“Hey,” I tell her gently, reaching out and curling my fingers over her wrist. “I...I'd be totally honored to hear your story.” I'm surprised at how serious I sound, but I really mean it.
Loren takes a deep breath, gazing at me from beneath her long lashes. “Seriously?” she murmurs, her voice hardly audible.
I sit up a little higher on my elbows, and I reach for her face, drawing it down to me with soft fingers. I kiss her deeply, for a long time, with a thoroughness that would make you think we hadn't just had sex for hours. “Seriously.”
Loren takes another deep breath, glancing down at the pile of pages on her lap. “I'm really nervous,” she tells me, flicking her glance to me, but I reach out and squeeze her hand, shaking my head.
“Don't be. You...you don't have to read it to me if you don't want to,” I tell her quickly, holding her gaze. “But I would really love it if you did.”
Loren's smile is soft as she glances at me then. And she nods, once. She picks up the first page off the pile, and she glances from me, back to the page, to me again. “Okay,” she tells me, clearing her throat. “Here goes nothing.”
And then she starts to read.
From the very first line, I'm kind of awestruck by Loren's skillful writing style. But, let's be honest, I'm even more floored by the subject matter. Because the main character of Loren's novel? Yeah. She's a werewolf.
The main character's name is Jo, and she's clever, funny...and, wow, she's very, very gay. And, yes, totally a werewolf. I've never encountered a character like this before. I mean, all of the werewolves in the few werewolf stories I know are about typically tragic figures. Hell, even the werewolf in A Lesbian Werewolf in London had her episodes of angst about “who she really was.” But Jo is a sexy optimist—with a serious crush on her human best friend, a gorgeous woman she can't help but fall in love with.
After four pages, Loren stops, taking a drink of water from the glass on her nightstand. She leans back against the headrest of her bed, gesturing down to the pile of pages on her lap helplessly. “Okay,” she tells me with a wince, closing her eyes and seemingly bracing herself. “What'd you think?”
I can't help it. I push myself up from the bed, and I pull her to me, kissing her deeply. Her mouth is surprised and stiff against my own for just a heartbeat, but then she laughs against me, wrapping her arms around me and kissing me back. I gently push a few of her blonde curls away from her face, tucking them behind her ear as I shake my head with a big grin when we finally break apart.
“Does that mean you liked it?” Loren laughs; she sounds excited, and I can tell that she is. Her eyes are wide, and her breath is coming faster.
“It was perfect,” I whisper to her, but then I'm kissing her again, tracing a path of kisses down her neck, down her midsection, as I start to taste her.
Loren is perfect, I realize, as I kiss her skin, realizing that I can't get enough of her.
She moans, throwing her head back, and she lets the manuscript flutter to the floor.
I'm proud of her, I realize, as I taste her again and again, honoring every inch of her body, memorizing it like a favorite passage from a book, running my hands lovingly over ever curve, learning her like language.
Loren is everything I ever wanted. And I'm in love with her.
How did this become my life?
I realize, as she whispers my name in the dark, wrapping her fingers in my hair, that I have never felt such immense gratitude. Gratitude that rips me open, filling me, making me whole.
But with the gratitude comes something else, something darker and deeper that races through my bones and blood.
Fear that something this wonderful could fall apart.
Fear that I could lose Loren.
Chapter 7: Winging It
We spend every night that week together at her place (Rob was right—mine really isn't ready for anyone besides the pizza delivery guy to see. And, you know, Rob.), and that “love” feeling is starting to grow. Every time I think about it, I decide that I need to do a whole hell of a lot less thinking and a whole lot more feeling. So that's exactly what I do. I enjoy her company; I enjoy just being with Loren, and that's enough for me. But, as much time as we spend at her apartment, we don't technically go on any other dates.
Because we're waiting for Saturday. Saturday morning, to be precise.
Our next date's all on me: I'm going to take Loren on a hike.
I spend all of Friday anxious to see her, going over and over the list of stuff I think I should bring for tomorrow morning. Loren's supposed to stop by Sports Mountain this afternoon to get outfitted with some hiking shoes, and that means she's going to see me at work for the first time.
This is all stuff I've never done before with a girl. I don't think any of my dates ever saw my workplace, unless that was where I picked her up. And I guess I'm super anxious, because I want to get all of this right.
I haven't ever been a girlfriend before, but I guess that's what I am right now. And it's equal parts totally unnerving and terrifying...and equal parts absolutely wonderful.
I'm trying to concentrate on the “absolutely wonderful” part right about now and ignore my worries that somehow, some way I'm going to mess this up (don't even get me started on her finding out about the werewolf thing).
Around four—when Loren said she'd be stopping in—I start to head toward the front door to meet her, and that's when I spot Loren's golden hair. I'd already scented her; I'd know her scent anywhere, and I'm able to pick it out of an entire room of people. My heart rises in my chest. I just saw her a few hours ago when I woke up to her in my arms, but seeing her again? God... It makes me so happy, it fills me with this lightness... It's honestly the greatest feeling in the world.
I start to jog across the floor, bee-lining toward Loren, but when I finally reach her, I realize that Dan is already giving her the customer spiel. Loren is laughing at something he just said, and Dan actually flexes his right bicep for her. Heaven knows why. To impress her? To prove what whey protein powder can accomplish?
“Seriously?” I ask him with a chuckle and a shake of my head. “Don't worry, buddy—I got this one, I promise.”
Dan stops in mid-flex, and then he draws a calculating gaze between the two of us, one of his brows rising knowingly. “Oh-h-h-h,” he says, drawing out the word for a solid minute. “You're the hot date!” he tells Loren then, with an enormous grin.
Loren laughs, shaking her head. “I'm what?”
“The hot date Becca went out with on Sunday night.” He gives me an approving nod and a wink. “I'll leave you lovebirds alone.” He's about to turn and go, but he thinks better of it and glances back at me, his grin even wider, as if that was possible. “And, hey, if you two need privacy, Peter and I usually duck behind the football mountain right over there for a makeout session.” He jerks his thumb toward the football mountain (which, as you might expect in a store called Sports Mountain, is an actual mountain. Made of footballs. They don't have a lot of imagination around here) and gives me another wink before ducking my solid punch that I'd been aiming at his enormous bicep.
I'm laughing as I take Loren's hand, and then I'm pulling her behind the wall of footballs, because why the hell not? I kiss her deeply, my hand at the back of her neck, reveling in the soft warmth of her skin, my fingers caressing the beautiful blonde curls at the nape of her neck. “Welcome to my world,” I tell her when we finally come up for air. I gesture backward, like I'm showing her a kingdom and not a sporting goods store. “It smells like sweat and rubber,” I tell her truthfully, “but, hey, I used to work in the fish market, so this is—believe it or not—an improvement.”
Loren tugs at my collar; I'm wearing the standard Sports Mountain uniform, a black-and-white checked polo with Sports Mountain scrawled across it in red embroidery and khaki pants. And then the best thing ever happens to that damn uniform as Loren glances up at me and impishly unbuttons the top button of my shirt.
My blood is ra
cing, but I try to keep it all casual (ha!), as I expertly draw a football out of the mountain of footballs. “Can I interest you in a football, ma'am?” I ask her, holding it out and giving her what I'm hoping is a charming smile.
Loren returns my smile with a sly one of her own as she takes the football. “I only play indoor sports,” she says, raising an eyebrow and fluttering her eyelashes to give me an indication of which indoor sport she's referring to. “One-on-one,” she purrs. And then she shakes her head with a sigh, tossing the football back to me. “But since you're determined to do this hiking thing...” She folds her arms in front of her, wearing the expression of a woman who really, really doesn't enjoy the great outdoors.
It look a lot of convincing to get her to agree to go on this hike in the first place.
“We'll have fun,” I tell her, gathering her into my arms and squeezing her gently. “I promise. Come hell or mosquitoes, you're going to enjoy yourself—I'll make sure,” I tell her with a little growl of my own.
Loren sighs against me and then glances up with a softer smile. “I know, I know. I'm kidding. I'm really excited about Saturday. I used to hike all the time when I lived in Colorado, but since I moved east, I've gotten...lazy.” She makes a face, wrinkling her nose so cutely that all of my insides melt instantaneously (and that can't be good for my internal organs). “Maybe some fancy new footwear will snap me out of my sluggishness,” Loren says, straightening and wiggling her way out of my arms as she starts to make a beeline for the shoes. “Do you have anything in pink?” she tosses back over her shoulder.
I glance past her at an entire wall of pink athletic footwear and chuckle. “Actually...”
A few moments later, Loren is seated on one of the footwear benches while I'm slipping a hot pink hiking boot onto her foot. I do this all the time for customers—it's one of the things we're known for here at Sports Mountain: our stunning customer service and good, old-fashioned way of doing things (seriously, when was the last time a store attendant put a shoe on your foot? But Sports Mountain does stuff like that, and, hey, we're still in business, so that's got to mean we're doing something right).
However, when I normally do this for customers, my hands don't tend to linger on customers' calves. But that's exactly what I'm doing now with Loren, my fingers drifting over her soft, smooth skin and eliciting a shiver from my shoe-ee.
“What do you think, Cinderella?” I ask her when I'm done lacing. I smile at Loren as she glances down at the shoe, turning it this way and that and considering it with a wide grin.
“Well, this certainly beats a glass slipper. I think you've got yourself a sale,” she says. She bounces up onto her feet and starts parading down the aisle, checking how the shoes feel on her feet; she even does some pirouettes for good measure. “Seriously, it fits like a glove—that's magic!”
I watch her walk, swaying her hips a little for my benefit, and as I feel my heart rising into my throat, as I feel everything inside of me melt again, I realize I'm thinking it, as cheesy as it sounds: No, you're magic.
But, sadly, the spell is broken by Loren glancing down at her wristwatch. “Oh, God,” she mutters, making a face, “I'm late. Dammit. I've got to get back to the store.” She sits back down on the bench and unlaces the pink hiking boots quickly, toeing her flats back on and standing up all in a rush, hitching her purse strap up higher on her shoulder. I put the hiking boots back in their box and hand them to her as she leans down and brushes her mouth against my cheek.
“Thank you for helping me,” she breathes into my ear, and I grin up at her, handing up the box, our fingers touching. “See you tomorrow?”
“Bright and early,” I promise. Then I reach up, grabbing her hand. I'm still down on one knee on the floor at this point, positioned in front of the bench, and when I bring the back of her hand to my lips, it elicits a little gasp from Loren. I glance up at her, and instantly, I can't stop grinning. Her face is red, her eyes bright.
“Better than Cinderella,” she repeats, almost as if to herself, as she crouches down in front of me. She sets the shoe box on the bench, and then she's gathering my face in her hands, bringing me to her. When we kiss, I drink her in, the strawberry of her lip balm, the warmth of her skin, the softness of her mouth, her spirit. She is so good, and I am so deeply and completely in love with her.
“See you soon,” she whispers when we break apart, and she kisses my nose quickly before snatching up the box of shoes and practically running toward the front of the store. I watch her jog away, crouching there for just a moment.
And that's when Dan comes around the corner. His cell phone is out in his hand, and for a minute, I think he's checking Facebook or something, but nope. He holds up the phone, and I can hear the snap of the phone taking a picture.
“What'd you do that for?” I grumble, rising to my feet and dusting the knees of my khaki pants off.
Dan grins hugely at me. “Because I had to capture this moment for posterity. Becca, the sworn free agent, is in love.” He bats his eyes at me, and I'm sighing already, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“Dude, seriously, I'm not in love,” I start, even though saying that feels drastically wrong. “We've only been on two dates,” I tell him, which is the truth. I shouldn't be falling for this woman so quickly. But...
“Well,” Dan says, brows up as he gives me an imperious glance, “you're well on your way. Come on—just look at your face!” He thumbs up the photo on his phone and hands it to me.
I glance down at the phone, completely startled. I'm crouching there in the photo on my heels, and my face is still turned toward the direction that Loren took. I've never seen myself with such a soft, dreamy expression on my face. I look so damn happy that I almost don't recognize myself. I look happy, yes. But I also look so...calm. So content. And that just isn't normal for me.
I frown as I hand the phone back to Dan, and immediately he frowns, too. “Hey, what's wrong?” he asks me.
I glance up at him as I shake my head, searching for the right words. “I...I just don't have any idea what I'm doing, Dan,” I tell him quietly. “I'm so afraid of messing this up. I...I don't have any idea what I'm doing,” I repeat, as if repeating it will denote the seriousness of this situation.
Dan reaches out and pats my shoulder hard. His eyes glint. “Do you think anyone does, Becca?”
I stare at him.
“Hey,” he tells me, shaking his head, “even the greatest baseball players alive are winging it half the time, hoping they'll get lucky and hit the sweet spot. That's life, Becca. Sliding into home base even if you don't think you have a snowball's chance in hell of making it in time.”
I rock back on my heels, stick my hands in my pockets. “Hmm. Sounds reckless.”
“Yeah!” he says, a big grin breaking over his face now. “The best things happen when you're reckless. Do you think Pete and I would be together now if I hadn't thrown caution to the wind? I didn't know if Pete was gay when I asked him out. He could've clobbered me... But, instead, he said, 'How's six o'clock work for you?'”
“I don't know, Dan...” I rub my hand over my face, sigh. “I've never done this.”
“'This'?”
“Dating,” I tell him miserably. “I've just never...tried.”
“Listen, Becca, is this woman worth the risk to you?” he asks me gently.
There's not a second of hesitation. “Yeah,” I nod.
“Then what are you afraid of?” He spreads his arms wide. “Steal the base! Go for the home run!”
As I glance up at my friend, smiling because I can't help it (Dan's enthusiasm is pretty damn adorable), I sigh a little. I can't tell him about the fact that my problem is much bigger than “I've never dated anyone before.” Because there's this enormous issue of being a werewolf. I can't tell him my werewolf concerns, obviously, so I just keep smiling weakly at Dan, and then I shrug. “We're hiking up to Willow Springs tomorrow morning. I've...” I work my jaw. “I've never gone hiking with a date b
efore. That's a good first step, right?”
Dan reaches out, and again, he pounds down on my shoulder with a friendly hand. “I'm proud of you. Before you know it, you'll be ready to experience a double-date with Pete and me!”
I laugh. “What, at a Red Sox game?” Dan is pretty much the biggest Red Sox fan in the entire universe (give or take).
Dan makes the sign of the cross and lifts his hands up in prayer to the sky. “Praise to the Sox, blessed be thy name!”
Overhead, the speakers rumble to life. “Becca, please return to the stockroom.” We were supposed to get in a shipment of Crocs today, and it sounds like it just arrived.
“Thanks for the talk, Dan,” I tell him, walking backward down the aisle toward the stockroom.
He salutes me. “Anytime. Remember—just slide it on home.”
“Sure,” I tell him. “I'll try.”
---
I canceled on my mother's standing dinner plans with me three weeks in a row. Though there is absolutely no part of me that wants to hear how much of a disappointment I am as a daughter (considering I've got a big day planned tomorrow), to cancel again would be pretty rotten.
So I show up to Pappa Joe's Italian Restaurant, braced to have a miserable time.
My mother is, of course, already there, even though I arrived at the restaurant a full half hour early in order to get there first. That's the thing with my mother. It's utterly impossible to get anywhere first when she's involved.
Ma's seated at a table right in the center of the restaurant. She's leaning back in her chair, her ankles crossed neatly to the side, and there are quite a few guys in the restaurant eyeing her legs. Her jet-black hair is done up in a high bun on her head, and she's wearing the hell out of little black dress, because that's what my mother does. She looks younger than her age, which we could chalk up to the fact that she's a werewolf, or because I'm fairly certain she's immortal and will be meddling in my life long, long after I'm dead.
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