Page 9 of Monster Mate

“Everyone. Everywhere. All the time,” she deadpanned.

The relief he felt that she didn’t already have a mate crushed any apprehension he might’ve had about her home, her family, or her overweight pet. Although he couldn’t imagine any of those things bothering him too much. “I think you’ll find I’m not like everyone. Everywhere. All the time,” he said, adopting her snarky tone.

Her eyes smiled, but her lips only quirked up a tiny bit on one side of her mouth. She offered him her hand. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Count on it, my queen. Count on it.

CHAPTER 7

Having someone dematerialize your body, teleport it to a different location, then re-materialize it felt…weird. A little tingly, and super disorienting. But not entirely unpleasant. Especially when she got to hold Riordan’s hand.

He seemed reluctant to let go of her when they arrived in the center of her living room, and she was reluctant to make him. Her growing fascination with her so-called monster mate should really trouble her.

But it didn’t.

Roxie had always had great gut instincts. She could usually spot red flags at twenty paces. (Not that she always paid attention to them. But that was another story entirely.) And Riordan just didn’t have any. He was nothing but green lights all the way.

If anything, that was troubling her. No one was perfect.

With a deep sigh that sounded like it came directly from his soul, Riordan let go of her hand and took a step back, giving her some space to clear her thoughts of how warm and smooth his skin was, how strong his hand felt cradling hers, and how he smelled a little like a campfire on a warm, summer night.

Roxie wiped her sweaty palms on her pants and shot a nervous glance around her shabby living room. Thankfully, the snot-green, fifties-style, thrift store couch wasn’t covered in laundry that needed to be folded and put away. The crap-brown shag carpet had recently been swept, and the handwoven throw rug she’d dumpster-dived behind TJ Maxx to find covered the questionable stain that was either cranberry juice or blood. But there was no hiding the cracked, avocado green vinyl flooring in the tiny kitchen, or the brownish stain on the ceiling where the roof had leaked during last month’s rainstorm.

Yep. There was no denying it. Her place was crappy.

But considering how she’d moved here on short notice in the dead of night with no job, no family, no help, and no prospects, she couldn’t bring herself to be too ashamed of any of it. She was poor. That was nothing to feel bad about. And if Riordan judged her for not having fine things, well, maybe he wasn’t as good of a guy as her instincts were telling her he was.

She peeked up him from underneath her lashes to find him smiling down at her. “It smells like lavender in here,” his voice full of reverent awe.

Her perfume. He was grinning like a loon because her crappy half duplex smelled like her perfume.

She couldn’t hold back her own smile. “You like lavender?”

His nostrils flared as he leaned in a little closer. “It smells like home,” he said in that rough, raspy rumble of his.

That’s when she knew she was going to kiss this monster. Not tonight, but at some point, and most likely, often. There was no avoiding it. He was too damn wonderful to not kiss. His gaze dropped to her mouth.

Maybe it was time to rethink the when of their first kiss. All she’d have to do is lean up on her toes just a little…

“It always smells like Bath and Body Works exploded in here.”

And splat went the romance of their moment.

Roxie’s chin hit her chest. “Riordan, please meet my roommate, Winston.”

Winston came wandering down the stairs in his typical uniform of a ratty plaid bathrobe over a stained white T-shirt and black boxer shorts. She’d given up on hoping he’d wear pants. He always said his “boys needed to breathe.” And she violently didn’t want to know anything about Winston’s boys.

Riordan held out his hand when Winston made it into the living room. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Winston waved off Riordan’s hand and shrugged. “Yeah, sure, whatever.” He plopped down on the couch and tucked his fingertips into the waistband of his boxers.

That’s when he actually bothered to look up at Riordan for the first time. His rheumy dark eyes widened. “Jesus Christ on a donkey,” he muttered. “Is this what dating looks like these days to you young people?”

“Winston, Riordan gave me a, uh, ride home. My car has a flat.”

He gave her a pointed look. “Your car is a turd.”

“Agreed. But it’s the only one I’ve got.”

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