Chapter Four
Violet
Well, so far Mission “Make the Sexy Murder Statue smile” is an epic fail. I think he looks even more grim then he did when I first met him, as if that’s even possible.
On the bright side, the mocha fudge ripple ice cream that I’ve just been served in an enormous waffle cone looks like its to die for.
The western edge of Moonstone territory feels like someone picked up a tiny farming village, shook out all the stress, and dropped it in the middle of rolling green hills.
I’m sitting at a picnic table outside the little ice-cream stand—technically Moonstone Creamery, but it’s basically a window cut into the side of a converted barn.
The whole place smells like waffle cones and sunshine.
Eight small shops line the gravel path in a horseshoe shape. They’re beautifully weathered, oversized wooden sheds with hand-painted signs that proudly announce things like GOAT MILK SOAP, FRESH PRODUCE, and ALPACA YARN. A few pack members wander in and out with baskets.
Beyond the shops, the farmlands stretch out in a patchwork of texture and color.
Sheep graze in lazy clusters, goats bounce around with the chaotic energy of caffeinated toddlers, and the alpacas…
stare. They’re so cute. I’ll have to pet them next.
I’m sure they’re friendly. Something that cute has to be friendly.
Okay, that belief hasn’t always proved to be true, but I am going to continue to operate as if it’s a fact. That way I can continue to believe that the universe makes sense.
The little seating area sits just past the cluster of shops, tucked beneath a line of big old sycamores that throw dappled shade across the ground.
A dozen wooden picnic tables are scattered across the grass, each one painted a different color.
Someone’s set out wildflower bouquets in mason jars, and bees hum lazily around them.
Families lounge with cones dripping down their wrists, warriors take breaks with giant bowls of strawberry swirl, and a couple of little girls are having a fierce debate about whose ice cream is melting the fastest. Beyond the tables, the farmland rolls out in gold and green stripes.
It’s peaceful, sunny, and smells faintly of vanilla, warm grass, and whatever the goats are plotting today. Perfect spot for ice cream…and for accidentally imagining your future with a certain overprotective, ridiculously handsome temporary bodyguard.
Of course it’s just my imagination. Murder-man hasn’t given any indication that he’s interested in me in that way…has he?
But in my mind’s eye, I can see us lying in a sun-dappled bed, tangled in soft sheets, his hand drifting lazily over my hip like he owns the whole map of me.
He’d murmur something low and rough in my ear, something that makes my toes curl, and I’d pretend I wasn’t absolutely melting for him—because a girl has to have some dignity.
I take a slow lick of my cone, trying to cool my overheated brain, and then I glance up.
He’s watching me.
Not in a casual “oh hey, you’re eating ice cream” way. No. Dax is looking at me with a quiet intensity that makes my nether regions hot. His elbows are braced on the table, forearms flexed, eyes locked on my mouth like I’m the dessert and he’s the one about to melt.
My breath stutters. He’s drinking a glass of water from a glass mug and staring at me, and he doesn’t look away.
Not even when someone behind him laughs too loudly, not even when a goat lets out a lengthy, challenging bleat.
He’s tuned in to me — intensely, sharply — and suddenly I’d give anything, anything, to know what’s going on behind those dark, stormcloud eyes.
Is he wondering why I can’t stop glancing at his hands?
Is he replaying the moment he held me, like I’m replaying it nonstop in my skull?
Is he imagining the same sun-dappled bed I am, or is he calculating exit routes and escape plans because he’s stuck babysitting the world’s most accident-prone shifter?
I shift in my seat, heat curling low in my stomach, and he tracks the movement. His gaze dips, then snaps back up to my eyes — fast, but not fast enough for me to miss it. A pulse of wicked delight shoots through me.
“Do you…” I start, but I don’t dare ask him what I want to.
Do you like me at all?
I take a breath. Try again. “Is something wrong?”
He blinks once, slowly. “No.”
But his voice is low. Rough.
And absolutely nothing about his face says “no.”
My heart trips, my pulse skitters, and it suddenly feels like this tiny outdoor ice cream seating area is the center of the universe — him on one side of the table, me on the other, a whole tangle of impossible possibilities stretched tight between us.
A long, awkward silence stretches between us.
“Where’s your ice cream?” I blurt out.
He looks at me in puzzlement. “My ice cream?”
“Yes, what’s your favorite flavor?”
He is staring at me in puzzlement. “I do not eat ice cream. I design my diet for maximum nutrition and efficiency.”
“Efficiency?” I stare at him, appalled. “Food is meant to be enjoyed! It’s one of the greatest pleasures in life.”
“Some people say that,” he agrees cautiously.
“Some people are right! When was the last time you had a ginormous ice cream sundae?”
His silent stare is all the answer I need.
“Never?” I gasp in horror. “I’m reporting your parents for child abuse.”
“I guess I am somewhat unusual in my dietary history.”
I sigh. “And I’m unusual in that I’ve never been anywhere off pack lands without bodyguards and I’ve never left our territory.. We’re just a pair of weirdos, aren’t we?”
“Yes. A pair.” There’s a gleam in his eyes when he says that, as if he likes referring to us as ‘a pair’ very much.
I swallow hard and look away. I’m still feeling the strangeness, the weird intense pull to be with him and only him, the mild light-headedness.
“Okay,” I say finally. “I want you to go get a hot fudge sundae, for yourself, and it has to have whip cream and nuts.”
He looks around as if I had just suggested that he pleasure me right there on the picnic table, in full view of everyone, and he’s afraid someone might overhear.
The thought of what he might do to me makes me tingle in my Virginia.
“I, ah…” he trails off.
“Since you’re my bodyguard, I’m technically your boss. This is an order,” I say, trying to sound stern.
And that earns me not just a smile, but a laugh. He bursts out laughing and that is the most beautiful, rich, joyous sound I’ve ever heard.
“You did not just try to give me an order.” He’s actually wiping at his eyes.
“I am ordering you!”
“This is amusing.” He laughs again, his broad shoulders shaking. “I give orders. I don’t take orders.”
The thought of him barking orders at me makes me shiver. “Take your clothes off…bend over that table…” And, now my panties are damp.
I struggle to get my mind out of the gutter. “Oh, fine. Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar on top?” When he hesitates, I add “Pretty please with me on top.” I say that as he takes another sip of water, which he promptly spews on the table.
“You can’t say things like that!” he coughs.
Right. Because the heated looks he was giving me a few minutes ago were probably my imagination. I’m embarrassing myself. And not for the first time.
It doesn’t matter, though. My current mission – operation “Get Sexy Murder Man to Eat A Sundae” is more important than my personal dignity, which, let’s be honest here, has been on life support ever since I started imagining him naked in soft lighting.
“I will say it again, and again, louder and louder, unless you go get yourself a sundae.”
He groans, rolls his eyes, and sets down his water glass.
I do a little victory dance in my seat as he stalks off. Several minutes later, he returns with a sundae, glancing around self-consciously.
He takes a bite – and freezes in his seat. I can see the struggle on his face. He is trying very hard not to look like he’s experiencing a new kind of bliss.
“Right?” I say eagerly. “It’s an orgasm for your taste buds!”
At that, his cheeks redden slightly. Good Lord, I actually made him blush.
Am I a little bit famous for always blurting out the most awkward thing at the worst possible moment? Maybe. But right now I’m having too much fun to care.
“It’s…acceptable.” He takes another enormous bite.
“Just acceptable? I am so sorry. I don’t mind eating it for you. I’d hate for it to go to waste.” I reach out for it and he moves it closer to himself.
“I couldn’t possibly ask that of you,” he says. And he eats another enormous bite.
“It’s no problem, really.” I give him a wicked smile. “Or, you could admit it’s the most delicious thing you ever tasted.”
He narrows his eyes at me as he swallows. “The Rowan family does not admit defeat.”
I reach for his spoon. He slides down the bench away from me and continues eating.
“I agreed to purchase and eat this sundae, and I will eat this entire sundae. My word is my bond,” he says gravely.
“You are not eating a sundae, you are eating ice cream that is unadorned. Would you like a sundae for yourself? I will buy you ten of them.”
He finishes the entire sundae in about sixty seconds as I finish the rest of my small ice cream bowl. Thank heavens for shifter metabolism.
“You know, you’re right. Ice cream is less fun when it’s un-adorned. I would love a caramel sundae, but only if you eat one with me,” I say to him, my mouth curving up in a grin. I know he wants a second sundae. Who wouldn’t?
At that, he heaves a martyred sigh, but he can’t hide the gleam of anticipation in his eyes.
“Since I am responsible for providing you with an enjoyable stay, I will get both of us each a sundae.”
“Do you…do you want some money for mine?” He already paid for my ice cream earlier.
That earns me a growl. “Do not ever ask me such a question again. It would be a stain of dishonor on my lineage to allow such a thing.” His eyes have a dangerous gleam in them.
Oh my wow. Why is it so incredibly hot when he sounds all threatening and dangerous?
As he stalks off to buy our sundaes, I shiver again, but not with cold. It’s a heat that all the ice cream in the shop won’t be able to cool down.