THE THIRTY-SIXTH POTENTIAL Consort, though, continued to act differently than expected. His eyes didn’t open until I set the tray down on the table between us. Even then, there was no leering, no foul language. Just a restrained nod.
Time for his second test, then. Would he accept food a woman had picked out for him? To get a good gauge of the applicant’s personality, I’d gone full-on girly with the menu. Quiche, a skim latte, and a bright pink cupcake with piped yellow rosettes on top.
The potential Consort didn’t even glance at the food. Instead he spoke my name in a voice so deep and liquid I wanted to swim in it. Not Alpha but: “Tara Whelan.” His eyes smiled if not his lips.
Meanwhile, he rose, opening up both seating options—the bench he’d been meditating atop and the two normal ch
