Page 11 of Wild in the Woods
Chapter Five
“Thatwentwell.”
Lulu plopped onto a bar stool and set her blazer down. Olive set down their fresh drinks and patted her reassuringly.
“He’ll be back. Don’t worry.”
“How do you know?”
Olive snickered and held up what looked like a bank card. “He left his credit card at the bar with an open tab. How do you think I paid for these drinks?”
Lulu glanced around, wondering if Olive was right. She’d got a good enough look at Fox Mitchell to realize her friend hadn’t been kidding when she said there was nothing obscure about him. He was huge, muscly, and gorgeous. Dark blonde with brown eyes that she swore she could lose herself in. Too bad he’d skittered off so fast because she was dying for another look.
Her skin flushed beneath the warm bar lights. Running her fingers beneath her turtleneck, she suddenly wished she could strip it off. Her boots too. Her clothes were uncomfortable, and her braid was too tight. Working her fingers through her hair, she tried to loosen the strands, but it only made the tingling in her scalp worse, so she stripped away the rubber band and let the braid fall apart. Her hair fell in a mass of curls around her shoulders and over her eyes.
Momentarily blinded, she swept her hair back, her gaze slamming into a hard torso covered in a black tee shirt. Her eyes tracked up over a heavily muscled chest, thick, sexy neck, scruffy, rugged jawline. Breath catching in her throat, Lulu leaned back so she could take all of him in… and nearly fell off her stool.
The man grabbed her upper arm to steady her. It was him. Heat seeped into her skin from where he held her. It tingled delightfully.
Fox Mitchell was touching her, but he wasn’t looking at her. He grinned at Olive with his hand out, palm up.
“Come on, Olive. Hand it over.”
“Only if you say hello to my friend.”
Olive held Fox’s credit card just out of reach. He didn’t take his eyes off her.
“Hello,” he said gruffly.
“Hi,” Lulu squeaked, acutely aware that he still had a light grip on her upper arm and that her nerves were having a dance party.
Her sweater was becoming unbearably oppressive. Why had her breathing picked up? Jesus, what was wrong with her? Squirming on the seat, she rolled her shoulders and leaned her head back, fanning herself. He let go and stared down at her.
Their eyes caught. He looked as startled as she felt. Her lips parted and her brain went hazy as if she was suddenly drunk. Well, she was tipsy, but this was more like, like, being drunk from too much hot kissing. As if he’d dragged her out back, pushed her up against the wall and—
Chills assaulted her limbs. Needing to move, she scooted off the stool and ran a hand down her hair.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mitchell. I’m—”
“I know who you are.” He snatched his card from Olive.
There wasn’t a lick of amicability in his tone. Her arm still tingled from his touch. She resisted touching the spot and gestured to the bar.
“Maybe we can talk for a few minutes? Can I buy you a drink?”
He looked equally amused and annoyed. She knew that look. It was the one people gave her when they underestimated her. Hadn’t she seen that look on her father’s face a million times? It was the facial expression equivalent of a condescending pat on the head.
“I don’t drink.”
“Okay. How about a soda, or a water? Maybe some hot sauce? You look like a man who’d drop a shot of hot sauce. Olive, can we make that happen?”
Shit. Olive was MIA.
She was alone with a glaring, stoic, grizzly shifter who was mentally willing her to dissolve in front of his eyes so he could go about his night in peace.
“I do like hot sauce. But no thanks. I don’t drink with reporters.”
Their eyes locked again and held as if neither of them wanted to be the first to look away. The lines around his mouth softened, his eyes glinting with a darkness that suggested he was thinking something very bad.
