Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 85616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Dylan leaned forward, as if reading my mind, and said in a hushed tone, “Chris is one of us.”
Ah. There was my answer.
“Then you definitely understand why I love being so close to the woods.”
“I do, I do,” Chris said. “Is there a shifter population in Philly?”
“There is, but not really many wolves. I was friends with a couple cat shifters and a fox shifter. Big druid population, too. Emmy’s sister, she’s up there. One of the first friends I made. It’s how I got close with Emmy, actually. Back when he lived there.”
Dylan cocked his head. “How did I not know Macie was a druid?”
“Because you have the attention span of a goldfish,” Chris noted playfully. “And I’m talking about the snack kind not even the real kind.”
“I do love me some goldfish snacks. Once you pop you can’t—”
“Not the right jingle,” Chris noted.
“Well, it should be,” Dylan said, crossing his arms with a huff. His biceps were huge. There was definition there that could only have come from plenty of hard work and dedication.
“I agree,” I said, smiling at Dyl. “It does fit.”
He arched the brow with a white streak cutting across it. It was one of the most interesting birthmarks I’d seen. Like a master painter dipped a brush in white paint and placed a perfect line across his face. It made an already interesting and alluring man even more so.
I briefly pictured myself tracing that line with my thumb, following it as it crossed his forehead and continued across the side of his head, where I’d slide my hand behind it and steer him in the direction of my lips.
“Anyways,” Chris said, dragging me out of my inappropriate thoughts. “I’ve got to go, I promised Soren I’d help him paint his deck today.”
“Didn’t you guys already finish that last weekend?” Dyl asked.
Chris gave a slightly forced smile, his eyes opening fractions of an inch wider. “Still needs touchups.”
Dyl seemed skeptical about that but didn’t question it further. I started to dig through my own set of fictional excuses to leave. Not that I wanted to. No, no. If I followed the desire to feed the warm embers that sparked in my core then I’d have sat here all day with Dylan until we came up with a reason to end up somewhere private. He was everything that I looked for in a guy—physically, for sure, and I could already tell his personality was golden too. Golden retriever, to be exact, which was ironic when his other form was that of a timber wolf more known for biting and snarling than wagging his tail for a treat.
“Do you have anywhere to go?” Dylan asked once Chris said his goodbyes and left. He had his head angled just right so that his square jawline was highlighted by a ray of golden sunlight. His pulse beat ever so gently only a couple millimeters below.
“Nope.” I made my decision without a second thought. I’d hang out with Dyl for a little while longer. It wouldn’t hurt to possibly make a new friend in my new hometown.
I just had to make sure this stayed in the friend zone and didn’t grow into anything more.
“So,” Dylan said, leaning back in his seat, one arm resting casually on the back of it. His bicep flexed. My salivary glands kicked into high gear. “Physical therapy, huh? What made you get into that?”
Pfft. Talk about a simple question that had one hell of a complicated answer. I didn’t want to bog him down with all the dramatic and traumatic details of my past, so I decided to keep it relatively simple. “I love helping people. Love sports, too. Not playing but watching. Always did. Plus, I love science and health which all went hand in hand.”
He nodded and looked out at the quiet field of wildflowers. His attention seemed homed in on a couple of bumblebees that were drifting through the air searching for their next flower to pollinate. I remembered that first evening meeting him and how the threat of a bee sting had him falling into my arms.
“How about you?” I asked, wanting to distract him from his perceived threat. “What got you into hockey?”
“My cousin, Benji, did. He loved the sport, wanted me to play with him. We’d play street hockey all the time in the cul-de-sac I lived in. I’d been wanting to get into a sport and figured I’d try it. Fell in love the second I got out onto the ice.”
“Nice. Does your cousin still play?”
He shrugged, his attention back to the bees. “Not sure. We stopped talking years ago. Family drama.” His tone was heavy even though his body posture and expression were trying to read as nonchalant.
“Damn, sorry. I get that. Families are complicated.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What happened?” I asked. Getting to know a little more about Dylan was a friend thing to do. Nothing more.