Молли Харпер - Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men

For David, who puts up with a lot.

Best. Husband. Ever.

AcknowledgmentsThanks go to my husband, David, who encouraged me when I needed it, listened to me dissect every little detail of the publishing process when I was excited, and, finally, told me to stop whining and start working when I was slacking.

My eternal gratitude to Michele Bardsley and her army of fellow paranormal romance authors, who taught me the secret art of book promotion. Long live the League of Reluctant Adults. To Brandi Bradley, for her endless patience and support. And to my new friend, Rachel Smith, always gracious, always snarky, always willing to drive twenty minutes for coffee. To my sister and personal archivist, Manda, thanks for putting up with so many phone calls. To Mom and Dad, thank you for everything that you do for me. To superagent Stephany Evans, my gratitude for sticking with me through so many drafts.

You are some sort of copyediting saint. To Jennifer Heddle and Ayelet Gruensphect, who are always willing to answer silly questions and have made this process so much fun, please know how much I appreciate you.

With foot and paw planted in the human and animal worlds, were-creatures mix techniques from both cultures to secure relationships. This can lead to lifelong happiness or a very confused potential mate.

—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

“I can’t do this.”

“Jane.”

“It’s just wrong,” I whimpered. “It defies the laws of nature, the thin line that separates good and evil.”

Zeb rolled his eyes and snapped the bridal binder shut. “It’s just a dress, Jane.”

“It’s a puce dress, Zeb.”

“Jolene’s getting it in peach.” He grunted, clearly at his limit in dealing with whiny undead bridal-party members. “Why are you being so difficult?”

“Why is your fiancée insisting that I dress like Naomi from Mama’s Family?”

“It’s not that bad,” Zeb insisted.

“Not that bad?” I opened the binder and pinned the offending picture with my finger. The model’s defiantly blank expression could not mask her embarrassment at wearing this sateen nightmare. It was off the shoulder, with a wide ruffle of retina-burning color that gathered at the cleavage with a fabric cabbage rose. The traditional butt bow actually connected to what can only be described as a waist lapel.

Despite not having that many girlfriends, I had been a bridesmaid three times in ten years.

Apparently, I was tall enough to “match” the rest of the bridal party for Marcy, my college roommate from freshman year. My sophomore roommate, Carrie, had a cousin who had the nerve to get pregnant, and I just happened to fit the cousin’s abandoned bridesmaid dress. I’m pretty sure my junior roommate, Lindsay, only asked me because she wanted “plain” bridesmaids. She said something about not wanting to be outshone on her big day.

I was thankful to get a private room my senior year.

My sister, Jenny, never even considered making me a bridesmaid. Ironically, her reason for not asking me—not liking me—resulted in this inadvertent and certainly unintentional kindness.

I’d suffered butt bows. I’d carried those stupid matching shawls that never stayed on past the ceremony. I’d worn Mint Sorbet, Periwinkle Fizz, and Passionate Pomegranate—all of which translated into “hideous $175 dress with shoes dyed to match, neither of which you will wear again.”

And now, Jolene McClaine, the betrothed of my best friend, wanted me to wear the ugliest dress of them all. Jolene and Zeb had met at the local chapter of the Friends and Family of the Undead, where Zeb had sought help after my new undead condition left him even twitchier than usual. It was your basic love story. Boy meets girl. Boy dates girl. Girl turns out to be a werewolf. Boy and girl get engaged and slowly drive me insane.

In a way, I brought the two of them together, which meant I had no one to blame for this hoop-skirted fiasco but myself. I knew the whole point of having bridesmaids was dressing them like circus folk so you would look better by comparison. But this was beyond the pale. I’d be lucky if angry villagers didn’t pelt me with rotten produce.

“This is why I wanted to go shopping with you!” I cried, flopping back on the couch with the boneless petulance of a teenage orthodontia patient.

“Well, the Bridal Barn closes at about three hours before sunset, Jane. So unless you’re willing to risk bursting into flame just to exercise your control issues over a stupid dress, I think we’re out of options.”

“Hmmph.”

I hadn’t been a vampire for very long, so sometimes I forgot about the limitations of my condition and the pains Zeb took to avoid throwing said limitations in my face. It didn’t mean I was going to wear that monstrosity of a dress, but I would at least stop giving Zeb a hard time. I had developed a nasty habit of needling Zeb since he’d started planning his wedding. Zeb had been my best friend since … well, forever. I was used to having his undivided attention. Of course, he was used to me breathing and eating solid foods. We’d both had to make adjustments. He was just much better at them.

It seemed doubly cruel to pick on Zeb now. While some members of Jolene’s family were thrilled that she was marrying a nice guy with a stable income and his own home, there were several uncles who declared the union “clan shame, “the werewolf version of a shandeh.

Werewolves are the most highly evolved were species. They have the most regular change cycle and the most complete, dependable changes. Being natural pack animals in both forms, they also have the most stable social hierarchy. There is an alpha male mated to the female of his choice, who becomes the alpha female. While the lesser clan members have property rights and general free will, all major decisions must be filtered through the alpha couple, particularly the alpha male. Everything from mate selection to business management has to be deemed for the good of the pack.

Jolene’s family was one of the first to settle in Half-Moon Hollow. Their farm was now home to the clan alpha couple, Lonnie and Mimi McClaine, their three children, eighteen aunts and uncles, and forty-nine cousins. Jolene was the last unmarried female in her generation, which is not to say she had been without proposals. She’d been courted by scions of several prominent werewolf clans. Her own cousin Vance—a tall fellow who reminded me of Jethro from the Beverly Hillbillies, only more broody—had made several failed bids for her paw since she’d turned seventeen. But it was my gangly, goofy, incurably human BFF who stole her heart away.

Lonnie had to tamp down Vance’s open griping about Jolene’s engagement with a visit to Vance’s trailer. It was the werewolf equivalent of a trip to the woodshed. Vance responded by driving to Zeb’s house and peeing in his yard. Apparently, you have to be a male or a wolf to understand what an insult this was. In a werewolf pack, you cannot interfere with the mate choice of a clan fellow. You cannot intentionally harm that werewolf’s chosen mate. You are not, however, required to help that person should he find himself in a life-threatening situation. Somehow, Zeb had managed to stumble into several such situations in the few months since he’d been engaged to Jolene. He’d had several hunting “accidents” while visiting the McClaine farm, even though he didn’t hunt.

The brakes on his car had failed while he was driving home from the farm—twice. Also, a running chainsaw mysteriously fell on him from a hayloft. He would never get that pinkie toe back. Jolene insisted that her relatives were just being playful. I insisted that Zeb not venture out to the McClaine farm without a vampire escort, which certainly hadn’t improved his stance with the future in-laws. Despite the grudging acceptance they offered Zeb, most of the clan was distrustful of vampires. Some, in fact, wore vampire fangs around their necks, next to the gold-plated charms that spelled out their names.