Page 8 of Bears Behaving Badly
“…there it is…”
and woe be-fuckin’-tide anyone who got between him and the
“Coffee!” This followed by a roar of despair: “Decaf?”
“Coming! Coming!” The guy whose name David never remembered (coffee guy?thecoffee guy? just guy?) raced into the room and deftly filled the empty pots. “It’s just that this machine is on the fritz so we’re using the one downstairs and something something plus something so something else, and are you going out with Annette?”
In. His. Dreams.“No. Why do people keep asking me that?”
“Because she doesn’t go out with anybody. Not anyone from here, at least.”
Yeah, well. The lady had taste. She could do better than the dregs of IPA. Rather than explain this, David gulped more coffee.
After an expectant pause, Coffee Guy must’ve figured no gossip was forthcoming. “Well, whatever, but the good news is we’re getting a new machine and something about pods and coffee something something, so it’s all gonna be something.”
“Okay.” This while he was trying not to inhale the stuff like it was cocaine. Actually, cocaine didn’t work on him, so somethinglikecocaine. Carfentanil, maybe. Or a boatload of Jack. While slurping, David groped through his overcoat pockets until he found the elixir of life, put the coffee down (you’ll be back in my hands soon, gorgeous, no worries), unscrewed the cap on his maple syrup, dumped in a couple of tablespoons, rescrewed, replaced, picked back up, drank.
“You are the second lunatic I’ve seen slurp down sludge in five minutes.”
“Hey, Nadia.” He turned and nodded at the pretty brunette in the red suit and little shiny, pointy shoes that looked like futuristic torture devices. “You’re in the wrong biz if you want to watch people drink expensive shit.”
“Too true, David. A pity the golden shores of my home country won’t have me back.”
“Yeah.” Nobody knew why Nadia put theexinexpatriate. Well, the bosses probably knew, but that was it. And while plenty of people wondered, nobody wanted to ask her straight out. She might cut them to shreds for snooping. Worse, she might tell them. Theories ranged from her being a high-ranking SAS member who’d blown up a building to a billionaire lottery winner who’d fled her tax obligations. “Too bad.”
“Your baritone platitudes are such a comfort.”
He grunted and kept his distance. Raptors made him nervous. The littlest thing would set ’em off during a conversation, and there’d be ruffling and hand-waving and shrieking and five seconds later they were all settled again, ’til the next time. Nadia was gorgeous, sure, but too much work. Sometimes even just to talk to.
This is why you’re still single, his mother whispered. Dead six years; still wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Your name was prominently featured in Caro Daniels’s paperwork,” Nadia told him, as if he didn’t know.
“Yeah, I brought her in.” Christ, what a mess. Blood everywhere; his hackles had been up before he was even all the way out of the car. He hadn’t wanted to take on a blood-crazy juvie werewolf; hurting a kid was a lousy way to start the week. And the guy she was savaging had already shifted back, probably due to the shock.
But she’d settled almost immediately; just dropped the guy, who hit with the sound of a raw rump roast hitting asphalt (which technically he was).
She’d also dropped her gaze—pleasant surprise—and shifted back to bipedal, followed David’s curt instructions, got in the car. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought she was a werehare, something that lived to nibble grass and hide. Not the infuriated creature who had nearly killed a werewolf in his prime.Wouldhave killed, if David hadn’t intervened.
And the only reason he was there to intervene was—
“Oh, that sneaky little charming, duplicitous, idiotic genius,” Annette announced.
—Dev Devoss.
Nadia laughed, but Annette just shook her head and looked like she wanted to smile or bite or maybe both.
David straightened out of his slouch and fought the urge to run a hand through his hair in what would be an ultimately futile attempt to straighten it. It tended to stick up in dark spikes; he’d always been able to do the artfully moussed-to-look-mussed look without the mousse.
Being around Annette Garsea made him feel sixteen again, all hormones and hard-ons and exhilaration, followed by depression, despair, and binge-eating frozen pizza. (While still frozen, the bitter-cold bites were deeply satisfying.)
If she was just gorgeous, he’d be fine. Or if she was just charming. Or just whip-smart. Or just funny. Or just cool. Or just sexy. But she was the whole package, corny as that was, and knowing she was acres out of his league didn’t stop his pulse from zooming every time he caught her plums-and-cotton scent. And it made the “Are they going out?” rumors sound like total fucking nonsense.
Besides, if he ever did settle down, it’d be with a Stable. He’d known that for over a decade.
“You won’t believe this,” Annette was saying, her brown eyes almost reddish in her intensity. “Dev says he knows Caro because they’re—” She cut herself off and… Wait. Was that a blush? “Oh. Good morning, David.”
Not a blush. Or not one for you, anyway. A blush of rage. A rage blush.He grunted.Oh, very charming. Why not ask her out, make the gossip real?
