“It means I care,” I tell her. I let my thumbs stroke her wrists very gently. “Baby, I just care. And I’ll tell you this: if you can try to see my caveman-ness for what it is, I will…” I swallow, “try to tone it down.”
Inara’s face registers surprise. “You will?”
Feeling ill, I nod. “For you, I will do my best to meet you halfway.”
Inara leaps on me, taking us to the floor, me landing on my back, my head hitting the maple planks with a thunk. “Oh, Matt!” she cries exuberantly—and she kisses me and starts ripping off my clothes.
First fight? Not bad.
Make up sex? BEST. EVER.
CHAPTER 21
“Stacy isn’t here. This is me, not freaking out,” I say woodenly as Inara pets my back.
We’re staring—
Okay, I’m staring. Inara is calmly splitting her attention between the window facing the mostly empty parking lot and my head, because I think she’s watching for it to explode.
Because Stacy isn’t late for work, but she’s late when you consider that she’s always here early, and boy now—
BY now. Fucking hell, I meant by now, she should be here. IF HE HURT HER, I WILL KILL HIM DEAD.
“How are you handling this?” Inara whispers. She’s fiddling with her earbuds, which are yoked around her neck and dangling amid her hair strands.
“Great.”
“You look upset,” she whispers more.
“That’s crazy, because I feel great.” In fine form. Like I could probably whip that kid with a cat-o’-nine tails for hours and not even get tired. That’s if he’s still alive to beat on, because if Stacy’s mom gets ahold of him first, she may be no taller than Stacy, but I’m willing to bet she’s going to wear her momma bear in a big way. Like a rip-him-limb-from-limb way. And if she’s not physically strong enough to peel the kid apart, I’ll help her wield the chainsaw.
“Matt?”
“Hmm?” Speaking of chainsaws, it would be good for me and Stacy’s mom to maybe get our alibis in order. You know, just in case. My eyes slide to Inara. “Would you lie to protect me?” Before she can do more than blink and her forehead scales pinch tighter in concern, I add, “And one other person you know through a common friend?”
Inara’s eyes narrow. “What are you—”
The boyfriend’s car carefully winds its way into the lot, like the parking area could be littered with IEDs and snipers.
Through the windshield, I see twin fawns lock eyes with me like I’m an oncoming train. Baby Bambi looks terrified. Faline gives me a judgemental look so dark it borderlines as a threat.
Nah, you know what? Stacy isn’t that baby deer. She’s the rabbit. Not Thumper—Bunnicula. The psycho-mad vampire rabbit.
“Matt, maybe we should give them a moment,” Inara wisely advises.
And in the interests of my newfound promise to tone down the caveman ways, I inhale enough to fill a Macy’s parade of balloons, and force my gaze from the scene outside the window, to my woman.
Inara brightens with joy. “You are trying!”
“Oh, I so am,” I agree. “You don’t know how much I care about you.”
Her eyes go wide, and she pats me on the arm, placing her other hand on my ribs. “Oh, I do! This must be killing you. I’m so proud!”
“It is killing me,” I confirm.
Inara’s smile is soft. “Then perhaps it will help you to know that I can see today your concern for Stacy.”
I exhale and haul her into me, relieved. “Thank you. I really need you to know that’s where this is coming from.”
Her arms give me a squeeze. “I do, Matt.”
The front door opens, and I hear Stacy’s heels meet the floor louder than any 12-gauge shotgun. “Matthew,” she growls, my name sounding like it came out of the throat of a cat crammed into a crate at the vet’s office—all low and warningly and scary. “Christian wants to speak to you.”
And her tone speaks for her: YOU BE NICE OR I’M PUTTING SOAP IN YOUR COFFEES FOR LIFE.
I nuzzle into Inara’s shoulder and sigh raggedly.
Inara seems extra pleased. She squeezes me again and kisses the side of my head. “You’re doing wonderfully well.”
At least I’m getting points for my restraint. I draw myself away from Inara’s comforting clavicle and turn to face Bunnicula’s boyfriend.
Norman/Ogden/Brandon/Adam/Lucius/Leonard/Silas still has the deer-in-headlights look, but I gotta admit, he’s here. In front of me and meeting my eyes. The kid’s nickname no longer fits, because it’s clear he’s got balls.
I stare at him.
He flings his hand at me, nervous. “Mr. Shawnessy.”
With a look shot to Inara that says ‘This is for you. See me trying? I’m behaving so damn good,’ I take his hand and do not break it with a single squeeze. “Christian,” I say civilly enough.
Growling is civil, right?
Gaze panicked—but still meeting mine full on—he stutters, “I wanted to shake your hand, sir.”
“You’re doing it,” I say flatly.
Stacy makes a noise and Inara—traitor—slaps me on the top of my foot with her tail.
Christian glances over at her as if noticing her other-ness for the first time. “Cool costumes you’ve got here, Mr. Shawnessy,” the kid says.
“Thank you.” I offer this sincerely enough. Even if Inara is way beyond the abilities of any costume. It’s sort of like he’s complimenting my woman’s looks, which is polite manners I approve of.
I’m still not letting go of his hand.
Christian is starting to get (more) nervous about this.
“Let his hand go!” Stacy hisses.
“I can’t,” the boy croaks out.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Stacy intones, sounding like someone whose head will be doing a 180 unless they see an exorcist soon.
Inara’s tail taps the top of my foot again, and I very gently release young Bambi’s hand. In a very well-behaved voice, I praise him with, “I see you got our girl back from her b-day celebration in one piece. You may live.”
Stacy makes a noise. It’s a scary one.
Inara’s tail twitches on my foot. She also makes a noise—but it’s hers that has me releasing the boy from my killing laser beams.
(He sags the moment my eyes slide off of him.)
I turn to Inara. “Did you just laugh?”
Eyes downcast in shame as Stacy stares at her in betrayment (it’s a word now), Inara shakes her little horns and lies through her teeth. “No!”
I catch her and drag her up onto her toes, until her mouth is an inch from mine. I search her face, stare into her cerulean eyes, feeling a million miles tall to see she’s not mad or upset or disapproving or worried. She’s… happy. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s happy. “Kiss me,” I order her.
She puts her hands on my chest, but she doesn’t try to push me back. “Matt,” she chides in a voice so cute I don’t feel scolded the least little bit, “Christian came all the way in here to say something to you,” she reminds me.