Page 5

Chapter Four

" Y ou destroyed my roaster, set the kitchen on fire, and clawed up my employee," Hadi snarls ,counting off the dragon's sins on her fingers.

She shouldn't look as frightening as she does, standing there in pajama pants, a rumpled hijab, and a bright purple hoodie she somehow hasn't realized is on backwards.

But he is cowed.

"I'll pay to replace them," he replies, so miserable that I genuinely feel sorry for him. His forearms are black with ash from where he clawed the burning beans out of the roaster and scattered them on the floor so I could attack them with the extinguisher. His shirt is now raggedly short-sleeved.

Hadi snorts. "Damn straight you will. And in the meantime? How am I supposed to make coffee ?"

"We'll rush-order it." He fumbles for his wallet.

Soot smears all over everything, but he manages to hand Hadi an honest-to-god paper business card.

She pinches a clean corner between two fingers.

"Have your insurance company contact my people with the information of the upscale model.

Hire professional cleaners and contractors. I'll cover it all."

Hadi looks over at me. "You heard that? I have a witness?"

From my perch on the rear fender of the ambulance, I give her a thumbs up and a goofy grin behind my oxygen mask. This is hilarious. I'm not feeling even remotely hungover anymore.

That might be the shock talking.

The garage-door style windows at the front of the café are open, letting out the last of the ugly smell.

Inside Beanevolence, the fire fighters are checking over their gear and preparing to go.

There's a small crowd around the outside of the police tape cordoning off the sidewalk, mostly folks from the buildings on either side of the café, which were evacuated for safety.

Luckily, nobody but me has to be treated for smoke inhalation.

A sharp pain on my right bicep startles me hard enough to make a very not-manly noise. The paramedic dousing the place where the dragon's talons pierced my skin in disinfectant tsks at me and reminds me to stay still.

Right.

Smoke inhalation and puncture wounds.

Everything between the bottom of my right ear and my right elbow fucking burns .

"I'll call when I'm done with that idiot," Hadi says, jabbing a finger at me. "Right now I have to go with him to the hospital."

"I can go by myself," I crackle, distorted by the tight dryness of my throat.

"I'll go," the dragon says, and everybody ignores me when I protest a second time. "Please, it's the least I can do. This way you can stay with the shop."

I pull off the oxygen mask long enough to shout "I said I can go by myself!", and then start heaving another round of hacking coughs.

The paramedic, now packing wads of sterile gauze into the five neat dime-sized wounds, tsks again. She pushes the mask back over my face, and says, "Actually, I'm taking you." She points at the dragon. "Loverboy. Get in if you're getting in."

"He's isn’t—"

"I'm not—"

"Don't care," the paramedic interrupts. She removes my mask briskly, and steps up into the box to stow her gear.

I don’t need babysitting, so I stand and try to clamber one-handed up the fender.

Okay, I haven't had breakfast, I'm dehydrated, I've lost blood, and I'm having trouble breathing, so it's a dumb move, right?

I'll cop to that. My foot doesn't land on the fender, and I scrape my shin as I slide down, scrabbling for the rails.

I'm gonna add a broken jaw to my list of injuries and it'll be mortifying —

The dragon’s arm is around my waist before I hit the pavement.

"Whoop!" I shout as my feet come off the ground. "I'm sorry, are you… actually holding me up like a sack of potatoes?" I twist my neck to stare up at the guy. He’s not even straining. "Uh, as fun as this is, can you put me—"

"Of course," he blurts, and carefully sets me back on my feet. "Oh, your shirt."

His attention isn't on the new black streaks decorating the waist. He's looking at where the paramedic cut off the sleeve, the tape on my skin, the spots of blood blooming against the gauze.

It’s really not this guy's day . Really not mine either , I decide, and flap my good hand at him when he tries to hand me up into the ambulance like some Jane Austen heroine.

Yes, I've read Jane Austen. One, the books are good, and two, I appreciate a well-crafted narrative.

Also, it has nothing to do with being a pining hopeless romantic, no matter what Gemma tells you, so there.

"Sit," the paramedic barks. She points at the bench along the side of the box.

Like two naughty school children, we obey in unison.

The paramedic closes the doors, glares once to make sure we stay put, then turns her attention to paperwork. The driver pulls away slowly, gently easing around the firetruck.

The dragon's a soothing warmth beside me in a way a homo sapiens can never be, and the adrenaline spike from the near-disaster has me woozy enough to want to lay my head on his shoulder. I don’t though, obviously.

"Awww," I say after a moment. "No sirens."

The dragon stifles a laugh.

"What?"

"I was hoping for the sirens, too," he admits in a whisper.

And then he smiles at me.

It punches all the air right out of my lungs.

The skin beside his eyes crinkle up into shallow crow’s feet.

It hits me for the first time that he's more than just objectively handsome.

I'd noticed, in a distantly-aesthetic way, before now .

But shit, he really is attractive in a way only someone whose face you've seen transform with honest, intimate emotion can be.

With the color still high on his face from the fire, it makes him all English-rosy and glowy and, yeah, no , let's back this train up.

Now is a bad time for this kind of thing.

I yank my gaze to where my left hand is cradling my right elbow tight against my tummy to keep my arm from moving. His gaze must follow it.

"Does it hurt?" the dragon asks softly.

The scoff is out of my mouth before I can catch it behind my teeth. "What do you think?"

I'd meant it to be funny, but he flinches, and shifts so there's a careful inch between us. It's not until he's gone that I realize how soothing it was to have him pressed all up the side of me, curled toward me to protect me from the cold glare of the evil paramedic.

"Sorry, that was a shitty thing to say."

"I do apologize again," he mutters. "I have a wretched temper and I must control it better."

"It was an accident."

He does a sort of half-shrug, head shake move that's awkward as hell, and oh fuck , cute. Dammit. Dammit .

The Rules , I remind myself firmly. Don't forget The Rules.

"Been wondering," my mouth says without any input from my brain, and okay, so that shot of whatever it was the paramedic gave me before she started packing my wounds is kicking in strong because I can't feel my face any more. "Why do you come in and stare at me every morning?"

" Stare at you?" he echoes like an offended maiden aunt.

It's hilarious, so I laugh. And then I wince, and grab my elbow harder. Goddamnit, that hurts . The paramedic heaves a sigh, grabs a roll of fabric out of a box by her feet, and leans over to wrap my arm in a sling.

"Ouch," I complain as she ties the knot behind my neck.

"Your fault. I told you not to move it."

"I'll make sure he stays still," the dragon says to her with a sort of condescending solemnity.

Is he taking the piss?

I think he's taking the piss.

"You're not my keeper," I snipe back, smirking to show that I'm teasing, that I'm trying to get that light mood back. That I want him to lean back in and press all of that delicious body heat against me again.

"I've injured you. It's on me to ensure—"

"Fun as that would be, this isn't actually a draconic romance novel," I interrupt. I want to put my hand on his knee. Good thing it’s trapped in the sling. "I get it. You're being nice, but like, you don't owe me a debt of honor or any of that possessive Harlequin stuff."

A smile breaks out across his face, and thank fuck . This one is a sarcastic little thing, curling up just one side of his mouth. "Read many draconic Harlequins, do you?"

"Man, shut up," I grump, but I can't seem to control my matching grin. "You can't shame me for my taste. There's nothing wrong with liking happily ever afters."

"Nothing at all," he murmurs, but it's so soft I decide he didn't mean for me to hear it. Fine, I can pretend. I'm in too much pain to pick a fight, anyway. Or, to continue picking it, or… whatever this is that we're doing.

We're not actually fighting, are we?

My stupid brain-weasels grab that idea between their sharp teeth and run away with it, and suddenly I wonder if I've misread this whole thing.

Just because he's attractive doesn't mean he's attracted to me .

Fuck, maybe he's just doing this because he feels guilty for torching my place of employment and clawing me up.

What if he doesn't even want to be here?

I hate taking pity-favors from people. If that's what this is, I'd rather do this alone. No one needs to see me being whiny. It's not cool, and it's not sexy. And I want very much to be cool and sexy for him.

Choking on my humiliation, I say softly: "You didn't need to come."

"I really did," he replies, infuriatingly calm.

"We'll probably have to wait for hours."

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

"I will be annoying ," I threaten.

"I'm certain you will be."

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

"I especially like your rendition of Peter and the Wolf when you're mopping," he says, but it's small, careful.

Despite him being taller than me, and fit as hell, everything about 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.

Is it 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 have no idea.

"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 is not a 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.