Beck ignored him and rested her elbow on the table, cupped her neck, and avoided his curious gaze.
“Oh, I remember now. Rebecca Anderson.”
“What are you doing?” Mason asked in a hard tone.
Clinton was apparently too busy tapping away on his cell phone to answer.
A soft rumble sounded from Mason. He turned to her, drew her closer, and whispered right up against her ear, “Don’t let him get to you.” His bottom lip brushed her sensitive earlobe, and she sighed as heat pooled between her legs. And now there would be no hiding her eyes because her animal was desperate to drink in more of her mate.
Beck closed her eyes and clutched onto his shirt. Mason slipped his hand over her fist, squeezed her gently, and left his cheek against hers. His beard was rough against her soft skin. “I’ve never kissed a man with a beard before,” she whispered.
His chest was heaving curiously under her hand, and he pressed her palm against his drumming heart, content to stay near her. Beck was shaking now, her muscles twitching to be even closer to him, and somehow, in the busy restaurant, the chaos fell away, and it was just her and Mason.
Eyes tightly closed, she whispered, “You make me feel…” What could she say that wouldn’t send him scattered to the wind? Happy, normal, hopeful, like she could be good at love, like she didn’t have to be alone, like she could share her whole self with someone for the first time in her life…
“I make you feel what?”
She could do this—be brave. She didn’t want to hide from Mason like she had with Robbie. Mason was like her. He wouldn’t judge her or look at her like she was disgusting. He wouldn’t be disappointed. Slowly, she eased back, determined to let him see her eyes. They would be the color of liquid gold right now, an admission that she wasn’t what she’d pretended to be. That she wasn’t human. With a deep inhalation, she fluttered her eyes open.
Mason froze, and the relaxed expression on his face faltered with confusion. He cupped her cheek and ran his thumb under her eye, brushing her lashes delicately. Her pupils would have shrunk to pinpoints by now, and the strange color undeniable.
“Beck,” Mason murmured.
She heaved breath as fear blanketed her. This wasn’t like her. Not like her at all. She was at a table of predator shifters, and she was small and fine-boned, fragile compared to the goliaths talking around them. “Don’t tell,” she pleaded pathetically.
He searched her eyes, his own gaze lightened to a stormy blue now, as if her animal was calling to his boar. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple dipping low before he said, “Okay. I won’t.”
And just as she moved to escape to the bathroom, he pulled her in close and kissed her.
“Bangaboarlander dot com strikes again!” Bash crowed from a few seats down the table, and Beck ended the kiss with a frantic smack of her lips.
Mason pulled her close, hiding her face from the others as he dished out, “Bash, she didn’t find me on your stupid website.”
Focus, focus, focus.
“Besides, we aren’t exactly banging.” Mason’s tone sparked with humor. “She’s just beggin’ me to do the photoshoot tomorrow. Without words. Thinkin’ about my lumberjack body got her all revved up, and I was just helpin’ her—ow!” he said, wincing away from Beck’s swat. He broke out in a laugh with the others.
Beck giggled and shook her head, feeling more in control of herself. But when she looked at Clinton, he wore an empty smile and murmured, “Well, you ain’t registered.”
Mason kicked him hard under the table. Clinton grabbed his shin and launched into a muttered string of F-words.
“Can I have your autograph?” an eight-year-old boy asked from over Clinton’s shoulder.
The sandy-haired, grumpy behemoth formed his lips like he was about to say, ‘No,’ but Beck spoke up for him. “He would love to!” And then she glared him down. He was not going to make a public scene this close to the shifter rights vote.
“Fine,” he gritted out. With a put-upon sigh, Clinton snatched the pen and paper from the boy and said, “You better not sell this on the Internet until it appreciates to a million dollars. This is the one and only time I’ll be signing one of these.” He scribbled his name across the paper and then spent some time doodling a cartoon of a bear who was…doodling. There was a smiley-faced poop glob and happy looking flies involved and everything. Lovely.
“Cool,” the boy drawled out, staring wide-eyed at the crude treasure in his hands. “You’re really good at drawing, mister!”
Clinton crossed his arms, practically gloating under the compliment. He tossed Mason a competitive smile. “I’m good at everything.”
“Okay then,” Mason muttered as the server made her way to the table. She held up the check, and Mason gave her a two-fingered wave. “I got this.”
“Oh, I can get my own,” Beck murmured.
Bash loudly slurped the last of his water and piped up, “Don’t worry, Beck. We can’t break his bank. Mason is a boar shifter.”
With a frown, she asked, “What do you mean?”
“Boar people only think about money and piglets. Mason is rich like one of them pirates with the buried treasures in the—”
“Bash!” Mason barked out. “That’s good, man.”
Bash was quiet for about two and a half seconds before he leaned forward and whisper-screamed, “He has lots of money.”
Emerson and Audrey snickered, but Mason didn’t seem amused. He sighed an irritated sound, pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and handed the waitress his card.
“They’re coming,” a woman murmured behind Beck.
“What?” she asked, turning around. Behind her, no one was there. There was only an empty table, but when she looked at Mason again, he was staring at her with a look akin to horror in his now blazing blue eyes.
“Did you hear her?” he asked, an edge of panic in his voice.
“Who?” She checked behind her again, but clearly she’d lost her mind because, really, not a soul was there.
Mason shook his head hard and muttered, “No one. Forget it.”
Mason signed the receipt in a hurry and then stood so fast his chair went up on its back two legs and toppled over.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.” His tone had gone feral. With a quick glance at Beck, he said, “I need some air.” And with that, he turned and left the restaurant. Left her staring after him wondering what had just happened.
A cool breeze blasted against her neck and lifted all the fine hairs on her body.
Beck searched the empty space one last time as her instincts screamed that something wasn’t right.
They’re coming.
Who the hell was they?
Chapter Nine
The silence in the cab of Mason’s truck was so thick it was choking. His profile was rigid as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, and his jaw clenched as he turned onto the road that would lead to the trailer park.
He was a powerful, masculine man with his ripped torso pressing against his white T-shirt, his suntanned arms bulging against the sleeves, so what on earth had him reacting like this? He’d closed down so fast, so hard.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she murmured.
Mason shook his head and pulled a baseball cap from the backseat, then pulled it low over his eyes. He wasn’t hiding anything from her, though. Her senses were tuned to him already.
“I’m not rich, you know. It’s not like I’m just slumming it out here in the trailer park. I like living here. Like living simply. I don’t need a lot.”
“I’m not judging you.”
Mason blasted under the Boarland Mobile Park sign, a trail of dust billowing behind them. “Bash was right.”
“About what?”
“About what is important to my people. Boar people aren’t like bears, or gorillas, or anyone else. Money trumps all, but wealth isn’t only measured in the size of your bank account. Wealth is measured in the number of offspring you can successfully have and provide for. I don’t have the offspring, but my instinct to stock away money is still there. I just don’t have anyone to spend it on. I bought this truck, sure, but what else do I need? What else could I want? I had a big fancy job once, a long time ago. It hurt me, and it hurt…”
“Your first mate?”
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
“How long ago?”
“Beck,” he gritted out, casting her a hard warning glance.
“Okay, I understand. You’re not ready. It’s hard to talk about my ex, too.”
“Your ex, Beck. Ex. You’re a shifter in hiding, but still, you’ve never once called him your mate to me. I lost my mate. My mate. And when she passed, it ripped my guts out. Ripped my heart from my chest. Ripped my life away, my future. I was ruined by age twenty-two. That’s what love does. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Y-yes,” she forced out, clenching her hands against the urge to shove open the door and flee. She couldn’t be a shifter with all these heightened senses and not believe in the veil.
“When you lose love—actual love—your life gets filled with them. You see your mate on everyone’s face you pass in the street. You can’t stop thinking about moments you shared. Can’t stop thinking about what-ifs. Can’t stop blaming yourself.”