Seriously, I’d love to take you to dinner and we can talk about what we’ve been up to. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Okay. I think we can manage that. Maybe your sister can come along?” Sister, chaperone …
He reached out and caught my hand, cradling it gently in his as he brought it to his lips and gave the knuckles a light kiss. Truly a lost art, the kissing of hands.
Of course that was when Ben walked up.
I pulled my hand away, and Luis hung onto it for just that extra moment before I could take a step back. I didn’t know why I was blushing, I didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about. Ben had his hands in his trouser pockets as he strolled up to me, but kept a hard gaze on Luis.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Just fine,” I said. “Ready to head out?” I hooked my arm around his and steered him toward the lobby’s side exit.
“I very much look forward to dinner tomorrow night,” Luis said, waving after us.
Ben and I had gone ten or so strides when I looked at him and said, “What?”
“I didn’t say anything,” he said.
“You were thinking it.”
“You want to have dinner with an old friend. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Except…”
“The guy gives me the creeps, that’s all.”
“Because he’s a were-jaguar?”
He glanced at me. “He’s a little slimy, don’t you think? That whole hand-kissing thing?”
“Maybe you ought to try it sometime.”
“Me? The guy who can’t remember to bring home flowers on our anniversary?” He actually sounded a little sad.
I hugged his arm. “You cook. That’s better.”
We made it outside and down the street, took our life in our hands by crossing the street, which was helpfully marked with arrows pointing the direction we needed to look to keep from being plowed into by oncoming cabs in bizarro traffic land. I’d get used to looking right first just when it was time to go home.
The pub was called the St. George, and was exactly what I imagined an English pub should be: a mock-Tudor building with a painted sign hanging over the door showing a mounted knight fighting a lizard-like dragon; gas lamps mounted over the windows and flower boxes housing ivy and pansies under them. I was pretty sure it was all built this way for the American tourists.
The English pub theme-park décor continued inside, with wood paneling, boxy booths, brass fixtures on the bar, and darkened paintings of hunting dogs and dead pheasants. I recognized people from the conference among the customers—doctors, scientists, journalists. A couple waved at me, and the place began to feel a little more friendly. Ben ordered lagers for us at the bar, and I found us a small, round table and chairs in the corner. We sat with our backs to the wall and looked out. The alcohol warmed me, and I began to relax.
I noticed the burly man who smelled like werewolf sitting at the bar, but didn’t worry about him until he stood and looked over at Ben and me—and I recognized him as the man I kept seeing in the back of conference rooms, watching me.
My hand closed on Ben’s leg, and I was on the verge of standing to face the wolf who was staring a challenge at us, but Ben said, “Wait.” So I waited.
After giving us a moment to look him over—as he looked us over—he approached and gestured at a third chair. “Mind if I join you?”
“Go ahead,” I said, guarded. He pulled over the chair and sat, sprawling, knees and elbows out, and regarded me like I was a problem.
He wasn’t a large man but he gave the impression of bulk—broad shoulders, stout through the middle, a jowly face. He must have been in his fifties. He had thick, working-class hands that looked like they could punch through walls. He wore comfortable trousers, a white shirt untucked, and a plain vest.
More gazes in the pub turned to us, watching. They seemed casual enough, sitting in pairs or small groups. No one else would have noticed them, but they carried themselves like sentries, like
“Yeah. Okay. I think we can manage that. Maybe your sister can come along?” Sister, chaperone …
He reached out and caught my hand, cradling it gently in his as he brought it to his lips and gave the knuckles a light kiss. Truly a lost art, the kissing of hands.
Of course that was when Ben walked up.
I pulled my hand away, and Luis hung onto it for just that extra moment before I could take a step back. I didn’t know why I was blushing, I didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about. Ben had his hands in his trouser pockets as he strolled up to me, but kept a hard gaze on Luis.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Just fine,” I said. “Ready to head out?” I hooked my arm around his and steered him toward the lobby’s side exit.
“I very much look forward to dinner tomorrow night,” Luis said, waving after us.
Ben and I had gone ten or so strides when I looked at him and said, “What?”
“I didn’t say anything,” he said.
“You were thinking it.”
“You want to have dinner with an old friend. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Except…”
“The guy gives me the creeps, that’s all.”
“Because he’s a were-jaguar?”
He glanced at me. “He’s a little slimy, don’t you think? That whole hand-kissing thing?”
“Maybe you ought to try it sometime.”
“Me? The guy who can’t remember to bring home flowers on our anniversary?” He actually sounded a little sad.
I hugged his arm. “You cook. That’s better.”
We made it outside and down the street, took our life in our hands by crossing the street, which was helpfully marked with arrows pointing the direction we needed to look to keep from being plowed into by oncoming cabs in bizarro traffic land. I’d get used to looking right first just when it was time to go home.
The pub was called the St. George, and was exactly what I imagined an English pub should be: a mock-Tudor building with a painted sign hanging over the door showing a mounted knight fighting a lizard-like dragon; gas lamps mounted over the windows and flower boxes housing ivy and pansies under them. I was pretty sure it was all built this way for the American tourists.
The English pub theme-park décor continued inside, with wood paneling, boxy booths, brass fixtures on the bar, and darkened paintings of hunting dogs and dead pheasants. I recognized people from the conference among the customers—doctors, scientists, journalists. A couple waved at me, and the place began to feel a little more friendly. Ben ordered lagers for us at the bar, and I found us a small, round table and chairs in the corner. We sat with our backs to the wall and looked out. The alcohol warmed me, and I began to relax.
I noticed the burly man who smelled like werewolf sitting at the bar, but didn’t worry about him until he stood and looked over at Ben and me—and I recognized him as the man I kept seeing in the back of conference rooms, watching me.
My hand closed on Ben’s leg, and I was on the verge of standing to face the wolf who was staring a challenge at us, but Ben said, “Wait.” So I waited.
After giving us a moment to look him over—as he looked us over—he approached and gestured at a third chair. “Mind if I join you?”
“Go ahead,” I said, guarded. He pulled over the chair and sat, sprawling, knees and elbows out, and regarded me like I was a problem.
He wasn’t a large man but he gave the impression of bulk—broad shoulders, stout through the middle, a jowly face. He must have been in his fifties. He had thick, working-class hands that looked like they could punch through walls. He wore comfortable trousers, a white shirt untucked, and a plain vest.
More gazes in the pub turned to us, watching. They seemed casual enough, sitting in pairs or small groups. No one else would have noticed them, but they carried themselves like sentries, like
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