by DC Thome
“Why would accounts receivable clerks steal you?”
“I don’t know, but the name alone scares the shit out of me.”
I joined Abigail at the window and scratched her neck. “The reason you can’t come with me is that Hunter’s cabin has only one room, and you’ve already seen us getting jiggy once.”
“It’s a damn good thing I did.”
“True,” I said, “but now the Orgasmism’s gone and Brigid’s vanished—”
Abigail waved a scraggly paw. “Excuses, excuses.”
“And since there’s only one room, I’d make you sleep outside.”
Abigail stared out the window and shivered. “In that case, leave your night light on.”
***
I took a hot bath and sipped a glass of Count Andreas Fault Earthshaking Vampire Blood Red Extra Bubbly Lambrusco of Doom, shaved my legs and carefully selected an outfit—a black lace bustier with a ruffle hem that accentuated my righteous hips, a pair of lacy hipster panties and knee-high boots with five-inch heels. I toyed with the idea of skipping the panties, but didn’t want Hunter to think I was being presumptuous.
When I went back to the bedroom, Abigail was sprawled on my bed with her smelly ladycat parts jammed tight against my pillow. She pretended to be asleep, but I saw her eyelids flutter as she watched me cross in front of her. Note to self: Wash fucking pillowcases first thing tomorrow. As I sat at my vanity and applied Salvatore Ferragamo Signorina Misterioso perfume—which I call “Lou Ferrigno” because it’s easier to remember—to all the strategic places, I said, “You couldn’t wait?”
“It takes a while for the pheromones to soak in.” Abigail sniffed the air. “I thought the purpose of the Lou Ferrigno was to ‘unlock the unpredictable side of chic girls.’”
“So?”
“Your outfit screams the opposite of unpredictable and chic. More like, ‘Pru horny! Pru smash man!’”
“Hunter appreciates me being direct.”
“In that case, you’re overdressed. Ditch the thong.”
“I’m not wearing a thong. They’re ‘lacy hipster panties’.”
Abigail sighed. “I’m so glad I don’t have to wear clothes,” she said. “Too complicated. It’s all six of a half, one of another dozen.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Abigail said, “it’s something people say.”
I got up and went to the bed. “Abigail F. Barker, you are a royal pain in the ass.” I scratched her neck. “Still, I can’t begin to imagine having a better familiar. I mean, most familiars are complete assholes.”
She held up one of her ambiguously hairy paws to, I assume, flip me off. I noogied her scruff with my nose, told her to enjoy her decadent night and zapped myself into the woods.
***
The waning daylight filtering through the trees revealed—a shack. Not broken-down, but definitely rustic. As in, unpainted boards wedged between trees, a roof covered in moss, and a stone chimney apparently modeled after the Leaning Tower of Pisa. So, more broken-down than originally stated. On the other hand, smoke puffing from the chimney sweetened the forest’s earthy aroma.
The door opened and Hunter stepped onto the tiny porch of unpainted boards resting on fieldstones. He was dressed less like a lumberjack than usual, forgoing jeans and a flannel shirt in favor of baggy lounge pants and tight set of abs. Pretty presumptuous. The thick, warm summer breeze tossed his shoulder-length hair across his blue eyes and wide smile. Seeing him surrounded by the golden light streaming from inside the hut made my heart skip a beat.
“Nice outfit,” he said.
“My camping clothes.”
He moved toward me, his footsteps silent in the undergrowth. Okay, he’s barefoot, but still—silent? He cupped my chin and gazed into my eyes. “There’s no need for clothes when you’re camping.” His eyes caressed my curves. “Eventually.” He kissed me. He smelled like the smoke from the chimney.
“So, is my palace everything you thought it would be?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “And less.”
He laughed. “Mind your manners, wench! You are approaching the abode of the prince of shifters.”
“Of Douchecanoe, West Virginia.”
“The fairest kingdom of all.” He took my hand and led me onto the porch. “Come forth, then, and behold the opulence of my fortress.”
I kept an open mind—it’s possible that shifters dowded up their homes the way witches did. But…no. Inside, the wooden floor was bare. Three open windows were covered with lengths of burlap tacked to the walls. A log frame bed buried in thick, hairy blankets dominated one side of the room. Flannel shirts and blue jeans hung on pegs next to a small chest of drawers.
The other side was “the kitchen.” It had a chopping block counter, a spice rack, a utensil hanger, a sink with an old-fashioned water pump, a cupboard and a wood-burning stove, where steam rattled the cover of a well-aged cast-iron frying pan.
A square table, barely big enough for two, was set with earthenware salad plates and wine cups, plain cloth napkins that looked a lot like the curtains, and well-used silverware. A glass vase filled with pink and yellow wild columbine and bright orange butterfly weed ate up most of the tabletop, but also provided a splash of color. “Pretty…understated,” I hedged—says the girl who decorates exclusively in shades of black.
I nodded toward a door in the middle of the wall across from me. “Please tell me that goes to a two-story addition with a living room, a master suite and a bathroom with a slate floor and rain forest shower.”
“There is a bathroom.” Hunter opened the door to show me.
It was clean. Still, the first thought that entered my mind was, If I don’t drink anything, I might be able to make it to morning without peeing.
“Now that we’ve finished the grand tour”—he took two steps to the table and slid out a chair—“have a seat, madam. I think you’ll enjoy what the chef has selected for this evening’s dining experience.”
I sat. Hunter filled the cups with deep red wine.
“Interesting,” I said. “It’s not bubbling, so I know it’s not Vampire Blood Red Lambrusco of Doom.”
“It’s Hunter’s Heart of the Forest Red. I made it.”
I lifted my cup to my nose. “Smells good.”
“It’s full-bodied, and a little spicy,” he said. He held his cup to mine. “Qualities I like.”
We clunked our cups and looked into one another’s eyes as we drank. The wine was exactly as advertised. And the view is even better.
Hunter set down his cup, brought a bowl to the table and filled my salad plate with a pile of green things that looked vaguely familiar. Because I’ve planted these to make my lawn look even more unappealing to mortals.
“Rampions, parsnips, watercress and chives”—Hunter pointed to things on my plate—“with crumbled blue cheese and Russian vinaigrette.”
“I knew that.” And you’ll believe me even though I cook for shit, because I’m Italian. “But, which ones are the rampions? And why are they on my plate?”
Hunter smiled. “Ramps—that’s what gourmets like me call them—are wild leeks. They grow like crazy around here. All the greens do. The blue cheese and vinaigrette I had to buy in town.” He forked a clump of underbrush into his mouth.
Guess I’d better do the same—and look like I’m enjoying it, for Goddess’ sake. I pushed around the leaves and chunks, working up the nerve to introduce some to my mouth. I expected the tangle of weeds to taste like, well, a fucking tangle of weeds, but—it was good. “Wow! There’s pepper in there, too!”
“You’re tasting the ramps.”
After the salad—I had seconds—Hunter placed puffy burger buns on dinner plates and topped them with a patty and a mound of sautéed mushrooms.
“Burgers!” How guy. “I love burgers!” Which was true. I eat burgers all the time. I consider ketchup a fruit, and pickles are among the very few vegetables I allow into the t
emple of my body.
Hunter sat across from me. “Yes, but no cows were harmed in the making.”
“So…turkey burgers?” Turkey burgers are absolutely, positively not allowed past the temple gate. Not on moral grounds. Just—yuck!
“No turkeys were harmed, either. They’re a hundred percent vegetarian.”
My brow furrowed. “Lions eat meat, right?”
He spread a thin coat of lime Dijon mustard across the upper half of his bun. “I’m a lion shifter. As much human as lion. Meat isn’t a requirement. Besides, I’d be a pretty terrible prince if I ate my subjects.”
“Shifters can eat the meat of regular animals.”
“Yeah, but it makes the shifters uncomfortable.” He pressed his sandwich with his palm. “There’s forty-two grams of protein right here—eight more than in a half pound of ground beef.” He opened his mouth wide, bared his teeth, growled and chomped.
I performed the whole mustard-slathering and sandwich-squishing ritual, took a deep breath and chomped. Holy shit—tastes just like cow! “Interesting flavor,” I said. “What’s in it?”
“Walnuts. Black beans. Cumin, chilies, soy sauce. A little garlic—hope that’s not a problem.”
“Garlic? I’m Italian. When we’re babies, our mothers feed us garlic straight from their boobaloombos.”
“Is that so?”
“No. But people always laugh when I say it.”
He laughed and raised his cup. “To the past week, and to many, many more weeks to come.”
We clunked cups again, and over the next several minutes of satisfied silence, the gourmet burgers disappeared.
***
I swirled my half-empty second cup of Hunter’s Heart of the Forest Red and thought about how much my life was changing. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d fall for a guy who lived in a shack in the woods. Then again, never in my wildest dreams did I think short, round, incompetent, foul-mouthed me would be wooed by a prince.
Oh, for Goddess’ sake! Not even in the angstiest moments of my navel-gazing teen Goth period had I ever doubted I’d be a catch for any dude who was man enough to handle me. And I’m beginning to think this man can handle me.
Hunter presented me with a slice of spongy cake dotted with deep purple berries and a yellow-flecked glaze. “Lemon-glazed wild huckleberry cake.”
“You made this, too?”
“I don’t bake. Hate following recipes. This came from the gluten-free, sugar-free, nut-free, extra-expensive bakery next to your office.”
I poked at the cake. Note to self: Find out the name of that bakery.
“Here,” Hunter said. He held up a forkful of his slice for me to taste.
I gave him an oh-you look, then parted my lips. The tangy glaze set off an explosion of flavor. “Oh, my Goddess, this is amazing! Not that it’s better than the burger or the wine. Those were amazing, too.”
He made a pouty lip. “You didn’t like the salad?”
I swallowed and said, “Fuck you! I ate two helpings. You sound just like my mom.” Goddessdamn it, Pru—watch your mouth. Is this really the time to talk about your mom?
Fortunately, Hunter was laughing.
“Pardon my French,” I said.
“Italians don’t say ‘fuck?’ Just the French?”
“Italians say ‘fuck’ about as often as they say ‘the,’” I said. “Still, I shouldn’t—”
“Why shouldn’t you? I like the way you bite your lower lip when you say it.” He reached over and pulled my lip down with his thumb, setting off a spark of fizzy pink magic that triggered a curious buzz sixteen inches lower, inside my vuvuzula.
“Maybe,” I said, “we can finish dessert later.”
Keeping his gaze trained on me, he stood, untied his lounge pants and let them slip to the floor, giving me a clear view of his—
Counselor school ethics don’t apply in this situation.
He took my hand and drew it toward himself. I thought I knew the direction he was heading—and liked it just fine—but instead he pulled me to my feet and kissed me.
When the kiss ended, he undid the buttons on my bustier, then pulled it off over my head. I stepped toward the bed, but Hunter whispered into my ear, “I have a better idea,” and guided me onto the porch.
Darkness had settled around the cabin. But who knows who’s looking from behind those trees. Annoying little vampires, for instance. A.k.a. mosquitos. “I don’t think I’m dressed right.”
Hunter gently pushed me back against the door frame, knelt and shimmied the hipsters down over my boots. “Now you are.”
He took my hand again and led me down a dirt path into the woods. “Don’t be so modest,” he said. “Anyone out here this time of the evening is going to be dressed pretty much the same as we are.” He stopped and ran his eyes up and down my body. “And seeing you would be a treat.”
Right. Shifters are clothing optional 24/7. But…mosquitos. “I’m still wearing boots.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re not used to walking around here without shoes. I am. We can deal with them when we get there.”
I didn’t want to risk, say, coating us with honey in a botched attempt to conjure up some vampire-bug protection, so I resolved to be brave. “When we get where?”
“A place I know. Deep in the forest.”
“A magical place?”
“It will be when we get there.”
I buried my fears in a grin. “Lead on, Your Majesty.”
***
We followed the well-worn path to a low wall of stacked fieldstones, overgrown and covered with moss. Hunter stepped over it, then clasped my waist and swung me to the other side like a figure-skating hunk tossing around his sparkly-swimsuited partner. Which made me laugh like a girly little girl.
The air smelled sweet and clean. Through the chirp and chatter of the forest came the sounds of water bubbling and lapping against rock. In front of us was a dark pool. In the evening light I could barely make out faint swirls slinking across its surface. Meanwhile, Hunter’s eyes shone like a cat’s as he peered into the blackness.
“Would it be all right,” I said, “if I shed some light—for a minute or two—so I can get a better look?”
“Of course.”
I raised an arm, snapped my fingers and twirled my hand to generate a swirl of gold embers that drifted out over the water. The eddies in the middle of the pool shimmered as bubbles popped and crackled near the manmade edges. The forest rose high all around, creating the impression of a cylinder that opened to the stars. It was so enticing, so intoxicatingly beautiful that I temporarily forgot about my deep revulsion to unchlorinated liquids.
Maybe nature has its good points.
Hunter waded in and extended his hand. “Come on,” he said. “It’s cool and fresh.”
“Can’t I just admire it from afar?”
“Sit on the edge and dip your toes.”
I sat on a flat rock and tugged on a boot.
Hunter put his hand on mine and said, “I’ll take care of the boots.” He removed one, then the other, so smoothly and gently that he might as well have been caressing my shins with his freshly shaven cheeks. And then he did caress my shins with his freshly shaven cheeks as he lowered my feet toward the water. But my feet didn’t quite reach.
I wiggled my toes. “That kind of thing happens when you’re barely five feet tall.”
“I don’t think it’s you,” Hunter said. “It seems shallower than usual.”
He shrugged and crouched until he was shoulder-deep in the pool and filled his cupped hands with water that he poured over my feet. Then he kissed each foot. I don’t know what felt sexier—the coolness of the water or the touch of his lips.
“You were right,” I said, “this is a magical place. What’s it called?”
“La Font de Magie de l’Amour de Deau de Chenieux.”
“That’s a lotta de’s.”
“I know,” he said. “Pardon my French.”
I reached my toes down as far as I could and flicked a splash at Hunter. He grabbed my ankle. “The Magic Love Fountain of Deau de Chenieux. Forest dwellers call it The Font for short. Sure you don’t want to join me?” He gave my leg a playful tug.
I squealed and scooted back. “I’m fine up here, thanks.”
“Then I’ll have to come up there and join you.” He licked one leg from my ankle to my knee—then continued upward.
I leaned back, tousled his hair, closed my eyes and moaned as his tongue slowly covered the last inch, finally finding its way into my chaccuccia. A few minutes later, he rose from the water, licked my neck and whispered into my ear, “Feeling the magic?”
I reached between his legs, and a wicked grin spread across my face. “I am,” I breathed. I pressed my teeth into my bottom lip. “Fuck, yeah, I am.”
He pressed his waist into mine, and I guided him inside.
***
An hour later, I lay in the still of the cabin, listening to the ruckus drifting in on soft wind. And to the low rumble of Hunter’s snoring. The night was warm and humid, but with the hairy blankets pushed aside, I could spoon into his body and feel his breath and the comforting heaviness of his arm draped around my waist.
All of this made me surer by the moment. This guy can handle me. Now…can he handle it if I drop the L Bomb?
My eyes fluttered shut.
First thing in the morning.
Chapter 3
I woke up to the happy-sappy ambiance common in feminine products commercials—sunlight dappling the windows, birds chirping and, no doubt, butterflies flicking from flower to flower. Something furry pressed into my back. Since I’d woken up before with Hunter in lion form, I wasn’t too freaked out. Still, I’d made it clear that while I’m open to fairly kinky ideas, I’m strictly a homo sapiens kind of girl.
But I wasn’t feeling Hunter—just one of his big old blankets.
I scanned the cabin. He wasn’t at the stove making coffee. The bathroom door was open, which didn’t rule out the possibility he might be in there because, you know…men.