He grunts and doesn’t answer, just sips his wine and watches me sip mine. I don’t know what it is, but it’s good.
“Do you think it’s inevitable, all the Champions and villains eventually changing colors and getting big?”
“We’re supposed to change, all of us. The way we look as humans is just an illusion implanted by the beings we left behind on our home planet. Made it easier for us to blend in and be accepted by the humans.”
“You’re saying if you’d ended up on a fish planet, you’d have ended up a little goldfish?”
“A shark.” He snaps his fangs in my direction and I flush.
“How do you know all that?”
“I’ve been remembering details of my life before.” He looks uncomfortable. “We got forty minutes; wanna sit at the table or the couch?”
I glance at the couch. It’s such a glossy leather that it looks like you’d slide right off it. Then again, the dining chairs are made out of stiff wood.
“What?” he asks, almost in a growl.
“Nothing. Couch looks . . . okay.”
“What’s wrong with my couch?”
“Nothing, let’s sit,” I say, sliding off my stool, but when I turn toward the couch, he’s standing in front of me, blocking my way.
His fingers are on my chin.Scheiße, his claws are massive. “I know you haven’t accepted the fact that you’re mine yet,” he says to me, sending feeling skittering all the way through my bare toes that’s infinitely more powerful than any of his lightning bolts. “But I don’t wanna be enemies either. I wanna know what you’re thinking. Not gonna get mad and yell at you again. I learned my lesson the last time.”
Well, shit. This is uncharted territory. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him, which wasn’t far before he turned blue and grew to almost seven feet. Feeling untethered and way too comfortable after the date and the wine and the wind, I blurt out, “Your couch sucks.”
“What?”
“All your furniture sucks. Your place sucks.”
He gawks at me like a fucking kid. “You’re kidding. This is a multimillion-dollar penthouse.”
I point at that hideous leather thing on his floor. “Your couch looks like a giant bar of soap. And your dining chairs look like they were made to torture heretics in the Middle Ages.”
“Excuse me? These are three-thousand-dollar-chairs designed by Peter Olvanson.”
“You just made that name up, and even if Peter existed, I’m pretty sure he hates you. The most comfortable spot to sit in your house is on this stool, and it doesn’t even have a backrest. What kind of masochist has a chair that doesn’t have a backrest?”
His eyes narrow even farther. He takes a step into me, his abs brushing my knees and forcing me to look straight up if I want to keep his gaze. “Your apartment looks like a flea market.”
I scoff. “It’s cozy, colorful, and maximalistically decorated.”
“The best interior decorator in the country designed my space.”
“Does she hate you too?”
“No.” But his full lips twitch.
I grin and point a finger up at his mouth. “Aha! What did you say to insult her, and how far into the process were you?”
He grunts. “Two days.”
“And had she procured the couch yet?”
His blue-purple lips purse even farther until I can’t see their fullness at all. “No,” he growls.
My head falls back as I laugh again. Hard. “She’s an evil genius. I think she and I would be friends.”
