Bone Crossed by Patricia Briggs Page A

him if he had an estimate yet, and he’d growled at me. Then I’d asked about Bran.
    So far our date was working out just spiffy.
    I went back to playing with my skirt.
    “Mercy,” Adam said, his voice even more growly than it had been.
    “What?” If I snapped at him, it was his own fault for getting grumpy at me first.
    “If you don’t stop playing with that dress, I’m going to rip it right off you, and we won’t be heading for dinner.”
    I looked at him. He was watching the road, and both hands were on the wheel ... but once I paid attention, I could see what I’d done to him. Me. With remnants of grease under my fingernails and stitches in my chin.
    Maybe I hadn’t screwed up the date as badly as all of that. I smoothed the skirt back down, successfully resisting the urge to pull it up farther only because I wasn’t sure I could handle what might happen. I thought Adam was joking, but ... I turned my head toward my side window and tried to keep the grin off my face.
    He drove us to a restaurant that had just opened in the boom-town that was forming in West Pasco. Just a couple of years ago it had been barren desert, but now there were restaurants, a theater, a Lowe’s and ... a hugeyenormous (Jesse’s word) giant-sized Wal-Mart.
    “I hope you like Thai.” He parked us out in the middle of west nowhere in the parking lot. Paranoia has odd manifestations. It gave me panic attacks and made him park where he could manage a quick getaway. Shared paranoia—could a happily-ever-after be far off for us?
    I hopped out of the front seat and said in suitably resolute tones, “I’m sure they have hamburgers.”
    I shut the door on his appalled face. The locks clicked, and there he was, one arm on either side of me ... grinning.
    “You like Thai,” he said. “Admit it.”
    I folded my arms and ignored the gibbering idiot who kept shrieking “he’s got me trapped, trapped” in the back of my head. It helped that Adam up close is even better than half a car away. And Adam with a grin ... well. He has a dimple, just one. That’s all he needs.
    “Jesse told you, didn’t she?” I said grumpily. “Next time I see her, I’m going to expose her for the secret-sharing kid she is. See if I don’t.”
    He laughed ... and dropped his arms and backed away, proving he’d seen my erstwhile panic. I grabbed his arm to prove I wasn’t scared and towed him around the Explorer toward the restaurant.
    The food was excellent. As I pointed out to Adam, they did have hamburgers. Neither of us ordered them, though doubtless they would have been good, too. I could have been eating seaweed and dust, though, and I still would have enjoyed it.
    We talked about cars—and how I thought his Explorer was a pile of junk and he thought I was stuck in the seventies in my preference for cars. I pointed out that my Rabbit was a respectable eighties model, as was my Vanagon—and the chances of his SUV being around in thirty years was nil. Especially if his wolves kept getting thrown at it.
    We talked about movies and books. He liked biographies, of all things. The only biography I’d ever liked was Carry On, Mr. Bowditch, which I’d read in seventh grade. He didn’t read fiction.
    We got in an argument about Yeats. Not about his poetry, but about his obsession with the occult. Adam thought it was ridiculous ... I thought it was funny that a werewolf would think it so and baited him until he caught me at it.
    “Mercy,” he said—and his phone rang.
    I drank a sip of water and prepared to listen in to his conversation. But, as it turned out, it was very short.
    “Hauptman,” he answered shortly.
    “You’d better get over here, wolf,” said an unfamiliar voice and hung up.
    He looked down at the number and frowned. I got up and walked around the table so I could look over his shoulder.
    “It’s someone from Uncle Mike’s,” I told him, having memorized the number.
    Adam threw some money on the table and we trotted out the