Page 31 of Loan Wolf
Yes, please.
Because even all bruised up and battered, she was polite before anything else.
“Towel’s on the rack. The red one. Blood won’t show. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
If he stayed, he wasn’t going to be able to let her get dressed again.
26
CLARA
Clara dried off gingerly and got back into her grubby clothes. Her shirt had a few tiny tears in it, but she wouldn’t be indecent, at least. Her legs were a colorful testament to her lack of common sense, and her elbow was swelling slightly, though it didn’t hurt badly. Nothing was bleeding now, but there were a host of raw scratches.
She couldn’t find a hairbrush without rifling through drawers, so she was finger-combing her hair when she came out to the smell of marinara.
There was a beat-up black cat grooming itself on the back of the couch and Clara went to pet it. “I didn’t know you had a cat!”
“He’s an asshole! Don’t touch him!”
The cat gave a warning growl that emphasized Gabe’s words and Clara decided she didn’t want to pet him that much.
It was easy enough to find the kitchen, where Gabe was straining steaming noodles into the sink.
“Spaghetti,” he said briefly, not looking up at her entrance. “Get some carbs back into you to replace all the ones you burned off…”
“...Being an idiot,” Clara finished for him.
That did earn her the tiniest flash of a smile but Gabe still didn’t turn or look at her.
“I didn’t think of you as a cat person,” she said hesitantly. She had desperately wanted a cat—or any pet!—until her father had explained that most animals were afraid of his bear and they’d be unhappy in their house. Did this mean that Gabe was definitely not a shifter?
“He adopted me a couple of years back. He’s too mean and ugly for most of the soft-hearted cat ladies in town, so I was the only one who would feed him. He ranges pretty far and hangs at the shop sometimes. Doesn’t like to be petted. We’ve got a lot in common.”
Gabe dumped the noodles on a pair of plates and smothered them in sauce.
“Forks are in the right-hand drawer,” he said, jerking one shoulder in the appropriate direction. Clara scrambled to get two of them and follow him into a sun-dappled dining room. The table was covered in a red and white gingham tablecloth and there was a vase of sunflowers in the center. There was already a tub of grated parmesan out.
“Your house is…not what I expected,” she admitted, as she put out the forks and took a prim seat.
Gabe looked around with a clouded face. “I didn’t want to change much,” he admitted.
“When your mom died,” Clara finished for him again.
“Don’t turn this into a therapy appointment,” Gabe warned her.
“Just observing that you are allowed to switch out the artwork that doesn’t reflect your personal aesthetic.” There was an entire row of Precious Moments angels along the sideboard under the window, without a speck of dust on them.
“Don’t talk to me about personal aesthetics until you get your own tattoos,” Gabe said, flexing, and Clara nearly choked laughing and trying to eat her spaghetti.
That, at least, did break the tension between them, and they ate, talking companionably about the twee statues and lace curtains.
“I do like the lace curtains,” Gabe protested. “Why, do you think I should take down all the blinds and tip old cardboard up in the windows? Maybe graffiti the walls? Penises are edgy.”
“Let’s not be crazy,” Clara scolded him. “But the uncanny valley angels are just creepy.”
Gabe looked like he was going to protest, then he shut his mouth. “Yeah, okay, they are straight out of a horror movie.”
“I’m hearing Carmina Burana in the background right this very moment.”
