My teeth grind and a low growl gathers in my throat. Brexley may be hot, but I realize he is as stuck up and condescending as all the mages I’ve grown up around.
“That’s not true. Some people don’t care about what you can or can’t do for them. Leaving all the magic bullshit behind and living in a human city, I’ve made real friends. And speaking of which, they still want to know why a Were is in a human city. What should I tell them? Shall we start with where you were raised, move on to how many brothers and sisters you have, and finish with why you act like a possessive stalker?” I goad, my fingers now poised over the phone, as if prepared to type.
His scowl returns.
I set the phone down. “Hey dude, it’s your own damn fault. You outed yourself with your alphahole behavior last night and now everyone wants to knowallabout you.”
“I was being chivalrous,” he mutters. “A mistake I won’t make again.”
I bite back the urge to laugh.
Glancing at the phone, I rub a hand down my face. “But seriously, what in the hell am I going to tell them?” All the messages are from Cinder and Goldie, mainly Goldie.
Because I wasn’t on the schedule last night, I split as soon as it slowed down, leaving them to close. And thusly skated by without having to answer any questions. But today is a new glorious morning and I don’t need a forecast to know the barrage of questions aren’t likely to let up.
“What in the faefucks do I tell them?” I ask out loud, not really expecting an answer.
He crosses his forearms on the table. “Well, I may be around for a while, so you probably need to tell them something.”
“There’s no way they are buying you as my study partner,” I rub my forehead again, already planning to buy a second mocha. Maybe just a cup of espresso shots loaded with sugar . . .
“How about your tutor?” he suggests.
My hand closes around my remaining mocha.
No, I can’t afford to throw what precious little I have left at his face, no matter how bad I want to.
Those blue-gray eyes catch the movement. He suppresses a smirk as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Well, you don’t want to tell them I’m your bodyguard, and I need to stay close. I’m a fan of Occam's razor.”
“Occam's razor?” I straighten.
“Yes, it’s a principle that states the simplest explanation is the best one.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “Yeah, I know what it is. But how does it relate to this situation?” I raise the cup to my lips, begrudgingly ready to take the last swallow.
“I need to stay close for the foreseeable future, and you say I act possessive. Tell them I’m your boyfriend.”
I choke on that last sip. I fight for my life against the chocolate and coffee trying to flood my windpipe. The coughing fit is so violent I get looks from people at other tables. Brexley starts to get up as if he intends to pound on my back. I hold up a hand, silently signaling him to sit down.
When I get ahold of myself, I wipe away the tears that leaked from my eyes. “How the hell would they buy that you are my boyfriend when they have never heard me mention you before? And where would I even meet a Were?” Alarm bells clang all the way around. This is a bad idea.
His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek as he leans in, bracing his forearms on the table. “You can tell them you didn’t want to say you had a werewolf boyfriend in Canada because you didn’t think they would believe you.”
“Is that where you’re from? Canada?”
Brexley’s face shutters as if he dislikes me asking him such a personal question. “No, but isn’t that the deal? A long-distance boyfriend or girlfriend from Canada is fake ninety percent of the time?”
I edge back and look away, biting the inside of my cheek. How does he keep doing that? Infuriating me one minute and making me want to laugh the next.
“Fine,” I say before my brain fully processes this. Then my head snaps toward him. “But the no touching rule stands.”
“That will be . . . difficult. To convince them that is.”
I suspect he means it'll be difficult on more than one level. “You’ll have to rely on your charm. Because there will be absolutely zero touching. It’s that or I tell them you are a creepy stalker. Goldie will likely go after you with a stiletto and I’ve long suspected Cinder can shoot lasers from her eyes.” I pop an eyebrow for dramatic effect.
Brexley rolls his eyes. “Fine. Fake boyfriend, zero touching.”
