“I do hear that the first test you have to pass is ‘What number would you call in a crisis?’ on The Newlywed Game.”
I didn’t intend to tease him this much, but he makes it so easy. He’s like a garden statue, only more . . . rigid. Taller too. “Anyway, here’s my number,” he tells me, fishing out his wallet to pull an actual business card from it. I would laugh if I weren’t so sure that Noah is most likely nearing a pulmonary embolism after the day he’s had, taking the card graciously to read the neat typeset there. “Cool,” I note. “Maybe I should get business cards.”
“I can recommend an excellent print shop, if you’re in the market.”
I don’t even have the heart to tell him I’m joking at this point. “Oh yeah. Sure. So, I guess . . . I’ll text you later?”
“Yes, we can check in after some sleep.” He lingers there for a moment, fidgeting as if he’s chewing on something he can’t quite get out—looking from me to the ground to me again with a pinched expression. “I suppose I should . . . thank you. For today. You saved me back there.”
“I take my Hippocratic oath very seriously,” I deadpan. “Saving lives, and all that.”
“Right.” His mouth does something strange, quirking a bit like it wants to smile but has forgotten how to. “Oh, and . . . I suppose I should . . .” He looks around at the nearly empty parking lot, his brow furrowing as he presses up on his toes to make sure there is no one around before he suddenly walks toward me, corralling me toward the large row of bushes that are planted on either side of the rear entrance. “I guess . . . I should . . .” His expression looks pained. “There’s no polite way to do this, so I’ll just . . . ?”
Now, I’m very tired—a twelve-hour shift will do that to you on its own even without all the plotting and the life-altering decisions—so maybe that’s why I am slow on the uptake to whatever Noah is having so much trouble with. His hands make my upper arms feel like little twigs when his thick fingers close around them, poking his head up once more to make sure no one is watching.
“Noah, what are you . . . ?”
I admit it has been . . . a while since I’ve been at all intimate in any form or fashion with a man—be they human or not—so I’m sure that’s another reason that contributes to my cluelessness when Noah begins to crowd me.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, still looking pained. “It won’t be very potent right now, not until I stop suppressants”—he already looks annoyed at the thought of having to stop taking them, but I assume the question will arise as to why he would still need them now that we’re public—“but for now, it will have to do.”
It dawns on me then, his intention, and I am suddenly a lot more awake than I was when I came outside. “Oh, you don’t have to—”
I don’t get to finish what I was saying, given that Noah is in total business mode right now, already leaning to pull me to his large frame for a very strange and awkward hug that crushes me to his front. I immediately notice that same sharp tang of his suppressants that clings to his clothes as it creeps into my nostrils, but underneath, from this close . . . I can just make out that faint scent of pine and fresh winter that is crisp and cool and actually pretty pleasant once you single it out. The whole thing throws me so off guard that I don’t even have time to react at first, the wool of Noah’s coat nearly cutting off my air supply as he hugs me like it’s the first time he’s ever done this to anyone. He could sever my spine like this, if he tried harder. I know we had talked about the benefits of his scent in regards to his end of the bargain, but I hadn’t expected him to be so “straight to business” about it. I guess that was my first mistake.
This is Noah Taylor, after all.
I know what scenting is, because I’m almost thirty and have had relationships that lasted more than a few months at a time, but it’s usually something I’ve experienced by accident during sex. Definitely not something I’ve purposely done in the bushes outside of my workplace. Besides the fact that we can literally turn into wolves outside of city limits （they passed that law in 1987 after some guy barreled through a storefront after getting too drunk）， being a shifter means that our bodies work a little differently than your average human. Scents affect us, mark us, even drive us sometimes—and therefore they inadvertently take up a big role in our lives. Especially since a shifter has three times as many scent glands as a normal human, each one sensitive to the touch and the largest being right at the base of the throat, just waiting for some shifter partner to come along and meld his open scent with it. It’s practically like making out until you’re dizzy, and you smell like your boyfriend’s cologne, except the cologne doesn’t wash off for days at a time, depending on the potency.