Yep. He was entertained. And, no. It wasn’t normal. Instead of answering her question, he asked his own. “Do you want me to?”

“Not really.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because according to my father, many teachers, and quite a few anger-management counselors, I seem to lack that little internal device that stops things that are best left unsaid from being said.”

“I see.”

“So?”

“So what?”

She took a step forward. “Are you or are you not a serial killer?”

“Not.”

“You’ve never murdered anyone?”

“On or off the ice?” Her eyes grew wide again and he argued, “It’s a valid question.” When she continued to gawk up at him, her mouth open, he admitted that “I’ve never murdered or killed anyone, on or off the ice, male or female, shifter or full-human.” She went up on her toes, staring up at him. After a moment, she said, “Closer.” He leaned in and she gazed into his eyes. He held her stare for a full minute before she said, “You’re not lying.”

“I know.”

“Cool.”

“Seals and walruses don’t count, though, right?”

She shook her head. “I will not judge,” she muttered to herself. “I will not judge.” Then, “For this particular situation non-thumb-possessing prey does not count.”

“Then we’re fine.”

“Cool,” she said again.

He probably should be insulted she thought he was some kind of deranged serial killer, but that sounded like work he wasn’t in the mood to indulge in.

“So,” she went on, “since we’ve come to the conclusion that you’re not looking for a new hat or to add me to a collection in your dungeon of pain and suffering—”

“Thought it was a cellar.”

“—why do you have me trapped in a bathroom?”

“Thought maybe you’d want to go out for coffee or something.”

She blinked. “You want to go—” Her eyes narrowed. “Gwen put you up to this, right?”

“Who?”

“What is her obsession with that girl? I mean, seriously—get over it already! Trying to set me up with you just to get even with Tracey Lembowski is so extreme. Don’t ya think?”

“Well—”

For the first time, her face softened and she no longer looked terrified out of her mind. It was a lovely change. “But it was really sweet of you to play along. I heard you weren’t sweet at all.”

“I’m sweet. I’m very sweet.”

“Hey, Novikov,” a hyena cut in from behind him, “think I can get an auto—”

Bo bellowed in to thesniveling male’s face, “I am talking here!” He hated when these idiots cut into his conversations without acknowledging the fact it was impolite. “Can you not see that?”

Giggling in panic, the hyena ran off, meeting up with his clan at the end of the hall, which led to more hyena giggling. Annoying.

“So where were we?” he asked, turning back to the suddenly wide-eyed wolfdog.

“Uh . . .” She gave a little laugh and muttered under her breath, “I will not judge.” Then asked, “Do you have the time?”

Bo checked. “Eleven thirty-two and fourteen seconds.”

“That was very precise.”

“I like precise.” He motioned to her left arm. “You have a watch.”

“Yeah I do.” She smiled at it. “Of course, it says it’s three o’clock. Maybe it’s on Bangkok time or something.”

“Do you need a good jeweler to fix it? I know a bear who can—”

She waved away his offer. “Nah. It hasn’t worked in weeks. Besides, it’s a piece of junk, so there’s no use fixing it. I got it for forty bucks in the Village.”

Appalled, Bo asked, “If it doesn’t work, why are you wearing it?”

“It’s pretty!” She stepped in closer and lifted her arm so he could see it better. “It’s a Pra-Dah.” She laughed. “Not a Prada watch. A Pra-Dah watch. Classy, huh?”

True, Bo could see the humor in that but still . . . “But it doesn’t work. Shouldn’t you have a watch that works?”

“There’s always someone around with a watch on. Like you. Or Ric. Or Gwen. And it’s New York. Depending on where you are at any given time, you can usually find a clock somewhere on one of the buildings or on a billboard.”

How could anyone live like that? It was so . . . all over the place! To be honest, Bo considered it a form of hell.

“That’s not a very good way to tell time.”

“Why sweat the little things?”

“Time is not a little thing.”

“No, but it’s close enough.” A little tinkling sound went off, and Blayne turned in a circle, trying to find where the sound came from.

“Your pants,” Bo told her.

“Oh!” She dug into one of the many pockets of her cargo pants and pulled out a small cell phone. “See?” she said, pointing at the front of it. “This has a clock, too.” She gaped at the phone for a moment and then shook her head. “I’m such an idiot. I had this on me the whole time, and I could have totally called the cops if you’d turned out to be a serial killer. Except that I forgot I had the damn thing. In theory, I could totally be dead right now.”