Page 6 of Coached By the Grumpy Gargoyle

The warmth is spreading, slow and quiet, all the way out to my wingtips.

There are stories about fated mates. Old gargoyles gathered around holiday tables, talking late into their third glass of something strong. Going on about knowing from a single touch, about a warmth that reaches out and fill a gargoyle’s body, never to dim away.

No. Those are just stories.

This is a kiss. A very good kiss, sure, but there's no reason for it to be anything else.

Except the warmth isn't fading.

I don't trust it. I don't trust anything that feels this good this quickly. But I could map every place she touched me with my eyes shut.

"Huh," she says, against my chin. Her voice has gone smoky and unsteady and about an octave below her staff-room register. "So that's what finally shuts me up. Somebody should've told the faculty."

Still mouthy. Kissed half stupid, dangling off a gargoyle's arm a foot off the ground, and still mouthy.

If I put her down and say goodnight, tomorrow we can go back to the copier and the staff room and pretend this was one strange Sunday night.

I don't want to. As much as I try to convince myself that it would be for the best, I just can’t.

"Have you flown before?" I ask.

She blinks up at me. Lipstick wrecked, finally. I did that, and the satisfaction that rises inside my chest is not civilized. Not civilized at all.

“What?"

"Flying." I set her down on her heels, slow, and keep a hand at her waist until she's steady on the frost. The street is empty in both directions, the diner’s gold windows behind us. "Have you ever flown with someone?"

"No." A small crease starts between her brows. "Unless you count the middle seat to Boston. Why?"

Because I want her in my nest. Because the night sky over this bay is the one thing I've never shared with anyone, and suddenly I want her up there with me.

"You have a choice." Gravel grumbles in my throat, low, steadier than I feel. "I can walk you home, say goodnight, and tomorrow this is whatever you want it to be."

"Or?"

"Or I fly you to mine.”

The words land and the entire universe goes very quiet. Somewhere behind me the harbor slaps at the pilings. My wings stay tight behind me while I wait.

She stares up at me.

The pause can't be more than a few seconds, but I feel every one of them.

Then Rory Hale steps in, reaches up, and hooks both hands behind my neck. Warm palms flat on my stone, like it's nothing, like it's a habit already.

"Fly, boy."

The laugh that comes out of me is short and rough and involuntary, the first one in longer than I care to remember.

Boy, she called me. I’m seven feet tall of granite, and she says it like she's calling a goddamned Golden retriever.

I lift her, one arm under her knees, one across her back, her purse crushed between us and her arms tightening around my neck, and she weighs nothing. Every inch of her is warm through my shirt, bright against the November cold.

My wings open all the way. Full spread, slate and striation, streetlamp light through the membranes, and I take one deep breath of frosty, salty air.

"Hold on."

She holds on.