some fine hands that could certainly cover a lot of area on her if she was in the market for such handling. Which she was not. Was she? Mercy. Maybe giving up on men to focus on a spell she was too freaked about to give more than a few moments consideration to daily was too extreme?
Could be. But even more so? Talking to a man who may have very likely seen her naked a few nights ago was even more extreme. She couldn’t deal with this. Not right now.
“Do you want more stout?” she asked and nodded toward his nearly empty pint.
“Probably.” He tilted back the rest of the drink.
“Head to the bar.” She reached over and touched the back of his hand. There was that sensation again. Hiding a cringe, she nodded toward the bar. “Eryss will give you a refill. On the house.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here!”
No, she would not be here.
Mireio grabbed her little black purse, shaped like a fish, swung it over a shoulder, and beelined it for the door behind the band, well out of view of the bar, and the mysteriously delicious Lars Gunderson’s eyesight.
She’d had three drinks, so she wouldn’t drive home. If she were lucky, she might catch a bus this late.
When he returned to the now empty table, Lars saw the sassy little skirt slip out the door. The woman with the bright red curls and sexy, deep cleavage had dashed out of the brewery.
He gaped. Really? Had he made that terrible of a first impression? She’d kind of seemed into him. Had touched his hand. Had even fluttered her thick lashes at him as she’d smiled a sweet pixie smile. And he hadn’t gotten to ask her the burning question. The one he’d been wondering about since the scent of lilacs had led him here.
Devastated that the woman had taken off, Lars sulked. He should chalk it up as another rejection. And yet a deep, visceral part of him would not allow him to mark this off as defeat. He had to know if she was the one.
So, leaving his beer on the table, he pushed through the dancing people and slunk around the electric guitarist and pushed open the door. He could hear her high heels clicking on the concrete, though he couldn’t see her. But he smelled lilacs...that way.
Turning left, he passed three storefronts, then swung another left and there she stood, near the bus stop, stepping nervously from foot to foot. He heard her mutter softly, “Oh, shit.”
That utterance stabbed Lars right in the heart. Never had a woman rejected him so soundly as to run off. So he stopped about twenty feet away from her and put up his hands placatingly.
Should he really do this? Was he that desperate for more cruel treatment? She seemed almost afraid of him. Threatened? He didn’t want her to feel that way. That wasn’t his style.
But the heady scent of lilacs wouldn’t allow him to turn away.
So what to do?
The woman wore a short skirt that looked like one of those tartans the Highlanders wore, along with a blousy red top that emphasized her ample cleavage. Sky-high heels matched the blouse color. And white ankle socks with a delicate ruffle kept drawing his eye down there. She was short, a good head shorter than him, even in the heels, but the shoes did make her legs look long and slender.
“You keep staring at my legs like that, I’m going to have to slap you,” she said.
“Sorry.”
She offered him a smile and a shift of her hips. “I don’t do things like slap men.”
He took that as a sign it was okay to approach. But only a few steps. “Couldn’t help but stare. You’ve amazing gams. I, uh...did you have a previous engagement you forgot to tell me about?”
She rubbed a palm up one of her arms. A black fish swung near her waist. What was that? A purse?
“Sorry. I suddenly got a weird vibe about you. No offense.”
“Really? Because if you think I’m weird I do take offense from that.”
“No, I don’t think you’re weird weird. Just—hey, weird is good, right?”
“Still offended here.”
Her wince was accompanied by a shrug. “I’m usually much better at explaining myself. I think you’re a...” She bit her lower lip. Her lips were so red and plump. Kissable. Yet juxtaposed with her appeal was also her strange fear of him. What had he said to her to make her flee?
“I’m a what?” Lars prompted.
“I’m not sure how to say it. You said the lilac scent was familiar to you.”
It had been in his nose since three nights ago when he’d been out of his head and had woken in the morning knowing he’d shifted again without volition. It had been happening with a disturbing frequency lately. And each time he risked being seen by more than a few humans.
Yet, he also sensed this woman wasn’t necessarily human.
“I did, and do, smell lilacs,” he said. “There’s only wildflowers growing out where I live. I keep bees. They make me happy.” Ramble much? Just out with it, you idiot! “So anyway, the lilac scent stood out to me the moment I entered the brewery. Let me see if I can approach what I think we’re both trying to avoid. Okay?” He took a step toward her.
She clung to the bus stop pole fiercely.
“Tell me,” he asked, “if the rumors I’ve heard about the owners of the brewery are true?”
Thankfully, no one else was out on the sidewalk, and the streetlights illuminated their conversation. Around the corner, the band could be heard singing a Billy Idol tune. Lars would love to give a rebel yell right about now. Anything to release his anxiety over talking to this goddess of a woman.
“What?” She teased a bright curl about her forefinger and her stance relaxed. That wasn’t a motion that Lars could look at for long without wanting to do it himself. Tangle his fingers in her hair, that is. “That we spike the beer with a little something extra?”
“Is that a rumor? Huh. No, I’m talking about the one where you bewitch the beers. Because you’re witches.”
“Oh, that one.” Her shoulders dropped. The fish purse slid down her arm to dangle near an ankle. A heavy sigh preceded her nod. “Well, we try to keep things as normal as possible for the human patrons. But...” Her pretty blue eyes dallied with his. “You have a problem with me being a witch?”
“Nope.