The Art of Seducing a Naked Werewolf nw-2

by Молли Харпер

  I sighed as I watched him lope to an easy stop in front of me and give me one of those heartwarming grins. In a good and decent universe, my choices would be limited to Lee and Clay, and the decision would be relatively easy: Clay and his cute little chin dimple by a landslide. I huffed, thinking about stupid, shirtless Dream Nick and the “grindy” encounter in the back of my truck. I had to do something to get him out of my head. I had to show him that I was serious about staying away from him.

  “What would you think of going to dinner with me some night?” I asked Clay before he could say anything.

  Clay hesitated. “Uh, I was just going to tell you that part for the snow blower came in yesterday. What did you say?”

  “What would you think of having dinner with me Friday?”

  “That would be great,” he said, smiling hesitantly. “We could try that new pizza place in Burney.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of the Glacier. We could see Mo and Cooper. It would be fun.”

  Clay looked confused but shrugged. “Who am I to turn down one of Mo’s burgers?”

  “I’ll pick you up?” I offered, then suddenly remembered that my truck was at the bottom of a ravine. “Hmm. No, wait, I think you’ll have to drive.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Say It with Pastry

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, I walked outside to find a tow truck unloading my truck in the little side lot by the community center. It hurt to see the scraped, dented side panels, the huge crater the trees had left on the passenger’s side. The fender was bent to hell where the truck had tugged it up the incline. It was a wonder the tow truck had managed to winch it up from the ravine at all.

  I could still smell Nick’s scent, mingled with mine, wafting from the rear compartment. The scent made all previous empty chest aches feel like a mild tickle. I actually had to bend over and brace my hands against my knees as the tow-truck driver lowered the winch and gently dropped my poor baby to the concrete. He stepped out, a rangy, weathered man in his forties, wearing blue overalls that stated his name was Wesley.

  “Hi, can I help you?” I asked, straightening and doing my best to function like a normal person. “Did the state police send you?”

  “Nope,” he said, unhooking a chain from under my truck’s tires.

  There was something off about his smell; he definitely wasn’t human. He wasn’t a werewolf, either. He was definitely a were but something little, which was sort of funny, given that he looked as if he was blown out of a straw. I sniffed again. A weasel? Oh, come on. This guy was a were-weasel that ran around with “Hi, my name is Wesley” stitched on his shirt? Some people had no sense of irony.

  “OK, do you just drive around the wilderness rescuing random were-creatures’ stalled vehicles?” I asked, my tone just a little bit snotty.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you ever say anything besides nope?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nope.“

  I laughed, which made his lips twitch. “The bill’s taken care of. Your cousin Caleb says you should call him.”

  With a chortle at my shocked expression, he drove away, taking the north road through the preserve. I dashed into my office to grab my cell phone and dial Caleb’s number.

  “Y’ello?” my cousin and packmate mumbled into the phone, using his “being held hostage” voice, which he only used when he was conducting surveillance.

  “Hey, cuz! You got a mullet yet?” I sang cheerfully into the phone . . . because it annoyed him.

  He sighed. “Hi, Mags.”

  “Everything OK?” I asked. Normally, Caleb, who spent his time on the road using his werewolf senses to track down society’s misfits for a handsome fee, loved a good Dog the Bounty Hunter joke. “Who was the were-weasel who just dropped my truck off? And how the heck did he manage to yank it up a forty-percent incline?”

  “Wesley’s done some work on my truck,” Caleb said. “He replaces a lot of my windows.”

  I snorted. As a not-quite-legitimate bounty hunter, Caleb came into contact with people who did not like being delivered back to the people they owed money to. And sometimes they took out their “feelings” on his truck.

  “He’s a good guy. And he gets into those hard-to-reach places. Samson called, told me what happened to your truck. I thought Wesley could lend a hand.”

  “Well, thanks, I appreciate it. But is it causing you pain in some way? Why do you sound so weird?”

  “Wesley took a look under the truck when he was hooking up the chain. He said your brake line looked worn. But not from use or age. He said it looked like something sharp had been scraped over the brake line over and over until it was ready to rupture. Maggie, have you pissed anybody off lately? Besides Cooper? Or Samson? Or Mo? Or your mom? Or—”

  “I get it, I get it,” I grumbled, considering the question. “Honestly, other than that little problem last summer with Eli, I haven’t gotten into any more scrapes than I normally would.”

  “That’s not saying much.” He snorted.

  “Thanks,” I muttered. “Seriously, I’ve been a relatively nice girl.” Caleb snorted again. I shot back, “I said relatively! So, what, you think someone tampered with my brakes because I was a smart-ass to them? Or maybe it was a rabbit out for revenge for all the little bunnies I’ve eaten? Seriously, I rarely leave the valley. Who would mess with my truck?”

  “I don’t know, Mags,” he said. “I just think you need to be careful.”

  “I live in a veritable fortress, surrounded by burly protective relatives willing to kill for me. And not to mention, I sort of kick ass myself.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not invincible,” Caleb argued.

  “Fine. If I see a rabbit dressed in camo trying to jimmy the screen door with a hunting knife, I’ll call for help.”

  “Somehow I get the feeling you’re not taking me very seriously.” He sighed.

  “And you would be right,” I told him. “But I will keep an eye out, I promise, just to humor you.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Caleb kept me on the phone for another twenty minutes, asking about various relatives, which meant he had to be worried. He tried to avoid talking on the phone whenever possible. I hung up, unsure what to think. How likely was it that someone had tampered with my brakes?

  I shrugged out of my jacket and slid under the frame. There were clods of dirt, pine needles, and dead grass spotting the worn chrome. I inched my way under the axle . . . and realized I didn’t know nearly as much about big engines as I thought I did. I recognized the bottom of the transmission and the fuel line. I found the brake drum and followed the thumb’s-width plastic rope with my fingertips. It was smooth and unmarked until it reached the point lowest to the ground. I frowned. It wasn’t cut, exactly, but it was definitely damaged. And the tear didn’t look like something that would occur over a long period of time. As far as I could tell, I’d hit some debris on the road and ripped it myself, which wasn’t surprising, considering the tumble the truck took off the road.

  I leaned closer to inspect the rupture in the line and picked up the faint scent of dryer sheets, the sort of clean, floral fabric-softener stuff my mom was always using. I chuckled. Wesley didn’t look like the April Fresh type. But maybe he had a concerned she-weasel mate at home.

  I heard two of my older uncles arguing loudly between their front stoops over a borrowed power tool. Apparently, they’d decided to use other power tools to settle the dispute, so I crawled out from under the truck. Distracted by senior citizens armed with band saws and extension cords, I abandoned my defunct vehicle and didn’t give the brakes another thought.

  NICK SENT ME a freaking apology pie.

  Several, in fact. First, it was apple-raisin, then Mo’s famous chess pie, then French silk, each delivered to my door every day by my decreasingly bemused sister-in-law.

  “I’m charging him mileage,” Mo told me as she walked through my front door and placed the chocolate “too fluffy to look real” meringue masterpiece i
n my hands. I could see the delicate little chocolate shavings speckling the crusty brown dome through the plastic carrying case. Mo slapped the note into my palm. It just said, “Please.”

  This was the saddest pie of all. The previous pies had at least told me Nick was sorry and that he wanted to start fresh.

  “He’s moved on to meringue,” Mo said, shaking her head. “This does not bode well.”

  “I honestly don’t know how to respond to this,” I said, taking the pie into the kitchen. Mo collected the empty pie tins from the counter. Pie never lasted long in our house. Samson had taken to stopping by the house every night to make sure no pie was left behind. As long as Mo was making daily deliveries, he said I could stay mad at Nick forever.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I promised her. “Even though I really don’t want to.”

  “You should,” Mo countered. “He asked this morning if I could get enough peaches to make a cobbler.”

  “No one says they’re sorry with cobbler.”

  “Yeah, ’cause saying it with pie is super-normal,” she retorted.

  WORKING WITH MY hands generally helped me sort through whatever had me wound up. The weird swooshy, acidy feeling that twisted through my chest whenever I thought of Nick or Clay had me taking apart the village’s snow blower piece by piece.

  At least my emotional turmoil was serving some purpose. Part of the problem with having an aging population was elderly werewolves’ increasing inability to negotiate icy streets and sidewalks. We couldn’t afford to replace the snow blower, but we also couldn’t afford the cost of adding a Broken Hip Wing onto the clinic. Hence my need to squeeze one more year out of the twenty-year-old snow blower.

  I’d replaced the belts, the oil, and the spark plugs and was now praying that it wouldn’t literally blow a gasket or part of my hand as I fired it up. I grinned like a madwoman when the diesel engine roared to life. Then a cloud of black smoke spiraled up from somewhere just out of reach, and I heard the first signs of stalling.

  “Stupid, useless piece of crap!” I yelled, the sound of the engine whining and sputtering to its death covering the worst of my curses.

  “It’s nice to see that some things, like your naturally even temper, never change.”

  I looked up and saw my grandfather standing in the doorway, clearly amused.

  “I thought I would come by and pay my favorite granddaughter a visit,” Pops said, winking at me.

  At eighty-two, Noah Graham was sort of the Robert Redford of the Alaskan werewolf community. He was still blessed with a headful of iron-gray hair and the blue-green eyes Cooper had inherited. He also appeared to be in his early sixties, which was one of the perks of being a werewolf. Our bodies are resilient because of the constant phasing, lots of collagen. As long as we keep up with the sunscreen, we can look young well into our golden years.

  But we aged, like everybody else. Pops had had what Dr. Moder called a “minor episode” the year before, which scared the hell out of all of us. We’d all babied him shamelessly, which irritated his independent soul. He finally blew up and tossed a quart of chicken noodle soup at my aunt Maisie. That was when I knew he was getting better.

  Pops and I had always had a close relationship. Most girls confided in their mothers when they were worried about a test or upset with a friend . . . or going through “weird new body parts” anxiety. I relied on my grandfather. Cooper and Samson went to him with their problems, and I figured I should, too. So far, with the rare exception of what we will only call the Training Bra Incident, it had worked out pretty well.

  I kissed his cheek. “Don’t let your five other granddaughters hear you say that.”

  He shrugged as he hitched himself into the seat of a defunct tractor-mower. “Well, you’re each my favorite in some way.”

  “Nice save, Pops.” I snickered, handing him a bag of the Reese’s Pieces he favored. “How are you feeling?”

  “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t start every conversation that way,” he said, cocking a gray eyebrow at me.

  “Force of habit.”

  “I’m fine,” he told me, tugging my hair gently. “How is the search for a new truck?”

  “Stalled,” I griped. “Bad pun intended.”

  “You know I enjoy bad puns.”

  I chuckled. “I haven’t had time to go look for another one. Fortunately, I don’t leave the valley much, except to visit Grundy. I can run there, so it’s not a huge deal.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said quietly. “I saw your aunt Billie earlier. She seems to be having a good day. She was playing Legos with Paul and Ronnie.”

  “She thought they were Eli and Cooper, didn’t she?” I asked.

  “Probably,” he said, nodding. “But she was happy and smiling. And at this point, we should be grateful she can have days like that. Alicia told me to thank you again for sending the aunties over to help at night while she bathes the boys and gets them to bed. She says it’s been a big help.”

  I shrugged. “That’s why we’re here. Nobody should have to shoulder all that responsibility alone.” Pops smirked at me. “Oh, hush,” I told him. “We’re not talking about me.”

  “Alicia also mentioned that you went on a date with her brother the other night.”

  “Are we going to braid each other’s hair now, Pops?” He gave me the stink-eye in response, so I sighed and said, “I went out on a date with Clay. And it was fine.”

  “And you’re making it sound like a trip to the dentist’s office.”

  “Why does everyone want to talk about my personal life all of a sudden?” I grumped, jumping and inspecting a wrench on the other side of the room. “Have you talked to any of those curious souls about your personal life?” he asked. I shook my head. “Are you likely to?” I laughed and shook my head again. He held out his hands and waved his fingers, as if to say, “Bring it on.”

  I sighed. “I like Clay. On paper, he is the perfect mate for me.”

  Pops nodded. “Clay is a good boy. He’s kind, he thinks before he acts, he takes care of his family—”

  “Do you want to date him, Pops?”

  Pops frowned. “We should have never encouraged you to speak. So, if Clay has balanced your pros-and-cons list, why aren’t you out there running with him, instead of hiding in this shed?” He smiled at me, triumphant. I never have been able to fool Pops.

  I picked at the engine grease under my fingernails. “There’s another man who seems interested in me. And he confuses me, mostly, but I like him, too . . . almost against my will. And I can’t do anything about it.”

  “Dr. Thatcher?” he asked, grimacing. “You know, Maggie, there’s nothing wrong with you dating a human. It’s mating with one that’s the problem.”

  “Why put the energy into dating someone if you can’t mate with them?”

  “The fun of it?” he suggested

  “Obviously, it’s been a while since you’ve dated, Pops.”

  “I do all right.”

  “Ew.”

  “You know that we want you to be happy, Maggie.”

  “Yeah, but when has telling someone to do what makes them happy ever resulted in a good decision? Remember when we told cousin Todd to do what made him happy and he came home with recently augmented boobs?”

  Pops gave me a stern look but was working hard to keep the snickering internal. “As I was saying, we want you to be happy. But you also have to think of what’s best for the pack,” he said. “Do you know why you’re the alpha?”

  “Because I got more votes than Samson?”

  Pops chuckled. “Because you see underneath. You cut through the layers of . . .”

  “Bullshit?”

  “I was going to say politeness,” he deadpanned. “And say what you think. It’s an undervalued quality for humans, especially in a woman. But after the initial sting, people appreciate hearing the truth.”

  “I have a feeling I’m about to get hit with some of that truth,” I muttered.

  “I
know you don’t like the idea of mating and marrying. And I know you hate it when one of the aunties declares she’s found the perfect male for you. You’re afraid that you’ll lose the independence you’ve built up. And you’re afraid of spending your life with someone who’s not going to make you happy. But you have to settle down sometime. It’s part of your responsibility as pack leader. You set the example, provide stability for the pack. And there aren’t enough werewolf males running around out there for the taking. If you think you could make a life with Clay, you should start now.”

  A tiny, petty voice welled up somewhere in my gut and grumbled that Cooper hadn’t bothered setting an example. He’d tied himself up nice and tight to the first human to break that thick cement shell he’d built around his heart . . . and his brain.

  As if he sensed my resentment, Pops added, “You’ve always been the strong one, Maggie. We both know Cooper wasn’t ever going to be ready to lead the pack, not really. I want him to be happy, and I’m glad that he found Mo. But it’s always been you. You’re the one who can make the hard decisions. You’re the one strong enough to make your own happiness, even if it’s not exactly what you wanted. I will love you no matter what you decide, but I can’t help but hope that you’ll make the choice that those around you could not.”

  “No pressure, huh, Pops?”

  He kissed my forehead and ambled toward the door. “If you want easy advice, ask a different grandpa.”

  “I don’t remember ‘asking’ for your advice,” I muttered.

  LATER, I WAS wandering home for a late lunch, wiping my hands on my overalls, and wondering if it would be weird for me to do repair work nude just to avoid the stains. I passed the community center and noticed an odd, acrid scent on the air. I followed it toward my office door and saw the first curling gray tendrils of smoke winding their way out of the splintered door glass. The motion of my yanking the door open pulled a cloud of thick smoke right into my face. I spluttered and coughed, pushing my way through to the growing plume of flame blooming from my desk.