Read Online Boarlander Beast Boar (Boarlander Bears Book 4) by T. S. Joyce - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. S. Joyce
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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
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
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