Happily, the service was fast.
After the waitress took our orders, Adam said, a little too casually, "So what did you see in your vision?" "Nothing embarrassing," I told him.
"Just one time when I brought cookies over to you." His eyes brightened.
"I see," he said, and his shoulders relaxed a bit, even if his cheeks reddened.
"I was thinking about that." "We okay?" I asked him.
"I'm sorry I intruded." He shook his head.
"No apologies necessary.
You're welcome to whatever you pick up." "So," I said casually, "your first time was under the bleachers, huh?" He jerked his head up.
"Gotcha.
Warren told me." He smiled.
"Cold and wet and miserable." The waitress plunked our food down in front of us and hurried on her way.
Adam fed me bites of his rare filet mignon, and I fed him some of my salmon.
Food was good, company better, and if I had been a cat, I'd have purred.
"You look happy." He took a sip of his coffee and stretched out a leg so his foot was against mine.
"You make me happy," I told him.
"You could be happy all the time," he said, eating the last bite of baked potato, "and move in with me." To wake up next to him every morning .
.
.
but .
.
.
"Nope.
I've caused you enough trouble," I told him.
"The pack and I need to come to .
.
.
d?tente before I'm moving in.
Your home is the den, the heart of the pack.
They need a place where they feel safe." "They can adjust." "They're adjusting as fast as they can," I told him.
"First there was Warren--did you hear that after you let him in, several other packs have allowed gay wolves to join, too? And now there's me.