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.