Page 205 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"My dad used to bring my mom here before I was born." He kills the engine and leans back, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's been around since the seventies. The owner's son runs it now. It's a well-kept secret. Mostly locals, no press, no social media presence."

He reaches into the backseat and produces a canvas tote bag stuffed to bursting. Gummy bears. Sour straws. A family-size bag of white cheddar popcorn, the kind where the powder cakes on and mummifies your fingers. Two glass bottles of root beer.

"You are so fucking sweet," I say, staring at him. "How did you know this is my favorite?"

He ducks his head, grinning. "I, uh, overheard you arguing with Whiskey about brands," he admits, hooking the portable speaker unit onto the cracked window.

"You eavesdrop on my soda arguments?" I twist in the passenger seat to face him fully, my knees pulled up, bare feet tucked under me. The green dress pools around my thighs. "What else have you been secretly paying attention to?"

"Everything." He says it without hesitation. "That's kind of my job."

"Your job?"

"Being the pack alpha means knowing what my people need." He cracks open one of the root beers and hands it to me, condensation already beading on the glass. "You need root beer. And gummy bears. And—" He digs in the bag. "—sour straws. The rainbow ones. I saw you pick all those out of the bag Whiskey bought last week."

I stare at him.

He stares back, then his confidence wavers and he rubs the back of his neck. "Too much?"

"No, Thane. That's…" I take a sip of root beer to buy myself a second because my throat just got tight. "That's really thoughtful."

The screen at the front of the clearing flickers to life and a cheer rises up from the cars around us. The opening shot of a cheesy retro horror movie, dark neighborhood with an ominously hooting owl and all, pans across the screen.

"A slasher flick?" I ask, grinning. "How did you know? Have you been stalking me?"

"I'm not stalking you," he says quickly, already panicking. The tips of his ears flame red and he fumbles the bag of gummy bears, spilling a handful across the center console. "Shit. I just… Whiskey mentioned you liked horror, and I thought—I mean, I asked him, but casually, not in a weird way⁠—"

He's picking up gummy bears one by one frantically.

"Thane."

He stops and his worried dark eyes find mine.

"It's perfect," I tell him. "All of it. The restaurant, this place, the snacks, the horror movie. You."

His mouth opens, and he rakes a hand through his hair.

"I'm glad," he says finally.

He says it so earnestly that I want to climb across the console and devour him, but the movie's starting and the popcorn's not open yet and I want to enjoy every minute of this because I earned it. We earned it.

I'm already climbing over the console. I'm far from graceful. My knee catches on the gearshift and I nearly headbutt him in the jaw, but his hands find my waist and guide me into his lap like I weigh absolutely nothing, and I guess compared to a giant alpha, I do.

Suddenly I'm straddling an alpha in a charcoal suit in the front seat of a car at a drive-in theater while zombies shuffle and growl across the forest screen.

Best. Date. Ever.

"Hi," I say, settling against his chest.

His hands hover at my hips and I realize he's not sure where the boundaries are, even though I just crawled into his lap. "Um. Hi."

I twist around so my back is against his chest, pull his arms around my waist, and tuck my head under his chin. He's so warm, his heartbeat thudding quickly but steadily against my spine.

"This okay?" he asks, his voice a low rumble near my ear.

"This is extremely okay."

His arms tighten. Just a fraction. Enough that I feel the strength coiled in them, the restraint of an alpha who could crush me without trying but is just as gentle and careful as his feral brother.