Waving at her throat, she shot out the door. Once she was alone in the cool air, her laughter died away. What a disaster! So rude! Now she’d have to apologize to Bill...
The door opened quietly behind her. It was Mikhail.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “I shouldn’t have done that, I suppose. If it helps, I don’t think Bill noticed your exit. He read on with much relish as a fourth young hooker, with raven hair—not black, but raven—joined the first three. She was praising his ‘sexy’ clothes, naming the brand of each, when your friend—what was her name? Godiva? Had a very loud sneeze attack, and . . . that defeated me.”
Bird clapped her hand over her mouth, afraid another guffaw would escape. But when she saw him chuckling, the skin crinkling around his silvery eyes, her laugh escaped anyhow. For an exhilarating moment the two of them stood on the doorstep under the tiny awning, with rain falling all around them, laughing together.
When the last chuckle died away, she became aware that the moment was perfect. She wished she could stop time so they could stay in that moment forever. But time moved on, as it must. All she could do was slide the moment into her precious memory keepsakes.
Mikhail wiped his eyes, then quirked an eyebrow. “Are all his pages populated with . . . ah, blowup dolls?”
Bird suppressed another bubble of laughter. “I’m afraid so.”
“Well. No doubt there is an eager audience for that.” Mikhail smiled out into the rain. “But what about you? Did you bring anything? I’d very much like to hear what you write.”
All her laughter drained away. She usually didn’t talk about her writing, which was a part of the past she had worked so hard to leave behind. But those kind, compelling silver eyes did not deserve her usual silence.
“I used to.” She spoke as lightly and carelessly as she could. “I’m too busy these days. Like you said, I come to be an audience. Writers appreciate that.”
His steady gaze ignited an explosion of butterflies somewhere between her belly button and her ribcage. The intensity of her reaction scared her, and she took a tiny step back. But every cell in her body wanted to step forward. Toward him.
“Ah,” he said, his tone reflective, his eyes now more gray than silver. “Well, from the sound of the clapping he’s finished the attack of the giant breasts. Shall we go inside?”
Bird let out a tense breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Mikhail politely opened the door for her, and they rejoined the others just in time for the young poet to begin his reading.
She usually enjoyed his poetry, which often had beautiful images of the sea. But he could have been reading the Wall Street Journal for all she knew. In her heart, she was still on the bakery doorstep with rain streaming all around them. Mikhail had stood close enough so that she heard his breathing and smell his clean masculine scent, and yet she hadn’t felt crowded. She’d felt safe and warm.
This is awful, she thought. I’ve got to get hold of myself before my imagination takes me down roads that will only hurt.
FOUR
MIKHAIL
The difference between the smiling face Bird had turned up to Mikhail outside the little bakery and her closed-off expression now disturbed him deeply. He’d blundered, without knowing how.
He sat through a reading he didn’t hear, and thought back over that exchange. It had happened after he asked about her writing. He didn’t know why, but it had been the wrong thing to say. But he had no idea if he should pursue it, pretend he hadn’t noticed, or to try to fix it somehow.
He clapped when the group clapped, then returned to brooding. As a dragon, he could fight a mythical beast three times his size. As a human, he could wield his sword against even the most ferocious ogre. But with his mate, whom he should cherish and protect, he was disastrously clumsy.
It’s fear. His dragon’s hum, which had returned the moment Mikhail had spotted Bird, deepened in tone. She’s afraid.
Of? Mikhail asked as the group began discussing the poems. It can’t be my foolish impulse during that man’s terrible reading. She was laughing too.
He smiled at the memory of her pretty face made beautiful by laughter as they stood together on the doorstep.
His dragon was silent, and Mikhail realized that he was listening to Bird on the mental plane. Mikhail refused to trespass mentally without permission, but his dragon was incapable of shutting that mental door.
I don’t know, his dragon finally replied as another person began reading. I sense conflict. Why is there conflict? We are her mate. We are hers.
The hum went rusty, then silent. Mikhail discovered that he missed it.
He paid scant attention as yet another writer read their work. His attention stayed solely on Bird, who did not look at him again. His question had clearly been a terrible error. But how could he repair it when he didn’t know why it had been wrong?
Frustrated with his ignorance—and apprehensive that he was going about this courting all wrong—he contained his impatience. But all his enjoyment in being in his mate’s presence had vanished along with his dragon’s hum.
At last the meeting was over. The writers got up and began dropping money into a bowl next to the c