Page 13 of Moonlighting with the Werewolf

He gave me a smile that danced along my nerve endings and then, as if he remembered he’d resolved to be grumpy tonight, quickly stifled it.

A little too eager to keep things going, I lifted the bottle of wine. “Can you get drunk?” “Not on that,” he said, turning up his nose.

“I do have a bottle of Jack Daniels tucked away if you’d rather.”

Was I imagining things, or did he seem impressed? Like with the smile, it was fleeting.

“It takes quite a bit to get me drunk, and it burns off fast.”

“Do you want to get a tad buzzed, then?” It’d make it so much easier if I didn’t have to wrestle him to the ground to examine his ribs—not that I believed that was possible. And I could use some liquid courage to calm my somersaulting nerves and prevent me from overanalyzing every move and word.

“Better not,” Conall said, his tone resolute. “I’ve still got a lot to take care of tonight.”

In spite of him not being the friendliest companion so far, the idea of cutting our hangout short dug at me, a pang of rejection coming along for the ride. I did my best to remind my deluded brain this was a casual, impromptu hangout and not a date. Since it didn’t take me much to get drunk and his ribs needed tended to, I probably shouldn’t imbibe, either. With a sigh, Igrabbed a Coke for myself, and we headed back to the living room and sat on the couch.

Conall closely shadowed my moves. Like all up in my grill as I pulled out the food, no personal bubble room. If he were anyone else, I’d insist on more space, but the scent of his cologne invaded my senses, and the smoking-hot thing definitely helped.

Either food would fix his sour mood, or we’d eat in tense silence. The sad thing was that after a week and a half of only myself as my own company, I’d take it.

As we dug into our burgers and fries, his gaze continued to roam the room, cataloging everything I owned. It felt a pinch invasive, giving me enough of a taste of my own medicine that I understood why he’d been so upset at the bar.

But surely this put us on level ground, and my inquisitive side bobbed to the surface once again. “So, what exactly would it take to get you to answer a few of my questions?”

CHAPTER NINE

Conall swallowedthe last bite of his double burger and reached for his Coke. His eyes never left mine as he downed the sugary liquid, big gulps that made his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

Was it possible to be hypnotized by that tiny movement? Because I was damn close.

Yeah, after he left, I’d definitely need to cue upCreed IIand take care of business. If watching a guy drink was turning me on, it’d obviously been too long. Theclinkof the empty can hitting the coffee table echoed through the quiet. “How about you answer a couple of my questions first?”

His tone bordered on threatening, and my heart thumped faster. More with desire than fear, so clearly my common sense had gone on vacation. I sucked salt off the end of my fingertips, and at his hard swallow, adrenaline coursed through my body. No idea why he was fighting it, but there was definitely attraction on his end, too.

I twisted so that my knee knocked into his. “Let’s go thequid pro quoroute. I’ll answer one question for every question you answer.”

“You have yourself a deal, Dr. Ryan.” Conall extended his hand, and I slipped my palm into his. Instead of shaking, he held on, the tip of his pointer finger resting directly over the pulse point on the underside of my wrist.

“What was your real reason for moving to Guadalupe Falls?”

Real reason?I lowered my eyebrows, wondering if I’d ever told himanyreason. “There was a vet clinic for sale that I could actually afford.”

The muscles along his jaw flexed, leading me to believe I’d somehow given the wrong answer. Too bad it was the only one I had. “Have you lived here all your life?”

“No.”

“Where else have you liv?—?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Conall said with a click of his tongue. “You already asked your question.” His fingertip pressed harder against my wrist, and every ounce of my blood rushed toward that spot at once. He paled in front of my eyes, a rasp coming out along with his words. “Where do you keep your potions?”

Why was he speaking as though I were some snake oil salesman who’d gone to college in a saloon during the Wild West Era? “Are you talking about the meds I gave you? They’re at the clinic.”

Bile churned in my gut, his interest in me suddenly making sense. So much for being good at reading social cues. “Are you some kind of tweaker?”

One corner of his mouth turned up, that cocky lilt that was perpetually quirked over something I’d said or done. “Nah, I ran all the meth dealers out of town years ago.”

I wanted to ask about his family, but sweat beaded his forehead and his chest heaved, so I switched into doctor mode. “Does it feel like you can’t get any oxygen when you inhale? Or that your lungs won’t expand?”

“You already had your question. You chose to ask me if I was a tweaker.”

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