Page 189 of Secret Shifters Next Door

I wanted to ask what she meant by that, but her words had been a faint whisper meant for herself. There was no way I could have heard her without my wolf-hearing. It would probably spook her if I let on that I had heard. Instead, I let it go and walked her up the stairs.

On the walk up, I stole glances at her from the corner of my eye. She seemed to be deep in thought about something, her lips were moving silently. I grinned as her hands twisted together at her waist. She was nervous as hell about something. I wished I could read her lips to figure out what she was trying to say. Was she rehearsing something? Trying to work out the politest way to tell me to get lost? Probably.

When we got to her door, Celina unlocked it and started taking bags from my hands and setting them on the floor. When she took the last one, she put it down, stood straight, and looked at me. She on one side of the threshold, me on the other. After several seconds of silence, I raised my eyebrows in question.

“Um,” Celina said. “What…uh…what are you doing for dinner?” She was sweating like she’d run a marathon.

I grinned, and my wolf chuffed in delight. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Why?”

Her hands were still twisting together like crazy. If she kept it up, she was going to draw blood. Without looking up frommy shoes, she said, “Do you want to come over for dinner? As a thanks for all this bag carrying you’ve been doing.”

Her cheeks went tomato red. Man, she was so adorable. She blushed so easily. It was cute, and it told me she was nervous asking me. It had probably taken a lot of courage. Did that mean she liked me? I hoped so.

“I’d love to.”

“Oh good.” She sighed, then slammed the door in my face.

Blinking, I frowned at the door. That was abrupt.

From behind the door, I heard a muffled, “Shit.”

The door opened again, and an even redder-faced Celina stared out at me. “Sorry. Got…uh, ahead of myself. Sounds great. I’ll see you then.”

“Are you really sure you want me to come over?” I asked.

She nodded, her ponytail bouncing wildly. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

I smiled in response. Her eyes flicked to my mouth, and she licked her lips before making a sighing sound and closing the door in my face again. This time, I laughed when I heard her curse behind the door.

For the second time, she opened it a crack and leaned out. “I’m an idiot. Sorry. Knock at seven. See you then.”

I grinned. “You aren’t an idiot. I’ll see you at seven.”

Her door closed again as I opened my own. The next ten hours would probably be the slowest of my entire life, but it would be worth the wait. Even though I did my best to busy myself with work on my laptop, I still caught myself staring out the window by the door at Celina’s apartment every few minutes.

I couldn’t wait to have dinner with her.

SEVEN

CELINA

What the hell was wrong with me? Why had I done that? I’d asked Miles over for dinner, and at the same time, made a total fool out of myself. I’d shut the door in his face—not once, but twice. God, how stupid was I? I leaned my forehead against the door, contemplating a last-minute move to Spain. Was there a good convent in Spain? There had to be. Or maybe India? I could join…what the hell did they have in India? Were there such things like Hindu convents? A Buddhist monastery, maybe? Were women allowed to join those? I made a mental note to research it in case I ever needed it for a book.

Groaning with embarrassment, I turned away from the door and went to the kitchen. I had no idea what to make for dinner. I was no Gordon Ramsey, but I was a pretty good cook. However, I was not good at creating a meal on the spot. Since I’d left all my cookbooks back home, the internet would have to provide today.

I scrolled through a dozen websites, and while I tried to figure out what to make for Miles, I let my mind drift into the many thoughts in my head. One of those thoughts was how I was supposed to act during this dinner. Having meals with guys was not something I did. After an initial meet-and-greet, most men ran for the hills. I was attractive—I had eyeballs and a mirror—but I was also painfully shy and weird. I wasn’t ashamed of that, but it hindered romance.

Most of my sexual experience came from a battery-operated friend in my nightstand drawer. It got the job done, but it didn’t ease the loneliness. I’d seen plenty of movies and read thousands of books, which meant I understood the gist of how a dinner date was supposed to go, but the experience was the best way to learn. I was nearly thirty and relying on John Hughes movies and Danielle Steel novels for my dating knowledge.

The strange thing about Miles was that he didn’t seem to care when I made a fool of myself. Earlier, after I’d slammed the door in his face the first time, all he did was smile. That smile was…whew, it made me wet even thinking about it. As of now, he seemed okay with me being a klutz. We’d have to see how he reacted when he was alone with me for an hour.

I put my phone down and decided I’d make him something I was familiar with. Feijoada, a Brazilian dish I learned to make once I found out about my heritage. It was delicious but labor-intensive. It usually took twenty-four hours to make it the traditional way, but when I moved in, I noticed a pressure cooker in one of the cabinets. That should be able to get it done in a few hours.

I’d spent my entire childhood having no idea where I came from. I couldn’t even remember my mother’s face, which was understandable since I’d only been four when she gave me away. When I hit sixteen and was able to get my birth certificate from the state, I dived head-first into learning about my history. Food, culture—everything. I found out my parents’ names, which wasn’t much, but it had been a start. The first time I cooked feijoada, I felt like my ancestors were there in the kitchen with me.

The Scottish food hadn’t been nearly as exciting. Haggis, neeps, and tatties weren’t as scrumptious as I’d anticipated.The cranachan dessert had been a pleasant surprise, though. I contemplated making that to go with dinner tonight, but quickly decided against it.

The feijoada was made with pork, which gave me a mini panic attack. What if he was Jewish or Muslim and didn’t eat pork? God, that would be mortifying. Or what if he was a vegetarian or vegan? Surely, he would have said something when agreeing to dinner, right? Lord, I’d have to just go with it. Otherwise, I’d paralyze myself with indecision and end up ordering pizza in five hours.

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