cute.”
“About our age difference. And you are cute about this one thing. Other than that you’re sexy and beautiful.” He brushed a strand of thick blonde hair that had escaped from her ponytail out of her face. “May I walk you home?”
Candice batted at his hand. “No, you may not.”
“Why not? And don’t say it’s because I’m too young. My age should work for me when it comes to walking.” He grinned and added, “Or jogging. I don’t imagine many older men can keep up with you.”
“Actually, they can’t,” she said. Despite herself she was thoroughly enjoying their flirty banter.
“Just as I thought! So there’s no reason why I can’t walk you home.”
“Yes, there is. I’ve sworn off men,” she said firmly.
He threw his head back and laughed, a sound that was as seductively masculine as it was youthfully exuberant.
“That’s perfect, because I’m not a man.”
“Exactly the problem,” she countered, finding that she was unable to keep herself from smiling in response. “You’re a boy, and I don’t go out walking with boys.”
His amber eyes darkened. With a quick movement that was feral in its grace he closed the space that had grown between them. He took her hand in his and, without his eyes leaving hers, he turned it over, palm up, and kissed her at the pulse point on her wrist. His lips were so close to her skin when he spoke that they brushed her arm, making her shiver with the warmth of his breath. “I’m no boy.” Then, eyes shining, he nipped her gently. “But I am a werewolf. So you can go out walking with me—or anything else you might like to do—and still be sworn off men.”
Three
What harm could letting him walk her home cause? It wasn’t like he was a stranger, and he was right. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. Really. He was twenty-six. And a half.
Plus, she was having fun. Justin was making her laugh with stories about botched meat deliveries at his family’s restaurant, Red Riding Hood’s Steak and Ale House, which bragged it was “the best darn steak place this side of Denver.” She hadn’t remembered him as being this charming or witty in high school. Little wonder—the only thing more self-absorbed and boorish than teenage boys were teenage girls.
Laughing, she made squeamish noises as he finished the story about the fist-sized hunk of fur that had been found in a package of ground buffalo meat, and how his dad hadn’t figured out that it was really buffalo fur and not wolf fur until after he’d sheared the pelts off of each of his brothers.
“Thankfully, I was out of town on one of my many buying trips for the restaurant.” He rubbed a hand through his thick hair. “I know it grows back, but still . . .”
“So, that’s what you do? You work at your family’s restaurant?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you like it?”
“I guess.”
She studied his handsome face, wondering at the sudden change in his attitude. And then an old memory surfaced. “Wait! Aren’t you an artist? Don’t I remember you winning the PTA Reflections Contest at the state level your sophomore year?”
He moved his shoulder and looked uncomfortable. “That was a long time ago. I don’t do much art anymore.”
“Why not? I remember that you were very talented.”
“Just lost interest. It started to feel like just another chore—like washing dishes at the restaurant. Whatever.” Then he seemed to mentally shake himself and his expression brightened. “Enough about that. I want to hear about you. So you’re still teaching?”
“Not for much longer, I hope,” she said.
He laughed. “How are you going to escape from the Fighting Fairies?”
“Ironically, through education. I’m working on my MFA. As soon as I finish it, I’m off to Denver to snag a job as an editor.”
“Well, it’ll be the Fairies’ loss.”
“Right now it doesn’t feel like the Fairies need to worry. I’m in the middle of a poetry class that’s trying to kill me; sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever get through it.”
“Really?” He rubbed his chin, amber eyes shining. “Let’s see if I remember. . . .” He cleared his throat and gave a quick, nervous laugh.
She raised her brows questioningly. What was he up to? Then he began a recitation. At first he spoke the lines hesitantly, but as he continued his confidence grew.
His voice was rich and deep and his eyes lingered on hers, causing the poet’s words to seem his own. And he effectively rendered her speechless for what seemed like the zillionth time in just the short while they’d been together.
“Did I get it right?”
“Yes!” The word burst out of her stunned mouth.
Laughing, he took her hand and planted a quick, playful kiss on it.
“What I am is a man with a pretty good memory who had one hell of a hard sophomore English teacher who terrified him and pounded poetry into his head so thoroughly that more than a decade later it’s still stuck there.”
“Oh, God. I did that to you?”
“Yes, Ms. Cox, you certainly did.”
Unexpectedly, Candice blushed. “What grade did I give you?”
“A ‘C,’ and I was grateful for it. And I do believe you might have also given me an ulcer as well as several painful hard-ons that semester, too.” He laughed. Then, before she could sputter a reply about the C, the ulcer or (embarrassingly) the hard-ons, he glanced around them. “Isn’t this your place?”
Surprised, Candice realized that they were standing in her driveway. “Yes, it is.” She smiled at him and had to press her palms against her legs to stop her hands from fidgeting. “Thanks for walking me home.”
“Entirely my pleasure.” He studied her for a moment, and his charming smile faltered as his expression grew more serious. “I’d—I’d like to see you again,” he said quickly, then held up his hand to cut her off when she automatically opened her mouth to tell him no. “Wait. Before you shoot me down I’d like you to answer one question for me. Did you enjoy talking to me?”
“Yes.” The answer came easily.
“Because I’m an ex-student or because you think I’m a man who is interesting and maybe slightly
