Page 54 of Just a Friend for the Lion
Later That Week
I haven’t answered his calls. Or his texts.
Or the very sweet, very cheesy bouquet of flowers, designed to look like a pizza pie, that showed up at the shop two nights ago.
And I definitely haven’t told my sisters about the mating bite.
Until now.
“I knew it,” Dina squeals, bouncing on the sofa like we’re still teenagers. “I told you he looked at you like you were the last cannoli on the tray.”
“You slept with him and didn’t tell us?” Carina gasps, cradling her baby bump like I just traumatized her unborn child.
“I didn’t just sleep with him,” I mutter, pacing the apartment like it’s suddenly too small. “I—we—it was wild, spontaneous, pussy-breaking sex and an unexpected, definitely not asked for, mating bite!”
Three seconds of stunned silence follow my very loud and somewhat untruthful proclamation.
“Oh, honey,” Carina says, her voice gentle now. “You okay?”
“No!” I shout. “I mean, yes? I don’t know!”
I flop down on the floor, head in my hands, heart pounding like a damn drum solo.
“I told him I wanted him. I did. But he didn’t want a mate! He said it! So what the hell was that?”
“That was a man realizing what he couldn’t live without,” Dina says firmly.
“Or a guy letting his dick—or his not-housebroken furry alter ego—do the thinking,” I snap.
Either way, I need answers.
Which is why the next afternoon, I find myself outside the last place I ever expected to be.
Lion Limousines & Livery Service.
The garage, to be specific.
It’s massive.
Like shockingly upscale for a business in Newark. Music with a heavy bass is thumping from top of the line speakers, and I see a few guys inchauffeur gear milling about. A couple of them sneak a glance at me, then I notice one take a deep sniff, and he just about breaks his neck from jerking back so fast.
Oookay?I mean, I’m trying not to be offended, but what gives? Do I stink or something?
I discreetly lift my arm to sniff at my pit—but I got nothing.
Whatever.
I keep walking. Keep looking.
No Carter.
But I see a lot of other stuff.
Big, expensive cars and limos. Matte black glass. Brushed steel accents. A long line of them, all washed and gleaming, from sleek sedans to stretch limos that screammoneyandclass.
I step inside, and the scent hits me before anything else.
Leather. Engine oil.
