Page 4 of Someone Else's Wolf

And besides, it wasn't like anyone was going to find out.

I'd save this thought for later and enjoy the hell out of it. Maybe I'd feel a bit guilty. So what? Sexual fantasies were fantasies for a reason: private as hell, something you'd never act on, something nobody else ever had to know about.

Cops by day, lovers by night. We'd be strutting badasses, taking on the world together, always in sync, too good at what we did to ever fail. It would be all bantering and tires squealing round corners, like a buddy movie, and then at night we'd go home and have wallbanging sex.

But that was just a stupid daydream. I didn't get that sort of partnership, and I didn't get that sort of sex, either. (I was usually lucky if I could find someone who'd put up with me for a few weeks.) As for working with Peter, well, we'd all taken the initial assessment test, and only Sue had passed. And that tells you something about whether I'd ever be good enough to work with a wolf: I wouldn't.

I put all of that out of my mind (except the sex fantasy, which I was tucking away for later). I didn't expect to see Peter again at all that day. Usually, he and Sue were busy for a while when they had an assignment that required wolf senses and wolf partner expertise to handle. So I was surprised when I saw him again as I was getting ready to head home.

He was waiting by my car, leaning against it. He started towards me as I approached, a tentative smile on his face. He had nice features: a long and angular face, rawboned and vulnerable. I wouldn't call him handsome, except that somehow he was. All his features worked together, even though they didn't seem like they should. He was especially appealing when he gave me that small, ingratiating little smile, as if he was asking me ahead of time not to be annoyed with him.

"Hey, Peter." I stopped and shoved my hands into my pockets, feeling uncomfortable. Did this look casual enough? "What's up?"

"Hi, Shane. I just, um, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure. Here?"

He glanced around, cataloguing whether we could be overheard, probably. "Sure. Um. What Juan said about your girlfriend. You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"

The inside of my chest was trying to freeze. I told it not to be stupid, and answered as casually as I could. "No. Is that a problem?" I arched a brow at him, chilly and urbane — I hoped.

"Of course not. I take it I should pretend you do? Have I met her? Do you need a corroboration? Or maybe, um, an actual beard?"

For a second, I thought he was talking about facial hair. It wasn't the era of the beard — not for me. I actually reached up and felt my chin before I realized what he meant. "Oh. Um. No. I don't think so." This was a weird turn of conversation. I hadn't expected this solicitous concern. Although, knowing Peter, why hadn't I? I grinned at him, suddenly relieved beyond measure. He wasn't judging; he was offering to help, in his own awkward way. "Why? Did you have somebody in mind?"

He ducked his head. "Um. Yeah, actually. I know a fox shifter who — well, she hires out for things. To meet the parents, or attend weddings, that sort of thing. Not always as a beard — sometimes just to put off family pressure or the weirdness of attending a couples event alone. She's good at what she does."

"How did you meet her?"

"Craigslist."

"Craigslist?"

"Yes, back when I lived in Denver. She works there, or she'll fly. It costs more, of course, but if things get too hot to handle, she's really convincing."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "And you know her because you worked with her?"

He nodded slowly. "I worked with her. I used to hire out as a fake boyfriend sometimes. You know, for people who needed an imaginary significant other." He shuffled his feet, looked down at them. "She's better at it than I was."

Wow. It was hard to imagine him doing something like that for money. It was even harder to imagine him not being good at it. "But you're so thoughtful and shit. How could you not be good at it?" That just slipped out.

His smile was shy and flattered. "Thanks. Well, you let me know if you need her number. I figured you weren't out, but I didn't know how...well, how serious you were about staying that way. Thought I'd better ask."

"Yeah. No. Thanks. I'll let you know."

He nodded once, opened his mouth, bit his lips, then nodded again and headed past me, his shoulders slumped.

"Wait. Uh, was that all? Peter?"

"Mm-hm. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah. You too."

Why should I feel unreasonably disappointed about that? I was being ridiculous. For a minute there, I'd thought he meant he'd worked with her — as in, he'd hired her — because he was also gay and had to maintain a cover. Silly of me. He was just being sympathetic and helpful, as usual. He didn't have any experience in hiding himself.

I unlocked my car and got in, thinking about that. Sure, I felt a little let down, but also touched that he'd thought of me. And, really, he was a lot more cool about my being gay than I'd have expected from any of my other coworkers. It was a win, really.

At home, I very steadily and thoughtfully prepared myself a meal, ate it while watching some TV, and then undressed, climbed into the shower, and unpacked those thoughts I'd had earlier. I made full use of them — and the memory of his soft, flattered smile. Damn it.