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

spent the entire first half of his life constantly on the road, with his parents running from one place to the next to keep ahead of the bill collectors, it was the acrid, oddly sweet smell of home.
    “Daws?” Tenner asked, sliding on his elbows down the bar to where the piano sat. “You listening? Or are you on one of your space trips again?”
    Space trips . What Tenner had named Dawson’s semi-regular habit of drifting into a trance as he warmed up his fingers. With them dancing over the cool composite material of the keys, going from A to F-sharp, and back down again, it was a kind of hypnosis. He never had been able to clear his head, not since coming up in the world he had – a world of manic movement, near panic at some points – taught him to be constantly vigilant.
    As he tinkled out a C minor scale, his thoughts drifted to a girl, one he didn’t know. He had dreams like that from time to time, of walking hand in hand with someone he’d never met. At the end of the dream they always just faded off into the ether, never to be heard from again – except maybe in another nighttime drifting. But this one was different, somehow. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Dawson thought there was more to this little day dream than just a flitting fantasy. She had green eyes, burning green eyes, and red hair so shocked through with the color of fire that he had to touch it to make sure her head wasn’t on fire, like in that one Lady GaGa video.
    But just as suddenly, he was gone, and he was once more in Tenner’s bar, the place he called home, the place he made enough of a living to keep his bear stomach filled. Which, by the way, is no easy feat for a bear who needs more than most normal humans need for a whole day, just to get out of bed in the morning.
    The little drifting quilt of notes that carried him was a comfort. A much needed comfort. The door jingled again, jarring Dawson out of his moment of quiet reverie. The door chime was a bit of an odd curiosity. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but Tenner liked it, so what the hell.
    Dawson snorted like someone just waking up and getting the very last snore of the night out of their system. “Whassat?” he asked with a start, and then shook his head. “Oh, it’s Jimmy.”
    Jimmy Delfort, a crocodile-shifting barfly with the consumption habits of Norm from Cheers , and the physique to match, sauntered in and chug-a-lugged the glass of beer Tenner poured as soon he recognized the round-belly.
    When Tenner returned his attention to Dawson, the big bear was still poking away at the keys, creating a comfortable, Muzak-like sound. If someone were crooning the words to some wholly non-offensive light rock ballad, it would’ve been right at home.
    As the night went on, the bar filled up more than either Tenner or Dawson expected. The fights down the road must not have been much of a draw. The shifters of White Creek drank their fill, ate a disgusting amount of Tenner’s perfected poutine, and even managed to get through the whole night without once knocking over the antique popcorn machine next to Dawson’s piano.
    He took requests that made him happy, some that made him sad, and others that he didn’t actually know, but pretended.
    “Hey man,” someone he didn’t recognize, whose breath carried the spicy-sweet aroma of bourbon in heavy, heavy doses, came up and clapped Dawson on the shoulder. “Look at you. You’re sad.” Except it came out lookhs at you, you’re shad.
    Dawson was used to random bar patrons giving him advice, but not really this direct. She was smaller than the usual member of Tenner’s crowd, and vastly more attractive, but that wasn’t saying much. Anyone that happened to be female would have stood out in that crowd. It might’ve been a sad sausage party, but damn it, it was their sad sausage party. “Do I know you?” Dawson asked, as politely as he could manage after a night of Billy Joel requests that he dutifully