История кривого билда: Баф-машина. Сергей Вишневский

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      “So who do I have the pleasure of sitting with under the maple tree this chilled and frosty January afternoon?”

      “Daisy Blu,” she said, and offered a hand to shake.

      Beck gripped the cup lip with his teeth, and with brownie in one hand, shook with his free hand.

      “Saint-Pierre,” she then said.

      He dropped the cup and it almost spilled in his lap, but he made a fast-reflex save. “Uh, Malakai Saint-Pierre’s daughter? The pack principal who makes swords for a living?”

      She nodded, licking her fingers clean of chocolate crumbs.

      “I thought he only had the boys.”

      Beck scanned the picnic area, filled with mortals and paranormal breeds of all sorts and sizes. Living in the next town ten miles north, he didn’t know a lot of people in Tangle Lake. He kept to himself far too much. But everyone knew about Malakai Saint-Pierre.

      “Four boys,” Daisy said. “But I was here first. Who you looking for? Don’t worry, my dad’s not around. At least, I don’t think he is.”

      Beck stood and nodded that she follow him around the trunk. “Let’s sit on the other side of the tree, okay?”

      She settled next to him with a laugh. “Are you afraid of my father?”

      “I wouldn’t say afraid, more like leery with an edge of self-preservation. Dude’s not the sweetest wolf in the pack.”

      “Yeah, he’s not too keen on unaligned wolves. Which is what you are, am I right? You being Severo’s son?”

      “Not for lack of your father trying to get me to join your pack.”

      “Really? My dad has invited you to join us? Why haven’t you done so?”

      “I have nothing against the Saint-Pierres. Or any of the local packs, for that matter. Joining a pack doesn’t feel right to me. My father was always adamant that a man didn’t need a pack to stand up for what was right within the werewolf community.”

      “I’ve heard about your father. Severo was a good man. But I have to point out the serious flaw in your sneaky attempt to hide out.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Now we won’t be able to see my father coming.”

      “Shit. Maybe we should—”

      Daisy placed a hand on his knee just as Beck attempted to stand. The woman’s hand was warm, even in this weather, and her heat crept quickly through the jeans and to his skin. Nice. He settled against the snow-encrusted tree trunk.

      “I’d scent him before he got too close,” she said. “I’ll give you advance warning if you need to run.” Then she smiled and tucked a swath of hair over her ear. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, either. But I like a little risk in my life now and then.”

      “Don’t get enough from your books?”

      “Not exactly.”

      “Is that why you think it’s a good idea to run in the forest all alone? You really should take someone with you.”

      “I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine. You going to eat that last piece of brownie?”

      Beck held up the piece, and Daisy made a remarkable snatch with her teeth. She giggled, pressed her fingers over her mouth, then snagged the cup of cider from him, as well.

      Licking his fingers clean, he could but shake his head. This one, as much as he should stay the hell away from her, he wanted to learn more about. Because getting close to Malakai Saint-Pierre’s daughter could prove a lesson in Stupid Things Guys Do. But at the same time: kitty ears, pink hair and an irrepressible giggle. How to resist that?

      She looked at him now with such curiosity that he matched her gaze with an intense stare. “What?” he implored.

      “I was just thinking there are probably icebergs in the Arctic the same color as your eyes.”

      “Wow. Look who just got their flirt on.”

      “I wasn’t—uh...”

      He waited for her to realize that she had indeed been flirting. Didn’t take her long. She busied herself with the ends of her hair. Ha! She liked him.

      “So what do you do, Daisy Blu with the kitty ears who wanders about with her nose in a book?”

      “You mean like work? I am a budding journalist.”

      “Is that so?”

      “I’m competing for a freelance position with the Tangle Lake Tattler. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but I’m not so good at making up stories. I like digging for facts, learning the truth.”

      “A noble pursuit. So what truths have you dug up lately?”

      “Well, Mrs. Olafson, who lives at the corner across from the courthouse? She’s growing marijuana in her backyard shed.”

      Beck faked a shocked openmouthed gape. Could he touch that pink hair? Just a careful slide of his fingers over it without her noticing? Because if she wanted to flirt...

      “Thing is, she has no clue what it is. I couldn’t bring myself to actually write about it. Besides, I’ve got a bigger, better story I’m working on that I know will win me the job.”

      “Much luck to you. Isn’t often you hear of pack princesses working.”

      “No one calls me princess unless they want a black eye.”

      “Duly noted. So you’re the modern working-class prin—er, wolf chick, eh?”

      “I’m half faery.”

      “Is that why your hair is pink?”

      “No one will ever pull one over your eyes.”

      “A faery wolf. I like it.”

      “So what do you do? You said you’re not from Tangle Lake?”

      “No, I’m up in Burnham. I have a garage just off the highway. It’s not open to the public yet. I’m working on some friends’ cars right now. Want everything to be perfect and have a career plan in place before I put up signs. I get a lot of business just by word of mouth anyway.”

      “If I drove more than once every few weeks, I’d bring my car to you just because you were so nice to share your last sip of cider.” She handed him the cup, empty, and served him a wide grin that teased him for a kiss.

      But that would be too risky. Her father was a pack leader. And princess or not, Beck knew she wore a flashing no touch sign as a tiara.

      “I should have bought two cups.” He snickered and leaned his head back against the trunk. “So journalism is a full-time job?”

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