To Kiss a Werewolf

by Molly Snow

  His chest still pressed to hers, she felt a familiar, nearly forgotten “thud thud-thud thud-thud.”

  Damien lightly pulled back and looked into her eyes. She felt something else unusual. A hand went to her cheek, rubbing away something wet.

  She spurted a laugh of astonishment. “What’s going on?” The beating rapped delightfully harder against her chest.

  Damien smiled and shook his head at the surprise, then pretended to whine, “Does this mean I have to get a new decal?”

  The end.

  Read on, for info on the author and other titles.

  Thank you for reading To Kiss a Werewolf! I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are always appreciated. ~Molly

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  BeSwitched

  BeSwitched Witch

  Royally BeSwitched

  BeSwitched in Time

  Head Over Halo

  To Kiss a Werewolf

  To Date a Werewolf

  (Under Claire Kane:)

  The Riddles of Hillgate

  Cruise to Murder

  Hexes and X’s

  Legend of The Lost (coming soon)

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  TO DATE A WEREWOLF (Werewolf Kisses, #2)

  ABOUT:

  Maggie’s young, flirty and extra curvy, but she has a teensy-weensy problem. She’s a zombie. Costly manicures and wigs won’t always hide the fact that she’s decomposing at an increasingly rapid rate, either. She needs a cure. Like now. And a werewolf’s true-love kiss is the only solution.

  SAMPLE:

  The song Baby Got Back blared from a radio on a bathroom counter chock-full of beauty products. Maggie rapped along as her thick fingers rummaged around in search, scattering lipsticks and eye shadows as she went. Finding what she was looking for—Cream to Stop the Scream™—she squirted a liberal amount of the anti-decaying lotion into the palms of her hands and began “wax on, wax off” movements across her cold, plump cheeks.

  “That’ll do the trick,” Maggie said with satisfaction. Her skin tingled and tightened up in response, like she got an instant face lift. She repeated the process two more times, all while shaking her booty to the music.

  Next was makeup—she couldn’t forget the false eyelashes—and then shimmying her curves into a red dress two sizes too small. If skinny girls could do it, so could she. Besides, what was better to gawk at than a pair of hot and huge biscuits?

  After five squirts of a minty wash to douse her chronically bad breath, she exited the bathroom, and sunk into her apartment’s living room couch. She grabbed the newspaper off her coffee table and read her personal ad for the hundredth time, to pass the time: “Blonde, curvy bombshell seeks hairy man who can bench press a truck.”

  Perfect. If that didn’t send a secret call out to all available werewolves in her area, she didn’t know what would.

  It had been a really long time since Maggie had a date. Okay, nearly a century. She was only some-what embarrassed to admit that to herself. The guys her parents had set her up with weren’t her type by a long shot. Maggie could withstand freezing temperatures—she was icy herself—but her idea of romance did not consist of mashing two sets of igloo-lips together. And that’s exactly what it feels like when zombies kiss.

  No, she did not want a zombie boyfriend. She wanted heat. She wanted fire. And the only creature who could supply so much warmth that she’d need a good hosing down afterward, was a werewolf. Now that her dear parents were conveniently out of the picture once and for all, she could go after her dreams.

  And so she sat there, hoping that the guy who’d soon be ringing her doorbell was a hunky animal of a man. It could happen. Stella, the president of Maggie’s old Paranormal Addicts Anonymous meetings had snagged a beastly beefcake. Not only was he a werewolf, but his true-love kiss had turned Stella from undead to alive. Yet another reason to fall in love with one!

  Ding dong!

  If Maggie had a beating heart, it would have leapt out of her chest at the sound. She stood and smoothed her hair that went just past her shoulders (a wig, since her hair stopped growing), then plastered a big smile on her face before opening the door.

  It was a vacuum salesman.

  “Son of a biscuit!” She eyed the hopeful man on her doorstep, lit by her porch light in the darkness. “No, I don’t want a five-thousand-dollar vacuum. Especially at this time of night.” His jaw dropped, and before he could give her a coupon or say “but,” she slammed the door in his face.

  Normally, she wouldn’t be so rude. Many sales people came to her door: selling lawn care (though, she didn’t own a lawn), pest control (though the only pests were them), books (never the type she’d actually ever buy, anyway. No one totes around paranormal romances door to door… unfortunately), and the list went on and on. No, normally she was never rude. Normally, she would stand there a moment, listen to their spiel, and then politely say, “Excuse me, but I have a soap opera waiting.”

  “I have got to get a ‘no solicitors’ sign, pronto,” she said, rubbing her forehead and looking at the clock above her TV. 7:35. The guy was five minutes late. Five minutes late, when waiting for your first date in forever, feels like forever. She knew the cool thing to do was continue primping herself, so that when the guy came to the door, she’d have to answer it late, and make him wait a few more minutes until she was done. But forget it.

  Ding dong! She whipped toward the door, and pulled it open like there was a pizza delivery. It was the vacuum boy again.

  “What did I tell you?” she snapped.

  “I’m s-sorry,” he stammered. “You shut the door on the cord.” He abruptly bent down and wound it tightly against his contraption.

  “Oh…” She stood there, looking at him blankly a moment. “Sorry about that. Goodnight, and, um, have a lovely evening.”

  It was too late for encouraging words, though. The guy high-tailed it out of there, and Maggie couldn’t help but watch him the entire time, as he rushed across the apartment’s parking lot to his van, bumping along his cleaning contraption. She didn’t mean to scare him. For a zombie girl, she actually was quite polite. It’s not like she chased anyone around, trying to steal their brains… at least, not in almost a century.

  The next time the doorbell rang, Maggie forced herself to calmly approach her awaiting guest, have some self respect. She peeked out the peephole, and all she could make out were chest hairs—that was good news, under the circumstances—bushing out around a gold chain necklace. Tacky. But she could deal with his flair for 70’s jewelry if he indeed turned out to be a werewolf.

  Maggie opened the door, and saw a man who could have been Hagrid’s brother of all people. He was massive. So tall he had to duck his melon head, just so he wouldn’t knock it against a lone lit light bulb. On the bright side, she quickly determined that standing next to him she could pass for a size five.

  “Hey, pretty woman.” Maggie had to shield her eyes from the gust of wind coming from his mouth. “Pleased to meet you.” The second strong gale blew back her bangs, and she hoped her eyelashes were glued on enough.

  “You… um… can bench press a truck, I presume?”

  “Two,” he simply said. She was thankful for the brief response, as all it offered was a light breeze across her cheeks. The next thing she knew, they both successfully stuffed themselves atop one of those little scooters you always see on Italian streets in romance movies. Her arms couldn’t even reach around his stomach; instead, she got a good grip of the sides of his leather vest (no T-shirt underneath), and desperately hoped they didn’t look like two sausages smooshed together on a stick with wheels; she soothed herself with the thought that in comparison to him, she was more like a littl
e smoky.

  At the Irish pub, her date was downing drink after drink without breaking a sweat. She actually hoped he got a little tipsy so she could get him to open up to her about his situation. She took a matchbox from beside the ketchup bottle, and thought it all over, as she re-lit the tea-light candle sitting in its vintage glass votive between them.

  Was he a werewolf, or wasn’t he? He sure was big and hairy—that was incredibly obvious—but even if he were her favorite paranormal creature, who held the cure to her zombified condition, could she fall in love with him? For the kiss to work, for it to cure her, love needed to be there.

  He belched, and the candle was blown out. Could she even like him?

  Maggie imagined rating her desperation on a scale of 1 through 10. She was wavering around 9, but as she narrowed her eyes at her date, studying his repulsiveness, she had to admit she wasn’t that desperate. This guy needed a girl to be at a 10, or completely-off-the-charts loony.

  And so Maggie stood up, threw a wad of cash at him for her half of the bill.

  “Where you going, babe?” he called after her, sending a gust of wind that rippled her dress.

  Maggie turned to him, and lied. “The Bachelor is coming on in six-point-five minutes, and I need to see who’s getting a rose.”

  The guy sat there, looming his gigantic torso over the table, with his mouth hung half open. “But-but-but…”

  “I’m so happy you understand.” The fed-up bachelorette spun in her heels gracefully, and out of there she went, to catch the next transit back to her awaiting apartment.

  First date, checked off the list. Was he a werewolf? Who knew. One poor experience, though, was no reason to give up. And so when the bus came by to sweep Maggie away, she sighed in relief and anticipated next Friday night.

  End of Sample. (Book coming this February)