The Fox and her Bear (Mating Call Dating Agency, #2) Read Free Page A

From Al’s. Otherwise, no deal.”
    “I think he’ll be amenable. See you in... half an hour?”
    “How busy is it?” she asked.
    “Not very. You’ll have time for the pancakes before anything crazy happens, I’m guessing.”
    “Good,” she said. “Make it fifteen minutes, and add a large coffee to the order.”

2
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    “I don’t think I need any more of this.” Dawson Lex took the comically small – in his paw, anyway – shot glass, considered it for a minute, and then tossed it back. “But hey, I’m not gonna make you waste a drink.”
    He sighed, took a swig of water, and sat back down to let his fingers bounce over the keys for a second.
    “You still good?” Tenner, the bartender named after his favorite tip, looked in Dawson’s direction. “Seems like after about twelve of those, you wouldn’t be able to tickle them keys the way you do.”
    “Nah, just gets me ready. Anyway, I’d be surprised if more than ten people showed up tonight.”
    “It’s Saturday, and this is one of four bars in White Creek. Where else are they going?”
    Dawson shrugged. “I dunno, heard something about a fight in one of those towns down the road. Archer Park, Holton, one of those.”
    “Cock fight? I thought those were illegal.” Tenner took a rag off the bar top and used it to scrub the last of the wet beer mugs to a fine sheen before he slung it up onto the hook over his head.
    “Man fight. You know, when a couple shifters hammer at each other for a while, one of them gets a concussion and the other one goes and gets drunk.”
    Tenner grunted. “Sounds sad.” He poured himself a beer. “Which is funny coming from me, I guess. But concussions? Those can be serious.”
    “Oh come on, Ten, you’re an entrepreneur. Small business owner. You’re literally the American dream. Maybe with a little extra weight, I guess. And anyway, you know that bears can end up giving themselves concussions just putting their pants on in the morning.”
    “Watch your damn mouth, bear,” Tenner said with a wry grin. “That’s just how walruses carry muscle. Anyway, what the hell is it to you? You types end up all saggy and baggy when you get old.” He pulled at one corner of his mustache. He wasn’t nervous – Tenner wasn’t ever nervous – but Dawson saw the glint of worry in his eye.
    “People will come, don’t worry. And once they get in the door, you know I’ll keep ‘em here all night.”
    “Play us a song—”
    “Don’t even start,” Dawson said. I get that joke enough from the drunks. I don’t need it from my friend, too.”
    The two of them fell silent for a moment. Tenner considered his beer, took a drink, and plunked it down on the bar top just as the door jingled, signaling the first visitor for the night. A short man, five feet high at the most, wandered up to the bar, ordered a drink that required Tenner to hollow out a coconut, and sat back watching the muted television.
    “You think he’s gonna want anything else?” Tenner asked Dawson, who had started warming up his piano fingers. “Seems pretty absorbed in that Dick van Dyke re-run.”
    Dawson shrugged. “What kind of night you think we’re gonna have tonight? Buncha sad songs? Some jazz? Some Miles Davis? Maybe some weird piano renditions of 80s heavy metal? I’ve been waiting for someone to ask for me to play Holy Diver on the ivory.”
    “Shit,” Tenner said, hunkering down over the bar. “That’s really ivory? I know I bought an old one, but I didn’t think it was that old.”
    Dawson’s fingers danced across the keys, playing out a couple scales. He closed his eyes and found himself drifting along on a pillow of musical notes that enveloped him, carrying him off to a place far from Tenner’s bar.
    He took in a deep breath, letting the scent of pleather seats, stale smoke and old beer drift into his nostrils. For most people, he figured, those smells weren’t exactly pleasant. But for Dawson, who had