Fox Hunt Read online

  “There are a lot of things yoga is good for. Meditation, relaxation, spiritual enlightenment, self-awareness, self-control.”

  I could admit that I’d never put much stock in yoga. Mostly I figured it was a pretentious activity done by hippies or hipsters or suburban soccer moms.

  “Today we’re going to shoot for relaxation. One of these days, I’ll teach you some routines that are actually a darned good workout.”

  “Right.” It wasn’t agreement as much as acknowledgment.

  “Close your eyes.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “Now, take a deep breath. Inhale for a count of three. Hold for a count of three. Exhale for a count of three.”

  “Okay.” I felt stupid sitting on the floor in a run-down Holiday Inn, eyes closed, practicing some kind of meditative breathing. While I didn’t think it would be enough to lessen the anxiety tying my guts into knots, at least it let me bask in the sleepy warmth and scent of Buddy. And that thought was enough to cause tension to rise in me again. I really needed to stop thinking about him that way. As far as I could tell, he thought of me as a kid, someone to be looked after and guided, not like someone he was attracted to or who could be an equal in a relationship.

  “Inhale. One, two, three. Hold. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two, three.”

  I inhaled, held, exhaled.

  “Inhale. One, two, three. Hold. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two, three.”

  God, that velvety bass voice. I could listen to him talk like this all day and never tire of it.

  “Inhale. One, two, three. Hold. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two, three.”

  I don’t know how many times we repeated the breathing pattern, but my brain was a comfortably fuzzy blank when Buddy touched my arm. I blinked up at him slowly.

  “Lie back,” he told me, pressing gently on my shoulder. “Palms down along your thigh.”

  I automatically straightened my legs in front of me.

  Buddy stopped me. “No, keep your knees bent at about a 120-degree angle, feet together.” He wrapped his hand around my ankle to guide it to the right spot. “Now let your knees fall to the side.”

  The relaxation that had seeped into my bones started to dissipate. There was something so open, so vulnerable about the position he suggested. And to be frank, something a little sexual about it.

  “The reclined bound angle pose helps release the lower back, lower blood pressure, and provides relief from insomnia and anxiety.” He nudged the spread of my knees wider. “It also opens the hips and chest, increases blood circulation in the abdominal region, and calms the mind.”

  I’m not sure how calm my mind was going to be. The last time my body was remotely in this position, someone was going down on me.

  “Don’t forget to breathe. Inhale. One, two, three. Hold. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two, three.”

  He kept up the breathing mantra for several cycles and the tension that had started to creep back slowly oozed away. I lost track of the seconds—minutes?—as my muscles loosened and the chaotic laser show that was my mind began to calm. So caught up in the pattern of inhale, one, two, three, I didn’t notice that Buddy had moved forward, crouching above me until he spoke. “Next is child pose.”

  I blinked heavy lids at him. “Huh?”

  “Scooch up onto your knees, facing forward.” He tapped the outside of my legs.

  Changing positions was more awkward than I’d have liked, given how fuzzy my brain was, but I eventually managed to kneel facing him.

  “Now drop down until your butt touches your heels, then bend forward until your forehead touches the floor, arms extended out in front of you. Like this,” he added when I stared blankly at him, trying to determine if the picture in my head was at all close to what he was aiming for. He flowed smoothly from crouch to what looked like an oddly servile snail.

  I tried to follow suit, determined to ignore how suggestive the pose was. Head bowed, ass up was not a normal position for me. Buddy unfolded his body to watch me. His big hand landed at the top of my ass and pressed down. “Butt to heels,” he reminded me.

  I grunted, suddenly more alert than I’d been a moment before. Crap. If the man wanted me relaxed, he needed to keep his big paws off my ass. That had tension of another kind tightening me up.

  “Good, good. We’re going to hold this for thirty seconds to start. See how long it takes you to relax into the posture.” The damn man’s hand moved in what he probably thought were soothing, reassuring circles along my lower back and upper ass. Not soothing. Not reassuring. No, the word to best describe the gesture was erotic.

  “The child pose will give a nice stretch to your hips, ankles, thighs, and shoulders.” His hand skipped to each location he named. He squeezed my bunched-up shoulder. “You’re supposed to relax. Close your eyes, breathe, and let all that stress go.”

  I wanted to growl at him. If I closed my eyes, there was a better than average chance that I’d slip into a sensual fantasy involving bendy bears with meaty paws stroking my body. And I was 100 percent sure an erection during relaxation yoga was a no-no. At least with this pose my crotch was out of sight.

  “Remember our breathing. Inhale. One, two, three. Hold. Exhale. One, two, three. Let’s hold the pose for another thirty seconds. You’re still too tense.”

  I tried to redirect my brain, to ignore the effect Buddy had on me. I could do this. I could do anything for thirty seconds.

  “Good. That’s good.”

  My inner fox preened at the approval in Buddy’s bass rumble. And the erection I’d been trying to hold off became a little more insistent. Who knew I had a praise kink?

  “Next is the forward bend. You’re going to stand up and bend at the waist, hands crossed over your head—”

  And that was enough of that. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I’m running out of time. And we should be going. I’m going to go… to the bathroom… make sure I didn’t forget something. Like a comb. Or conditioner. Oh, and I need to get dressed. Clothes. Nice clothes. Not that I’m naked. Um, I’m not. Not naked.” Shut up, David! Shut. Up.

  He squinted at me.

  “And while I’m doing that,” I said, the babble in full force, “you should go start the car. And, you know, get the air conditioner running. Cool things off. You know. Before we go. I’ll be out in a second.” I grabbed the pants from the bed, yanked the button-down shirt off its hanger, and fled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

  Through the wall, I heard him grunt. He sounded bemused. And since when could I translate bear shifter grunts, for crying out loud?

  It took me two minutes and twenty-seven seconds to put my interview clothes on. I used the time to cool my libido enough for it to be safe to be stuck in an enclosed space with Buddy. I gave it an extra thirty seconds to let some of the pheromones dissipate just in case.

  Buddy had taken most of our stuff out to the car, only leaving behind my duffel bag. I shoved the basketball shorts and T-shirt I’d worn to bed into the bag and headed for the car.

  “No comb?” Buddy asked as I slid into the passenger seat after stowing my bag into the back of my Mini.

  “No comb.”

  THE UW campus had a surprising amount of traffic given it was July. I knew they had a pretty extensive summer term catalog, but seeing the number of students milling around campus still looked off somehow. At Cody College, only about 10 percent of the students stuck around for summer classes. If that was true for Madison—though I didn’t have any data to back it up—it meant I’d significantly underestimated how many students the school had. I knew from my research that the student body was made up of more than 43,000 people, but I hadn’t been able to process exactly what that looked like.

  The campus was greener than I’d expected too. This time of year in Wyoming, the grass was yellow from too much sun and not enough rain, but Wisconsin in general, and the area surrounding Madison in particular, seemed lush with thriving vegetation. The humidity weighing down the air woul
d also take some getting used to. A lake bordered the north side of campus, and the subtle shush of waves along the shore and the fishy, mossy scent of lake life permeated the air. It was different, but so far nothing seemed to freak out my fox half.

  We found parking a block from Vilas Hall, and I took advantage of the short walk to open my senses and soak up the vibe of the campus. This was the reason I couldn’t make my decision on where to apply based on data. Both my fox and I had to feel comfortable where we lived. And I had to say, humidity and lake air aside, Madison felt good. I’d been to Denver once and I enjoyed the city, but throughout the whole visit it felt like my skin was shrinking. I didn’t get that here. It wasn’t home, but I wasn’t sure anywhere else would feel as natural as northwestern Wyoming.

  Buddy walked next to me, his shoulders stiff and his spine straight. He was very obviously on the job. He even stepped partly in front of me when a white guy with pale dreadlocks swerved toward me while his focus was on the phone in front of his face rather than his surroundings. I smirked at Buddy for his hypervigilance but didn’t comment. After the situation at the rest stop the day before yesterday, I’d expected it.

  “What do you think?” I asked Buddy, taking a deep breath. The urban scents of car exhaust, motor oil, and steel I’d expected were there, but I also caught the edge of pine, growing things, and, to my amusement, beer on the air. Some things were universal on campuses across the country.

  He didn’t stop scanning our surroundings, but he said, “It’s nicer than I’d expected. Urban, yeah, but not overwhelmingly so.”

  I resolutely ignored the little thrill I got that his thoughts so closely mirrored my own.

  Vilas Hall was a six-story glass-and-brick building that housed the UW School of Journalism and Mass Communication. I double-checked the reminder notes I’d saved to verify the office location. Granted, I had it memorized, but I wasn’t going to leave it to chance.

  “Fifth floor,” I told Buddy.

  “Stairs or elevator?” He hovered uncomfortably close to me. So close, in fact, that I could feel his body heat emanating from him and I couldn’t take a full step without stepping on his heel.

  I pushed against his arm. “A little space, please.”

  He didn’t even look at me.

  A half-dozen people about my age pushed through the front entrance, chatting and laughing, making enough noise for twice their number. They all looked strangely the same. There was a mix of races and genders represented, but they all seemed to wear the same basic uniform of black dress pants or skirts and colorful button-down shirts. They reminded me a bit of the catering company my mom hired for big events, but more colorful than the black and white. Considering I wore a nearly identical outfit, I worried for a moment that they were all there to interview same as me. The professor wouldn’t do some kind of group interview, would he? Was that a thing? Then I noticed the sign indicating that an undergraduate career fair was being offered.

  I tugged at my collar, suddenly wishing I’d worn a tie. It was important to look professional, to make a good impression, but I’d assumed that full suit and tie in the middle of August would be taking it a bit too far. Damn it. Why hadn’t I at least worn a tie? I’d packed one.

  Buddy reached over and pulled my hand away from my shirt. “You look fine.” His touch calmed my anxiety in a way I couldn’t quite wrap my head around.

  I glared at him, though there wasn’t a lot of heat in it. I wasn’t sure fine was the look I was going for. Especially since Buddy once again looked like he’d stumbled out of bed. His Buddy’s Café T-shirt—he seemed to have an unending supply, all in different colors—was faded and still held the marks of a careless fold and time jammed into a small bag, and his plaid board shorts sported more than one wrinkle.

  “Fine?”

  “You always look good. You’re freaking perfect. You know that.” He pointed to the sign for the stairway. “There’s too many people. We’ll take the stairs. Maybe the climb will help with nerves.” He spoke casually, absently, like his words hadn’t stopped me dead in my tracks.

  Buddy Brady called me perfect. No, scratch that, he’d called me freaking perfect.

  Noticing I wasn’t at his side, he turned back. “Coming?”

  “Um….” I shook my head. I didn’t have time to dissect perfect. “Yeah.”

  He kept his hand at the small of my back, guiding me. I should have found it controlling. I knew where to go, for one. And for another, he was taking the protection detail thing far more seriously than it required. But I didn’t say any of that because I liked having his hand on me. Damn it.

  Which reminded me. “You’re still my boyfriend, right?”

  He tripped, dropping his hand from my back, and fell forward until his knees hit the marble steps.

  “Oh shit!” I reached for his arm as though I was going to help haul him to his feet. Which was ridiculous. Pretty sure I lacked the upper body strength to manhandle someone of his size. Didn’t stop me from grabbing the hem of his T-shirt and tugging. “Are you okay?”

  Pushing himself upright, he kicked his right leg experimentally as though shaking away tingles. Or maybe checking to make sure his knee still worked. A red mark was already blooming below the joint. I felt kind of bad. But also intrigued. It was the first time I’d seen Buddy be anything less than graceful. The man did yoga, for crying out loud. He made everything look smooth and oddly elegant.

  “Boyfriend?” he asked once he’d ascertained his legs were still in working order.

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “That was the plan, right? To explain why I have some dude following me to my interview?”

  “Oh, ah, yeah. Boyfriend. Right.”

  “I’m still not letting you into the actual interview with me,” I reminded him. We’d agreed to a compromise that wouldn’t humiliate me completely but would keep him close. “You can wait in the hall, or in a waiting room or something.”

  He started back up the stairs. We’d passed the landing to the fourth floor when he asked, “You really going to tell them I’m your boyfriend?”

  “Only if they question it,” I admitted. “I’m not going to just blurt it out.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Don’t sound so relieved. We’ve already determined that you’re not concerned about the insinuation that you’re gay.”

  “Because I am gay.”

  “Right. So why do you care if I tell anyone and everyone we run into that we’re a couple?”

  “They’d never believe it.”

  Something cracked in my chest, a tiny crack, but one that let hurt and doubt creep in. “Would I make such a bad boyfriend?”

  He came to a sudden halt. “What?”

  I shrugged, recognizing as I did so that it totally made me look like a pouting toddler. “You seem so disgusted by the idea, like the whole the thought of us—of me—is ridiculous.”

  “Is that what you think?” He searched my face. I don’t know what he saw, but his expression softened. “David, that’s not it at all. You have no idea. No one would believe that you would be interested in someone like me.”

  “Huh?” Not my most articulate response, but seriously, what?

  He shook his head. He was clearly not comfortable—the battle to overcome his reluctance was there for anyone to see. “David, you’re smart, you’re clever, you’re ambitious. You’re gorgeous. You’re always put together. With your face and body, you should be modeling somewhere. No one would believe that you would have anything to do with an overweight college-dropout small-business owner.”

  My heart thrummed in my chest, echoing in my brain. Is that really how he saw himself? Is that how he saw me? Both visions were so far from the truth I didn’t know where to start.

  My phone beeped, the appointment reminder I’d set in my calendar letting me know it was time to move it if I wanted to get to the professor’s office at the appropriate “fifteen minutes early is really on time” time.

  I grabbed his wr
ist. “I don’t have time right now, but we are so going to talk about how you see yourself.”

  By the time we made it to the office for the Department of Journalism and Mass Communication, I had my game face on. I had to focus on me, my portfolio, and the school. I had to show this man why I would be a good addition to his school. I didn’t have time to worry about grizzly bear shapeshifters with self-esteem issues. Or the way I really wanted to show him—carnally if necessary—how very wrong he was about his appeal.

  Of course, the minute I opened the door and faced the person—a guy in his early twenties—manning the reception desk, I blurted out, “I’m David Sherman. I have a ten o’clock appointment with Dr. Riley. This is my boyfriend. He’ll be waiting here for me. For moral support.”

  The receptionist blinked at me.

  Buddy gaped at me.

  I smiled. It was completely fake and probably more than a little manic.

  Damn it.

  Chapter Eight

  AN hour and a half later, I exited Professor Riley’s office. Riley, who’d been on staff with the Chicago Tribune for more than twenty years before switching to academia, had seemed moderately impressed with my portfolio. He’d gotten a kick out of my Thunderbird article. I’d worried that including the somewhat sensational exposé on Cody College’s new biology professor’s life-long search for Thunderbird—the creature of Native American mythology—would make it seem like I didn’t take my craft seriously. Or that it might smack of yellow journalism rather than serious investigation.

  The part that made me nervous, though, was when he’d admitted that, as with any top-rated journalism graduate program, they were looking for candidates who showed exceptional drive, unquestionable talent, and a proven record for brilliant journalism. He’d sounded genuinely regretful when he mentioned that while my work showed promise, Cody College hadn’t given me a whole lot of opportunity to stretch my journalistic chops.