Page 19 of Paw Inspiring (Paranormal Dating Agency #86)
EIGHTEEN
M eara’s laugh died in her throat as she opened the door. Artek filled the frame, devastating in dark slacks and a charcoal button-down that stretched across his shoulders in ways that should be illegal. His hazel eyes darkened as they traced her figure, lingering on the curve of her waist, the arch of her neck.
“You look beautiful,” he rumbled, voice like warm honey.
“Thanks.” She somehow managed not to trip in her heels. “You clean up nice yourself.”
“Have her home by midnight!” Frenchy called from behind her. “Or don’t. I’m not her mother, though I do have opinions about making sure she has a good time?—”
Meara shut the door quickly, but not before catching Artek’s amused smirk. “Sorry about him. He’s...”
“Protective.” Artek offered his arm, the gesture old-fashioned yet natural coming from him. “I respect that.”
The simple touch of her hand on his forearm sent warmth spreading through her body. His skin radiated heat even through the fabric, and this close, she caught his scent—wild and masculine.
His SUV waited in the driveway, moonlight gleaming off black paint. Meara’s breath caught as he opened her door, his body briefly caging hers in the most delicious way. The leather seat embraced her as she settled in, and she watched through lowered lashes as Artek walked around to the driver’s side, his movements fluid and powerful even in dress clothes.
“So,” she ventured as they pulled onto the quiet mountain road, “where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” His smile held secrets she suddenly desperately wanted to learn. “Though I hope you like Italian.”
The drive into town gave Meara time to appreciate how Artek’s hands looked on the steering wheel—strong, capable hands that had so recently defended her property. When one of those hands found hers across the console, his thumb brushing her knuckles, her pulse jumped.
“Relax,” he murmured, somehow sensing her nervousness. “I don’t bite.” He paused, and she could have sworn his eyes glinted gold in the dashboard lights. “Unless asked very nicely.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Did you really just make a bear joke?”
“Maybe.” His low chuckle did inappropriate things to her insides. “Did it help?”
“Surprisingly, yes.” She found herself smiling, tension easing from her shoulders. This was why he unsettled her so much—the way he moved effortlessly between dangerous protector and playful flirt, keeping her deliciously off-balance.
They pulled into a charming town she’d driven through but never really explored. Fairy lights twinkled in shop windows, and couples strolled hand in hand down the cobblestone sidewalks. Artek parked in front of a restaurant tucked between boutiques, its warm golden light spilling onto the street.
“Bella Luna,” she read the elegant script above the door. “Wow. I was just telling Frenchy the other day that I’ve read amazing things about this place. I was researching restaurants to try since I’ll be moving up here.”
“Frenchy mentioned Italian was your favorite type of food.” Artek’s hand settled at the small of her back as they approached the entrance. “This place is family owned, been here for generations. The owner’s grandmother brought her recipes from Tuscany.”
Something squeezed in Meara’s chest at his thoughtfulness. “You really did research?”
“I like being thorough.” He held the door, and her body brushed his as she passed. “Especially about things that matter.”
The way he looked at her left little doubt that he didn’t just mean dinner plans.
Inside, candlelight cast intimate shadows across their corner table. The space felt cozy rather than cramped, with exposed brick walls and bottles of wine arranged artistically on wooden shelves. Their knees brushed as they settled in, and Meara forced herself to breathe normally at the contact.
“So,” Artek leaned forward, candlelight dancing in his hazel eyes, “tell me about growing up with Betsy. Frenchy says she was quite the force of nature.”
“Stubbornness can be an asset.” Artek’s fingers brushed hers as he reached for his wine glass, the casual touch sending sparks along her skin. “Especially when you’re building something worthwhile.”
“Like an art retreat in contested shifter territory?”
His lips curved. “Among other things.”
The arrival of their waiter provided a brief respite from the intensity of his gaze. Meara used the moment to gather her thoughts, thrown off-balance by how easily Artek seemed to see through her usual defenses.
“Tell me about your family,” she said after they’d ordered. “I want to hear about these dramatic illness episodes your mother stages.”
Artek’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest, drawing appreciative glances from nearby tables. “Last month she called Trey in a panic, claiming she’d been bitten by a mysterious spider. When we rushed over, we found her lounging in the garden, miraculously recovered, with a fresh batch of honey cakes and a list of eligible shifter women in the area.”
“She doesn’t give up easily, does she?”
“Like mother, like son.” His eyes held hers over the rim of his wine glass. “When we know what we want.”
Heat bloomed in Meara’s chest. “And what do you want, Artek?”
“Right now?” He reached across the table, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist where her pulse fluttered wildly. “To get to know the woman with purple paint in her hair who stands up to hostile shifters.”
“You noticed that?”
“I notice everything about you.” The simple honesty in his voice stole her breath. “The way you gesture when you’re excited about a project. How your eyes light up when you talk about art. The little smile you get when you’re planning something.”
“I’m not usually this interesting.” Meara toyed with her fork, oddly vulnerable under his attention. “Most guys get bored pretty quickly when they realize art really is my whole life.”
“Maybe they weren’t looking closely enough.” His hand found hers again, fingers intertwining naturally. “There’s nothing boring about passion, Meara. It’s one of the most attractive things about you.”
She swallowed hard. “Even when that passion has me working crazy hours and forgetting to eat?”
“Even then. Though I might have to do something about the forgetting to eat part.”
“Like researching my favorite restaurants and whisking me away for surprise dinners?”
His thumb stroked her palm, sending shivers up her arm. “For starters.”
Their food arrived—handmade pasta dishes that smelled divine—but Meara found herself hungrier for their conversation. They traded stories between bites: Artek’s childhood adventures in the mountains, Meara’s first art show disaster that ended with spilled wine and an impromptu performance piece.
“Betsy laughed so hard she snorted champagne,” Meara recalled, surprising herself with how easily the memory came, fondness outweighing grief. “Then she convinced everyone it was all part of the show. Called it ‘a commentary on the fluid nature of artistic expression.’“
“She really was remarkable.” Artek’s voice softened. “And she sounds like she knew exactly what you needed.”