Page 16 of Loan Wolf (Green Valley Shifters: Generations #1)

16

CLARA

C lara had eaten at Michelin star restaurants and she was not sure she had ever enjoyed a meal as much as this one.

The food was—she recognized her own snobbishness—rather pedestrian, but she and Gabe had worked up appetites, and it wasn’t often that she indulged in simple carbs and red meat. The fries were too chewy, but the burger was thick and juicy, the sauce was rich, and the company was best of all.

They talked about bikes to start with, and then food, when it was served, and then music. Gabe truly did like punk, but he also enjoyed classic rock, heavy metal, and something he called hard bebop.

“You probably only listen to classical,” Gabe guessed.

“I listen to other things!” Clara protested, but when Gabe pressed, she had to admit, “Taylor Swift.”

Gabe made a gagging noise loud enough that people at the next table looked over in alarm. “I should have known.”

“She’s brilliant,” Clara insisted, a little stung.

“She’s vanilla. Blandly inoffensive in every way. Just like you.”

“I’m not…” Clara couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud, because it was a lie if she thought she wasn’t perfectly vanilla. “I’m sorry I’m so boring .”

“Not boring,” Gabe said quickly. “Just…oh, shit, I’m only going to dig myself deeper if I try. Let’s stick with boring.”

“What’s worse than boring ?!” They were both laughing, and Clara couldn’t take anything he said as an insult. She liked that he wasn’t constantly trying to kiss up to her. She liked that he stole her fries and ate them like salty hostages.

She really liked Gabe, she realized, sobering. It wasn’t just that he was sexy and sort of dangerous. He had interesting opinions. He was funny without trying to be a comedian. He was wry and honest, and he didn’t try to be what he wasn’t to impress her. There were depths to him that she wanted to peel back and discover, layer by onion-y layer.

Clara wasn’t used to eating so much food at once, and she slowed down at the end of the burger. “I think there’s an entire cow in here,” she groaned.

“There very well may be,” a cultured voice said from her side.

Clara had been sitting with her back to the door, and she was startled to look up into a familiar face. Not Green Valley familiar. New York familiar. “Madame Twiller?” She dropped what was left of her burger onto her plate and scrubbed her sticky fingers with a frantic napkin so she could stand and greet her dance instructor.

Mercy Twiller gave her the barest hug and air kisses on each side of her face, frowning so disapprovingly that Clara knew she must have barbeque sauce on her mouth.

“What a lovely surprise! What are you doing here? Oh, ah, this is… Gabe . This is Mercy Twiller, my manager and dance instructor.”

Gabe did not stand up. If anything, he slouched more, and his tattooed arm was up over the back of the bench like he was trying to draw attention to it. “Ma’am,” he said casually.

Twiller gave him one raking look, a tiny polite nod, and turned back to Clara. “Linda Turner told me you would be performing this weekend, and I needed to see that you wouldn’t disgrace the company.” She said it as if she knew that Clara could do nothing else, though Clara knew it was her attempt at humor.

“Oh, will you join us?” Clara snatched up her napkin and ran it self-consciously over her mouth as she moved over one seat to give Twiller space beside her.

Twiller looked at the chair with an expression so neutral it conveyed her disgust and sat gingerly. “I hope that you can dance this weekend,” she said, nudging aside the plate with the swirls of barbeque and the last of Clara’s burger. “This heavy Midwest food could give you cramps.”

Clara all but had cramps now, the meal sitting in her stomach like lead under the unexpected scrutiny of her instructor, and she had no appetite for the rest. “I hope your trip here was pleasant,” she said mildly.

“Flights into Madison are terribly inconvenient,” Twiller said in a voice just as bland. “I’ve rented a car for our stay.”

“That’s very sensible,” Clara said. “There isn’t much public transportation here, and I don’t think they have Uber in the area.”

“You could rent a bike,” Gabe drawled. Clara could see the mischief in his eyes and wondered if she could kick him under the table without Twiller noticing.

“Gabe owns the bike rental shop in town,” Clara said quickly. “He loaned me a mountain bike. So, I’ve been getting a lot of exercise.”

“Charming,” Twiller said, like it wasn’t. “Have you decided what to perform?”

Clara hadn’t even thought about it. “Swan Lake is always a crowd pleaser,” she said with a shrug.

“The Nutcracker would be more appropriate, even if it isn’t the season for it.” Twiller’s voice brooked no argument. “Has Mrs. Turner broached the topic of payment?”

“Oh, I couldn’t accept any money,” Clara protested. “We didn’t talk about it.”

Twiller made an aborted motion to pat her hand and clearly decided against it. “That’s why you have a manager, dear. We can negotiate a charitable donation if you wish.”

Clara felt trapped, both physically at the table, and like she was being slowly strangled by her own career. How was this not exactly what she’d always wanted? She was a famous dancer. She thought the phrase the way Trevor and Aaron had teased her as children, throwing their hands in the air and pretending to dance with her.

“That sounds fine,” she said meekly, then she jerked as Gabe kicked her under the table.

“Oh, sorry,” he said insincerely as he sat up taller and threw his napkin on his empty plate. “Must have kicked you by accident. I gotta get back to the shop. If you don’t want to pay late fees, I’ll need the bike back in twenty minutes.” He dug into his wallet and threw cash down on the table. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

The waitress bustled up as he left. “Oh, I’ll get you a bill. Do you want a to-go box?” She eyed Twiller. “A menu?”

“Thank you, we’re leaving,” Twiller said in her most condescending voice. “We don’t need the leftovers.”

“I’d love a box,” Clara said, surprising all of them. “There’s a mini fridge at the hotel and it will make a nice snack later.”

Twiller was silent as the waitress scrambled away. “I suppose a week of indulgence won’t hurt anything. He seems like a…nice boy.”

Clara wasn’t sure whether it was the food or the nice boy that was the indulgence, but she set her jaw, determined to enjoy both of them. As soon as the waitress brought her box, she dumped in the final fries and the last quarter of the burger. “I have to return my bike before my time runs out,” she said cheerfully, scooting her chair back. “We really must catch up later!”

Twiller took the hint and stood up to let her escape.

Clara shamelessly left her with the rest of the bill to pay.