.
.
to anyone.
The wolf left his eyes, and he grinned.
"You're okay with marrying a werewolf who has a teenage daughter and a pack that's falling apart--and your mother panics you?" "You've met my mother," I said.
"She ought to panic you, too." He laughed.
"You just weren't around her long enough." It was only fair that I warn him.
WE WERE LUCKY AND GOT OUR SCORING TABLE TO ourselves, as the women who had the lane to our left were packing up when we got back from choosing our bowling balls from the available stack.
Mine was bright green with gold swirls.
Adam's was black.
"You have no imagination," I told him smugly.
"It wouldn't hurt if you found a pink ball to bowl with." "All the pink balls have kid-sized holes in them," he told me.
"The black balls are the heaviest." I opened my mouth, but he shut me up with a kiss.
"Not here," he said.
"Look next to us." We were being observed by a boy of about five and a toddler in a frilly pink dress.
I raised my nose in the air.
"As if I were going to joke about your ball.
How juvenile." He grinned at me.
"I thought you'd feel that way." I sat down and messed with player names on the interface on the scoring table until I was satisfied.
"Found On Road Dead," he said dryly, looking over my shoulder.
"I thought I'd use our cars as names.
You drive a Ford now.
F-O-R-D." "Very Woo-hoo?" "Not a lot of cool words start with a `W,' " I admitted.
He leaned over my shoulder and changed it to "Vintage Wabbit," then into my ear, he said, "Very wicked.
Mine." "I can live with that." His warm breath on my ear felt very wicked, all right.
Until Adam, I'd always felt like his black bowling ball-- boring but useful.
I'm nothing special in the looks department, once you get past the slightly exotic coloring my Blackfoot father gave me.
And Adam .
.
.