by Dawn Steele
“I know, I know, I know. We met at the library.” She has never been to the library more than ten times in her entire adult life after high school. Not that she ever went to college. But Jake wants to impress Peter Skaarsgard with his literary eruditeness.
“Yes,” he says. “Remember, they don’t want details. Just brief facts. You fell in love with me – ”
“I fell in love with you? You fell in love with me at first sight!”
“What does it matter who fell in love with who first?” he says, exasperated.
“It matters to me,’ she fumes.
“OK, OK, you win. I fell in love with you at first sight. And then two months later, we got married.”
“Great.”
“Great.”
They drive for a little while in silence. She runs over his brief notes in her mind again. No details, just quick sketches, he told her. She feels as though she is memorizing stuff for a Green Card interview – as though he is French or something and they are trying hard to mount a show for the immigration officials to keep him in the country.
More important is his resume, which she was forced to memorize last night. But she has to admit he has an impressive resume for someone so young. Has he really put together twenty-eight commercials? If so, he must be a working machine, and if those keyboard-tapping nights are anything to go by, she can well believe it. And she loved that last Revlon ad with the foxy shifter theme. Was that really him who came up with the idea?
After a while, they come up to a sign saying: BRIXFORTH.
“Thank God.” He is visibly relieved.
She supposes he is holding back more than she imagined. He can’t want to be late when first appearances are everything. As someone who has absolutely no corporate or social ladder to climb, she can’t identify with what he is going through. But she can certainly admire it. She has always admired men who single-mindedly go after what they want.
Jake doesn’t get lost this time because Brixforth consists of a main street and little else. It is an upscale beach community, pretty much like the Hamptons. The stores sell gourmet meats and gourmet breads. There are cafes and wine stores and designer beachwear. Brixforth mostly hosts real estate. Painfully expensive real estate.
On one side is the beach, stretching as far as the eye can see. The Atlantic Ocean laps against the coarse sand in surprisingly gentle waves, because Brixforth is protected from the trade winds by some climactic quirk of fate. On the other side is green forest.
Terry can understand why Jake’s potential new boss chose this place as a summer retreat. It is ideal for shifters, especially with the expanse of forest as a cover. Very rich shifters, that is.
“Do you know where the house is?” she says.
“Yeah, I’ve only been there, like, six times. Chill, will you? I can find it,” he says irritably, tapping the screen of his mounted Garmin.
She backs off, wondering if he is just going to be as irritable all weekend.
To Jake’s (and the Garmin’s) credit, he does find the house. Only it is not just a house. It is a veritable mansion. It is a beachfront property, but its grounds are considerable, with a nice thicket of forest surrounding it. The ‘mansion’ is a haphazard, modern day structure with lots of outcroppings and wings – very much like a fairytale chocolate house. There are no gates or fences. Brixforth is as safe a community as safe can be, and anyway, no one would want to tangle with a shifter millionaire.
Jake steers his Ford down a drive, which leads to a circular parking lot. Plenty of cars are already parked there. In a special shaded parking bay probably reserved for the family, Terry notices a Porsche, two Ferraris, a BMW X5 and a McLaren.
They park. Since no one is around in the parking lot, Jake hauls both their weekend bags out of his booth.
“I can carry my own bag,” she says, making a grab for it, but he dances it out of reach.
“You’re my wife,” he retorts. “No wife of mine is going to carry anything heavier than her purse when I’m around.”
He marches to the front door with both their bags, leaving her in chagrin. Jake is still very much a shifter male at heart, she reckons.
He looks back at her.
“You coming, sweetie?” he says loudly. “Or do you want me to carry you across the threshold?”
She is not sure he is entirely kidding or if he is doing this for the benefit of anyone within earshot.
The door opens before either of them has a chance to ring the bell, which is in the shape of a wolf’s head with its jaws gaping open. A redheaded woman, slightly on the plump side, stands there, smiling from ear to ear.
“Welcome, welcome!” she cries, holding out her arms. “You must be the Savages. I like the sound of that!”
Terry quails.
“We’re just about to sit for dinner when we heard your car roll in. I’m Martha Skaarsgard, by the way.”
She envelops Terry in a bear hug. Terry is a little surprised. She isn’t used to such open display of emotion from strangers, but she goes along with it anyway. Keep smiling. Martha smells of cinnamon and freshly baked pie.
“Do I get one too?” Jake says.
“Of course!” Martha tears herself away from Terry to size him up. “Wow, Peter didn’t tell me you were such a stunner. You’ve got yourself a heartbreaker of a young man now. You better hold on to him.”
Jake drops his bags, grinning, and lets Martha sweep him up.
“I’ll show you up to your room later. But you must be hungry and tired after your long journey. Was it easy to find our place?”
“Sorry we’re late,” Jake says. “I took a wrong turn somewhere.”
“Come on then, the two of you. Dining room’s this way.”
Martha breezes them both into a lounge done in homely, comforting colors. Terry looks around in delight, noting the haphazardly strewn cushions on comfortable sofas and the pastel curtains, all designed to give everything a warm, welcoming glow. This is what a family home should look like, she thinks. And this isn’t even Martha’s regular home. Her maiden name doesn’t happen to be Stewart, does it?
The dining room is a huge chamber – very wood-beamed and cherry oak. Conversation immediately ceases as the two dozen people seated at the immense table look up. The blue-eyed man at the head of the table gets up and holds out his hand to the newcomers.
“Jake! So glad you can make it. We were just about to send a hunting party after you, ha ha. This must be Terry. I’m Peter, by the way, your host for the weekend. And you’ve met Martha, my lovely wife of thirty-five years.”
Terry takes his outstretched hand. Peter has a surprisingly good grip.
“Sorry we’re late, but I took a wrong turn,” Jake says.
“Please, sit.” Peter waves his hand at two empty seats in the middle of the table. “Don’t mind everyone. This is my family – my son, Karl, and his wife, Paula. Their teenage daughter, Mika.”
A surly teenager with large hoop earrings doesn’t look up from texting on her cellphone. Her parents wave cheerily.
“My oldest daughter, Karina, and her husband, Thom. Their twin sons, Halder and Jerome, who are about to enter college next semester. My younger daughter, Ethel. She isn’t married . . . yet.”
“I’m a lesbian, Dad.”
“Ha ha, don’t mind her. You just haven’t found the right wolf yet, honey.”
Ethel crosses her eyes at her father. She is a striking, very platinum blond woman with the same facial features as her mother and sister, only she is much, much prettier. Her hair is cropped short and her cleavage very pronounced. Terry supposes she must be the family rebel, though Mika would be challenging her for the honor in a few years.
“And these are our other guests. Jeff Hirsch and his lovely wife, Cassie.”
From the way Jake’s shoulders suddenly straighten, Terry knows this must be one of the other two candidates for the job. Jeff Hirsch is a tall, ginger-haired man with very sharp hazel eyes. Terry immediately recognizes an alpha wolf, or a former one
, when she sees him. Jeff could well be the alpha of his clan before he took a mate and retired from the role to go into corporate trappings.
As for Cassie Hirsch, she must be eight months pregnant, at least. Her rotund abdomen is obvious even from above the table. She darts a nervous look at her husband. Terry can tell that she is a mousey woman – the kind who would be completely obedient and subservient to her alpha mate.
Good for him. Her . . . not so much.
As for Jake, his natural competitiveness is now kicking in. So he was late to the party. Score One for Jeff Hirsch. But Jake will not take this lying down, Terry knows. He is going to match Jeff Hirsch claw for claw all weekend, whatever the weekend has in store for them.
“And this is Mariko Ruchi and her husband, Hiro.”
The other couple is Asian, and they both get up and bow. Mariko is a beautiful woman with flawless skin, and Terry wonders if she uses the cosmetics she probably markets. Fire lights up the Japanese woman’s eyes and Terry can tell that this is no stereotypical, diminutive Japanese wife. It is clear who wears the pants in their family.
Peter claps his hands. “Now that we are all introduced, let’s eat! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starving.”
Jake and Terry take their seats. They are hemmed in by Mika, who still hasn’t looked up from her cellphone, and Ethel. Directly across the table are Jeff and Cassie and Mariko and Hiro.
Jeff and Mariko both glower at Jake.
This is going to be a very interesting meal, Terry thinks as she picks up her fork and knife. Now who is going to take the first stab?
7
Jake’s quick mind processes what he has found on Jeff Hirsch on Google:
HIRSCH, JEFF
AGE: 34
Major: Mass communications and Advertising.
Former Key Accounts Exec at Newton and Young. Won the Clio Award twice.
Wolf Shifter. Clan: Drogba (Black Wolf). Former challenger to the alpha of the clan, but defeated in the final confrontation. Left Drogba thereafter and married his mate, Cassandra.
Fierce, independent, ambitious, brilliant.
Won the New York State Treasure Hunt cup in 2013.
Second place in the regional shifter triathlon in 2010 and 2011.
Jake could not find anything on Mariko Ruchi on the net. But it doesn’t necessarily mean there is nothing on her, just that she guards her personal information. So she is a cypher.
Two Mexican women come in to serve dinner in a succession of platters and bowls. Since there are so many people, there are two servings of everything. Roast lamb. Beef stew. Pumpkin bread. Vegetable soup. Salad. Roasted baby potatoes.
Conversation begins in earnest again with everyone talking all at once – side by side, across the table. Jake steals a glance at Terry. So far, she has been solid throughout all this. Well, she ought to be, with what he’s paying her.
Still, he feels on edge whenever he is with her. She is looking particularly beautiful today in her lavender sweater and her blue jeans. Very suited for a summer weekend. He is very aware of her presence next to him, and of her thigh accidentally brushing against his in their cramped confines. He can smell the sweet scent of her shampoo. She doesn’t use perfume, and he doesn’t like women or wolves who do. Perfume masks their natural scent, he believes.
On the opposite side, Jeff studies them both intently, but does not say anything. His wife merely looks miserable. Mariko and Hiro are talking with Ethel, who apparently uses the Japanese cosmetics Mariko used to market.
“So, Terry,” Martha says, “how did you and Jake meet?”
Terry says in a well-rehearsed note, “We met at the library.”
Jake clenches his left fist in a gesture of triumph under the table while his right nonchalantly spears a baby potato with his fork. He affects a look of innocence.
“That’s a fine meeting place,” Martha exclaims. “I met Peter at the library too!”
“No kidding.” Terry’s smile is plastered.
“Which library would that be?”
Uh oh, Jake thinks.
“Foxhall,” he says as Terry simultaneously says, “Briggs”.
They both stop to glare at each other.
“Briggs,” Jake says as Terry says, “Foxhall”.
They glare at each other again.
“It was either one,” Jake says. “We can’t remember.”
“Your memory is always faulty, darling.”
“Not always, sweetie.”
“Most of the time, darling.”
“Libraries are such wonderful meeting places. Hardly anyone meets in libraries these days with Kindles and iPads and gyms and clubs and websites offering everything from dating services to hookups,” Peter declares.
Martha says eagerly, “I want to hear every single detail of how you both met. Please . . . tell us.”
“Yeah,” her daughter, Karina, chimes in. As do the rest of the women at the table with the exception of Mika, who looks bored, and Cassie Hirsch, who looks paler by the second. Jake seriously hopes she is not going into premature labor.
Ugh. He hasn’t rehearsed details with Terry.
When in doubt, improvise.
“We were at the library,” he begins. “I was checking out the complete works of William Shakespeare.”
He has never checked out the complete works of William Shakespeare since grade school, but he figures he would remember the plot of Romeo and Juliet in case anyone at the table asks. They both die, right?
Mika looks up. “I would have checked out Twilight.”
“Twilight’s good,” Terry says, and Mika smiles. Jake checks this out and mentally nods his approval.
He goes on, “Then I saw this beautiful girl walking down the aisle, looking for something.”
Terry glances at him. There is an odd expression on her face.
“Really?” she says softly. “You thought I was beautiful?”
“Of course you are, sweetheart. I tell you that every day, don’t I?”
For show, Jake leans over and pecks her quickly on the cheek. It is the first time his lips have ever brushed her skin, and he feels an unexpected jolt – an electrical tingle which races through his mouth and down his neck to his torso, and right down to his groin. He has never experienced this before and so he is hugely surprised.
Static electricity? He surreptitiously glances down at the floor. Wood beams. No carpeting. Why is his pulse starting to drum up a beat? He licks his lips, trying to calm himself down. It’s only a kiss, come on!
Terry, on her part, seems surprised he kissed her. Her cheeks flush suddenly.
“Ah, well,” she says, seemingly at a loss for words. Which has to be a first for her, he reckons.
“Go on,” Martha urges.
Everyone at the table has stopped talking and is waiting to hear his next words. Even Jeff Hirsch, who wears a superior smirk on his smug face.
He’d better not fail his captive audience.
“So she was looking high and low for something. And I went up to her and said, ‘Can I help you?’ She turned to me, and my breath did this funny thing in my throat, like it was choked up or something.”
Jeff cuts in, “You mean like having gas?”
Murmurs ripple down the table. The challenge is unmistakable.
Jake glares at him.
Terry interrupts, “No, it was like kismet for both of us. Because I felt it too. This funny feeling in my stomach, like I was kicked in the gut.”
Ethel mock grimaces an ‘Ow!’
“Love hurts,” Jake says solemnly. “Because that was what it was for us. Instant attraction, wasn’t it, darling?”
He gazes at Terry beside him, and an inexplicable pang flowers in his chest. He remembers the first time he saw her opening her door many months ago, her butt in the air as she bent down to pick something. Hot new neighbor, he thought. Scorching. He could feel his core temperature rising several notches.
Then she turned, did a double take
when she saw him before she recovered and acidly retorted, “You looking at something?”
Terry says to the gathered throng, “It was epic. We couldn’t take our eyes off each other. And then I dropped the book I was holding. And I bent down to pick it up . . . ”
“But I was there first,” Jake puts in. “And there we were, at ground level together, colliding.”
“Sparks flew,” Terry says.
“Planets combusted,” Jake says.
“Rainbows aligned.”
“Unicorns stomped their hooves.”
They both pause at their unique choice of phrases.
“Well, go on,” Martha demands. “You can’t leave us hanging!”
Jake says, “In short, we already knew we were in love the moment we met. I did the honors and asked her out for coffee.”
“All throughout coffee,” Terry says, “we were staring at each other with stars in our eyes.”
“Never took our eyes off each other for a second, did we, darling?”
“Not a second.”
“Naturally, the only thing to do was to get married,” Terry says. Her cheeks are pink. “He proposed to me within the week.”
Gasps all round.
“That is so romantic!” Mariko gushes. “Isn’t it romantic, Hiro?”
“The best,” her husband gloomily chimes.
“And did you get married within the week?” Martha asks.
“We went to – ”
“Vegas,” Jake puts in.
“The Strip.”
“We got married in one of those packages where they throw in a honeymoon suite and a mariachi band.”
“He got me a ring.” Terry flashes the faux diamond ring that Jake bought her. It is cubic zirconia and it looks amazingly real. Jake chose one with a smallish stone rather than a huge one which would have attracted the wrong kind of attention.
“Then we went up to our honeymoon suite and had great sex. I think we must have had sex five times that night, honey.”
“Oh really? I thought it was seven. I wore you out.”
“Uh uh. It was the other way round. I wore you out. You could scarcely walk to breakfast the next morning.”
Martha clears her throat. “OK, that’s too much information for the young ones at this table.” She winks at Terry. “Though I would love to hear every juicy detail about your strapping young wolf privately later.”