She stood and went to work dislodging snow from her clothes. She wasn’t wearing a jacket, because shifters didn’t get that cold, so all the snow was clinging in clumps to her sweater. “Ball sack,” she cursed as she dusted harder.
Panicking slightly, her heart started racing. No, no, no! Her eyes were probably bright freaking gold now.
Stupid boy. Stupid hot and slightly fun boy. Stupid sexy, handsome, green-eyed, gym-rat boy. She hoped he was just here to fix a toilet or something and not serving dinner.
To her dismay, when she finally braved her way inside, Birdie noticed the dining tables were getting full.
The dining room in the main lodge was made up of two tables underneath a rustic chandelier, with a huge stone hearth behind it with a cozy, blazing fire. It was all dark woods and exposed wooden beams, and wow, this place was like a dream.
Or it would be a dream if one Lance-the-rude-man wasn’t sitting at the table. Ava was nowhere to be seen. Crap.
Lance was grinning a baiting smile at her, and the chair was loud against the wooden floors as he dragged out the one beside him invitingly.
“No thanks,” she said and made her way to the other table. She took the only open seat by the lady in the funeral clothes.
“Seat’s taken,” the woman said blandly.
“By whom?” Birdie asked.
“By my imaginary friend.”
“Oh, that’s interesting.” Hell yeah! Birdie wasn’t the weirdest in the room! “What’s your imaginary friend’s name?”
“I don’t have an imaginary friend. I just don’t want you to sit by me.”
Birdie tried not to pout, truly she did, but it was shaping up that Birdie was indeed the weird one. She’d been genuinely excited to get to know all about Debbie Downer’s made-up friend. She supported creativity.
Lance’s green eyes were dancing and he scooted the chair beside him out farther.
Deflated, she slumped her shoulders and meandered over to him and plopped into it.
“Are you pouting because I won?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His chuckle was deep and had a nice tone to it. “I have something that will make you feel better.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Gran made homemade individual chicken pot pies tonight.”
Birdie’s mouth instantly watered. “Like they are little pies? With pie crusts?” she asked, cupping her hands.
“Yes. I saw them.”
“How big are they?” she whispered hungrily.
He gestured a size with his hands. “Big as my dick,” he whispered.
Birdie frowned. “Ew gross you swine.” She looked away and then back at him. “Wait is it really that big?”
He shrugged and said, “Maybe bigger,” as the tinking of a glass sounded behind them. “Your mouth is hanging open,” he whispered in an amused voice as the dark-haired man who had delivered the poems started talking about the drink specials for the night.
Roberto, their bartender and server for the night, was listing off the names of the specialty drinks on the menu. “UnValentine’s Day Cranberry Blitz, Single and Unready to Mingle…”
“I’m very small,” she said quietly. “We wouldn’t be a match for sexy time.”
“I like tight.”
