The Witch And The Werewolf. Michele Hauf

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СКАЧАТЬ ’80s tune that everyone started to pound their fists to and bounce up and down.

      “You say it’s newer? Yes, I like it.” He tilted back the drink and offered her a cheers with his half-empty glass.

      She was never going to have a conversation with him surrounded by this noise. And she did want to get to know him better. Because why not? He was sexy and nonthreatening. And she wasn’t against having a conversation with a handsome man.

      “So, Lars, eh?”

      “Yes. Officially Larson Gunderson.”

      “That’s a fine Scandinavian name, if I’ve ever heard one. I’m Mireio Malory.”

      “Muriel.”

      “No, Mir-ee-O.”

      “Oh. It’s loud in here with the band singing. My hearing is usually...much better.” He winced then, as if thinking of something he’d forgotten. He shook the sudden lost moment away and offered her a smile that flashed his pearly whites from beneath his trimmed mustache.

      “Muriel will do.” She thrust up her hand for him to shake.

      His hand clasped hers gently, wrapping with ease about it and up to her wrist. And then he held her more firmly, and the heat of their connection gave her a shiver. One of those really good, how-could-a-girl-get-so-lucky kind of shivers that she felt from head to nipples to toes—and everywhere in between.

      And yet... She sensed something in his handshake. Something not quite human. It was the same feeling she got whenever the Saint-Pierre brothers stopped into the brewery. Those four ranged from werewolves, to a vampire and also a faery.

      With a gasp, Mireio pulled her hand from his. He didn’t notice her surprise, thank goodness. She was a water witch and spent a lot of time in nature working with streams, ponds, lakes and otherwise. She also communicated with the animals, and could always sense when one was near.

      And Larson Gunderson gave off a distinctive animal vibe. Could he be? Oh, mercy, he wasn’t. Please, do not let him be the one who...

      Mireio swallowed. If the lilac scent was familiar to him—witch’s warts. He was the one.

      Eryss suddenly popped up beside the table and handed her another pint of blueberry cream ale. She winked and sailed off before Mireio could grab her as an anchor. Something to hold her down so she didn’t float too near the curious man who—This couldn’t be an accidental meeting. But did that mean he’d followed her here?

      She tilted back a swallow, then set the pint down on a coaster that featured their logo, a sexy witch casting a spell over a foamy brew. “So, Lars, uh...what can you tell me about yourself? I mean, I don’t want this to sound like fifty questions.”

      “Fifty? You have that many questions for me in such a short time? I’m impressed.” He pushed his glass aside and leaned his elbows on the table. She wanted to touch him once more. Just to be sure that what she’d felt was real. “I live out past Oak Grove. I come to town once a week for groceries and a pint. Just remembered this place was here so thought I’d stop in. I’m definitely coming back.”

      “And what is it you do, exactly?” Because if he didn’t have a real job, she’d get suspicious. And fast.

      “I...well, you could sort of call it security. On a private compound.”

      “Ah-huh.”

      That was vague. And she was getting more nervous about the guy by the second. But really, if he was the one, would he know things about her? Things she didn’t want him to know.

      “I’m also remodeling the cabin I live in. I like making things with my hands.” He splayed them both on the table to reveal long, calloused fingers.

      Oh, those were some fine hands that could certainly cover a lot of area on her if she was in the market for such handling. Which she was not. Was she? Mercy. Maybe giving up on men to focus on a spell she was too freaked about to give more than a few moments consideration to daily was too extreme?

      Could be. But even more so? Talking to a man who may have very likely seen her naked a few nights ago was even more extreme. She couldn’t deal with this. Not right now.

      “Do you want more stout?” she asked and nodded toward his nearly empty pint.

      “Probably.” He tilted back the rest of the drink.

      “Head to the bar.” She reached over and touched the back of his hand. There was that sensation again. Hiding a cringe, she nodded toward the bar. “Eryss will give you a refill. On the house.”

      “Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

      “I’ll be here!”

      No, she would not be here.

      Mireio grabbed her little black purse, shaped like a fish, swung it over a shoulder, and beelined it for the door behind the band, well out of view of the bar, and the mysteriously delicious Lars Gunderson’s eyesight.

      She’d had three drinks, so she wouldn’t drive home. If she were lucky, she might catch a bus this late.

       Chapter 2

      When he returned to the now empty table, Lars saw the sassy little skirt slip out the door. The woman with the bright red curls and sexy, deep cleavage had dashed out of the brewery.

      He gaped. Really? Had he made that terrible of a first impression? She’d kind of seemed into him. Had touched his hand. Had even fluttered her thick lashes at him as she’d smiled a sweet pixie smile. And he hadn’t gotten to ask her the burning question. The one he’d been wondering about since the scent of lilacs had led him here.

      Devastated that the woman had taken off, Lars sulked. He should chalk it up as another rejection. And yet a deep, visceral part of him would not allow him to mark this off as defeat. He had to know if she was the one.

      So, leaving his beer on the table, he pushed through the dancing people and slunk around the electric guitarist and pushed open the door. He could hear her high heels clicking on the concrete, though he couldn’t see her. But he smelled lilacs...that way.

      Turning left, he passed three storefronts, then swung another left and there she stood, near the bus stop, stepping nervously from foot to foot. He heard her mutter softly, “Oh, shit.”

      That utterance stabbed Lars right in the heart. Never had a woman rejected him so soundly as to run off. So he stopped about twenty feet away from her and put up his hands placatingly.

      Should he really do this? Was he that desperate for more cruel treatment? She seemed almost afraid of him. Threatened? He didn’t want her to feel that way. That wasn’t his style.

      But the heady scent of lilacs wouldn’t allow him to turn away.

      So what to do?

      The woman wore a short skirt that looked like one of those tartans the Highlanders wore, along with a blousy red top that emphasized her ample cleavage. Sky-high heels matched the blouse color. And white СКАЧАТЬ