Page 14 of Nine-Tenths

"I would have been sitting in the café, anyway."

"I will beannoying," I threaten.

"I'm certain you will be."

"I hum terrible classical music earworms when I'm bored."

"I especially like your rendition ofPeter and the Wolfwhen you're mopping," he says, but it's small, careful.

Despite him being taller than me, and fit as hell,everythingabout him is carefully controlled.Gentle, that's the word.Precise. From the shine on his shoes to the crease ironed into his slacks, to the usual careful lay of his hair, this man has never once looked or sounded anything but mindfully curated.

He makes me feel loud, messy, and childish. I thought dragons were supposed to be brash, confident, and charismatic, but he's never been demanding, and I’ve never heard him speak above a gentle murmur (unless he’s yelling about fire extinguishers).

He catches my look of confusion and says, "My apologies."

"No, it's—" I start, and then literally bite my tongue because I have no idea how to end that sentence.

Isit fine? Beanevolence is a public space, and I don't have to hum at work if I don't want to. So is it creepy he's noticed? Or is it charming? I havenoidea.

"You didn't answer. About why you come into the café every day?" I prompt. He clears his throat and a flush climbs up from his collar. It's not red enough to be scales. Is he embarrassed? "What, you're such a wealthy man of leisure you have nothing better to do?" I joke.

"Quite," is all he says.

Holy shit, what?I have the time to think, but not say, because the ambulance stops.

"Alright, everyone out," the paramedic says, stepping over us to fling open the back door with urgency. I don't blame her. The burnt-coffee reek is pretty acrid.

The dragon descends first and holds a hand up for me to take and, yeah, okay, I've got a sling now and it friggin hurts to move so, sure, I can let him Mr. Darcy me onto the sidewalk. There's that smallness again. He's not even a bit impatient for me to accept his help. I don't want to think about it. I also make a point of not letting myself think about his skin, or its warmth, or, or what shape his fingers are when I finally slide my hand into his.

Nope. This isnota tropey repressed hand-touch moment. I refuse.

The paramedic walks us through getting signed in at the admission desk. Then we're directed toward the uncomfortable waiting room, without an answer about how long we’re probably going to have to wait.

"Plastic chairs," I whine as I sink into one, just because I can.

I'd promised the dragon I'd be a bastard. I might as well live up to it. It'll be fun and kill time, if nothing else.

The dragon looks around and then down at his blackened hands. "Would you mind if I—?"

"Go. Scrub." I wave him off.

"Will you—?"

"I'm fine." I pull my cell phone out of my back pocket. There's already half a dozen texts from Hadi, and one each from Gemma and Stuart, who must have heard the news already, and a missed call from Mum.

He hesitates, and I pointedly bow my head to make it clear that I've already dismissed him, turning my attention to the family group chat:

im ok oven caught fire not my fault

The dragon doesn't currently have a tail, but when I glance up, he's walking up the hall with enough shame that if he did, it would be tucked between his legs.

Chapter Five

"So what do I call you?" I ask when he gets back. I'm trying to offer an olive branch, or whatever it is when you've been an ass to the regular who has accompanied you to the hospital, even though he didn't have to.

Part of my question is because I don't know his name. But part of it is me realizing he's a dragon—I mean, I knew he was a dragon this whole time, the eyes give it away—so he's probably got a fancy title. Duke McSootyClaws or something.

They're always dukes in books.