Page 93 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“That’s a relief.”

“Are you afraid of my grandmother?”

“Absolutely.”

Sorcha turned onto the boardwalk that ran along the beach, the wind full of salt and wheeling gulls crying a greeting. Aidan bought her a lemon ice from a nearby cart. There were also baked potatoes for sale, stewed pears, and, because it was Hallow, a poet offering to write a verse for a shilling.

“If we are going to make this betrothal believable, we should probably know more about each other, don’t you think?” It was a sound and logical conclusion, but mostly she wanted to know more about him. Everything about him. When would she get such a chance again? He would be back in London before long, reticent and stoic. Polite.

She felt itchy at the thought.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. Politely.

She scowled up at him, the sun catching the strands of gold in his beard. “Stop it.”

He blinked at her. His eyes were whiskey colored behind the spectacles. No glitter of gold. “Stop what?”

“Being so…so…polite.”

The glint of amusement was infuriating but better than that bland smile. “You would prefer me to be rude?”

She sniffed, aware that she sounded ridiculous but also knowing somewhere deep in her bones that this was important. “Yes.”

“Then I’m afraid I must disappoint you.”

“Says the man who bit me in an alley.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

She tilted her head. “That wasn’t a recrimination.”

“It should be.”

She waved it away. “Ancient history.”

He smiled briefly. “If last week was ancient history, might I suggest you not apply for a position at the museum.”

She ate another spoonful of lemon ice, licking a drop from the side of her palm. “This must be torture for you. All this leisure. Not a magical artifact in sight. No curses to unravel, or exhibits to criticize.”

“I much prefer this to watching you swim with kelpies.”

Sorcha shrugged. “I cannot swim, actually.”

He turned to stare at her so slowly, so accusingly, that she bit her lip to keep from chuckling. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“I cannot swim.”

“You walked into the sea to pull on a kelpie’s mane and you can’t bloody swim, woman?” He nearly roared it.

She grinned, pointing her spoon at him. “There.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes glinted, just a little.

She grinned wider. “Not so polite now. Much better.” She nudged him to make sure he was still breathing. “I can swim, just so you know.”

He exhaled roughly. “You are trying to murder me.” She nodded, well pleased. He shook his head. “Ask your questions, songbird.”

“What is your favorite color?”