Firefighter Unicorn (Fire & Rescue Shifters 6)

“Contamination.”

Hugh stared at her. “What in God’s name do you think I have? Cooties?”

Ivy snorted. “Not you, dumbass. Me.”

She turned away, digging one-handed in her box until she extracted a knife and fork. Like the plate, both were marked with an uneven slash of red paint.

“Don’t touch anything marked in red,” she said, waving them at them as she sat down at the table. “They’re the ones I use. You shouldn’t handle anything that’s been in my mouth, just in—”

She stopped, a strange expression creeping over her face.

“And you’ve just remembered I’m immune to your venom,” Hugh said, taking his place opposite her. “Feel free to take off your gloves, by the way.”

“I shouldn’t.” Nonetheless she toyed with the fingertips, clearly tempted. Then she shook her head, picking up her fork decisively. “No. I can’t risk falling into bad habits, even when Hope isn’t around.”

“Is she the reason for all that?” Hugh asked, tilting his head to indicate the box of red-banded cooking utensils and tableware.

“Mmhm. She’s horribly sensitive to my venom, thanks to her condition.” Ivy poked suspiciously at her paella, as if she was trying to defuse it. “Even the tiniest trace of my spit could send her into anaphylactic shock. What is this?”

“It’s not a bomb, so you can stop looking at it like it’s about to go off in your face. It’s vegetarian paella. Fennel, broad beans, artichokes, a few Kalamata olives. Nothing elaborate.”

She shot him a look. “We have very different definitions of the word elaborate.”

With a slightly dubious expression, Ivy tried a forkful. Her eyes widened, and then drifted closed. The sheer bliss on her face made an electric jolt shoot straight to his groin.

“Oh my God,” she moaned, her eyelids fluttering open. “That’s amazing.”

Hugh’s own fork hung frozen in mid-air as she dove in with unabashed enthusiasm. Every one of her tiny, breathy sounds of pleasure made his blood surge. The flash of her pink tongue licking away a str

ay grain of rice; the way her glistening, generous lips closed softly over the fork, sliding lusciously down the gleaming tines—

We’re not really thinking about forks here, are we? his unicorn commented dryly.

Ivy caught him staring, and flushed deep red. “What?” she snapped. “Something wrong with my table manners?”

“N-no,” he croaked. Under the table, he was harder than he’d ever been in his entire life. “Just pleased you’re enjoying it.”

He grabbed his ice water as an excuse to avoid further conversation, downing half of it in a single swallow. It was genuinely tempting to tip the rest of it into his lap, but then he’d have to stand up. As it was, he was going to have to find an excuse to leave before dessert. He didn’t think he could watch Ivy enjoying tiramisu without serious risk of coming in his pants.

Ivy was now self-consciously picking at her food, pushing the rice around her plate. “So…vegetarian, huh? That’s unusual for a shifter.”

“We’re not all apex predators, you know.” Hugh cast around for a change of topic, and was saved by Mr. Mittens trotting into the kitchen with a hopeful expression. “But you are an obligate carnivore, you walking waste disposal. Go on, there’s nothing here for you.”

“Who are—“ Ivy looked down as Mr. Mittens wound around the table legs. “Oh shit, you weren’t kidding about the cat!”

“You don’t like cats?” Hugh said in dismay, as Ivy scrambled up onto her chair like a '30s film starlet who’d seen a mouse.

“I love cats,” Ivy said, shrinking back as Mr. Mittens stood on his hind legs to bat at her shoelaces. “That’s the problem. Don’t let him touch me, I don’t want to hurt him!”

“Oh, right. I see the issue.” Hugh captured Mr. Mittens and deposited him on the table, where he promptly attempted to make a beeline for Ivy. “No, you suicidal fuzzball, stay over here. Have an olive. Have all the olives. Ivy, we may have a problem here.”

Ivy lowered her feet back down again, though she was still watching Mr. Mittens as though he might suddenly spring for her face. From the enraptured way the old tomcat was gazing at her as he gummed his olives, it was probably a valid concern.

“Sorry, I honestly thought you were joking about having a cat,” she said. “You didn’t strike me as a pet person. And it’s unusual for a single guy to have a cat.”

Hugh wrestled Mr. Mittens back again. “I don’t have a cat.”

Ivy raised her eyebrows. “In which case, I have some very bad news to tell you about your dog.”