A Mate's Denial(7)

It was the tone of his voice that set Trager’s hackles off. Like the pimple-ridden idiot was judging her and finding her lacking. He was probably comparing her to the plasticized, animated girls on whatever video game he spent his time trying to beat.

Trager leaned forward, both hands planted on the countertop, his voice low and threatening, he said, “The one with the gorgeous fucking eyes, you mean.”

The barista’s eyes flared, and his face turned the shade of an unripened plum. “Y-yes. Of course. Here’s your coffee, sir.”

Glaring, he snatched the cup from the guy’s scrawny hand and went to find a table by the door. Trager kept an eye on his girl, but her gaze never left the phone. Not until it was her turn to order. With her back to him, it was the perfect opportunity to watch her.

Stepping up to the counter, she stuffed her phone in the back pocket of her khakis… which brought his attention to her fine backside. Khakis might be the least sexy article of clothing ever, but the way those pants hugged her curves left him almost drooling.

Like the bastard at the counter so rudely mentioned, Trager’s mate wasn’t skinny. No, she was lush, and if he touched her, he knew she’d be so soft. His hands tingled at the mere idea.

He chugged his coffee, letting the burn distract him from her body.

She waited for her order, arms crossed, impatiently tapping her elbow with her thumb. When she handed the barista her cash to pay, he nervously gestured at Trager. She shook her head, clearly arguing, until the guy insistently flailed his arm in Trager’s general direction.

Trager held his breath as she turned to see who had bought her drink. When her eyes landed on him, his heart started doing jumping jacks. He could practically feel disdain rolling off of her, but she turned back to the barista, took her coffee, and started for his table.

Trager kept his gaze on her the whole way. He liked how she moved: hips swinging, but still reserved. It was the strangest combination of confidence and insecurity. And it was completely natural. Like she’d been born walking that way.

She stopped at the edge of his table. “You paid for my coffee?”

He couldn’t help a smirk. She was straight and to the point. He wondered if she was like that in bed.

“Why?”

“I wanted to.” He pointed to the empty seat. “Please, sit.”

She scanned the café, probably looking for someone she knew. For some excuse to do exactly the opposite of what he said.

Eventually, she set her cup on the table and slid into the seat in front of Trager. A deep frown marred her pretty features.

“What is this?” he asked, bringing his thumb up to stroke the corner of her mouth.

But she jerked back as if his touch was a viper’s tongue. Whoa. Trager clenched his fist and shoved his hand under the table. Message received. No touching. Somehow, he had to remember that she wasn’t his to touch at will. Most shifter mates desired their wolf; she didn’t. And likely never would.

A pain he’d been familiar with since childhood lanced the center of his chest. He pressed his lips together, hating the feeling, but knowing it would always be with him. The feeling had a name. Many, in fact, but one was Rejection.

“What the hell?” she whispered. “You can’t just go around touching perfect strangers. There’s a thing called personal space.”

He stared down at his coffee cup, brow furrowed. “You were frowning. I didn’t like it.”

She was silent for a beat. “Why are you here, buying my coffee?”

Trager shrugged. “I saw you come in. Thought I’d do something nice.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks.”

He peeked at her while she sipped her drink. Her puckered lips were free of any lipstick, and were so pink they didn’t need it anyway.

“So… Sam, is it? What’s your story?”

Her cheeks flared red. “You didn’t expect me to give you my real name did you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because. What if you were some creeper?”

“I’m not.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s what all creepers say.”

Trager was baffled, but then remembered her reaction to his motorcycle incident. “Do you actually encounter a lot of creepers?”

“Well… no. But I’m careful. You can’t blame a girl for being careful.”

Right. And he wanted her to be very, very careful. The mere idea that she’d meet someone who could hurt her, it was enough to make him shake with fury. If anything was to happen to her…

“Yes,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re right. I want you to always be cautious.”

She tilted her head to one side, her eyebrows drawn. “Oooo-kay.”