Молли Харпер - How to Flirt with a Naked Werewolf

Hey, I find scrapbooking to be far more disturbing.

Knowing my limits in terms of self-denial, I’d hauled the entire collection with me to Grundy. It was kept in sturdy, labeled, individual boxes, carefully arranged on my closet shelf. And if I’d told Evie about it, there was no doubt she would have shared this with Cooper, too. The woman clearly had no scruples when it came to matchmaking.

“It’s just some exercise equipment,” I told him. “I know it seems like a silly thing to haul all the way up here. But there isn’t a gym up here, so no kickboxing, no racquetball. I didn’t want to gain forty pounds my first winter, so . . .”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it.” Cooper snorted. His tone implied that he didn’t expect me to make it through a winter, so weight gain was the least of my worries.

“Well, what do you do for exercise?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.

“Chop and haul wood, hike, you know, work to support myself?” he said pointedly.

“Right, what’s that like?” I asked.

Well, that was way more snotty than I intended it to be.

Cooper sighed, almost huffing out in annoyance. “Look, if Evie wants me to help you, I will. Just tell me when you want me to come over.”

The command, the irritation in his voice, struck a nerve. Out of everybody in town, why did this one person make me so angry? There were others who had been less than welcoming. Heck, Lynette still called me “Hey, you” when she called out her orders. But somehow, coming from Cooper, it grated on my nerves like steel wool.

I snapped, “I don’t. It’s fine where it is.”

“It won’t be fine when it starts to get cold and your engine block freezes because you can’t pull your truck into your garage.”

I gave my most saccharine smile. “Well, I don’t want to trouble you. I’m sure I can get someone else to help. Alan Dahling sort of made a standing offer.”

Cooper’s nostrils flared at the mention of the ranger. “Well, I guess it’s settled, then.”

“I guess so. But thank you anyway.”

I steered my cart around Cooper’s and tried to depart without any undignified flouncing. I changed my route around the shelves, deliberately avoiding Cooper until we somehow managed to hit the checkout lanes at the same time. Darby Carmichael watched me glare at Cooper while another girl checked him out at Register 2.

“Why are you giving Cooper Graham the ‘eat musk ox and die’ look?” she asked after he sauntered out of the store.

“I don’t think that’s the expression,” I told her.

“Have you ever had musk ox?” she asked.

“I have not,” I conceded. “You know how some people just rub you the wrong way? Well, Cooper’s my own personal sandpaper.”

“He’s like that with everybody,” Darby assured me. “Don’t take it personally. Some people were just born with a pinecone shoved up their butts. In Cooper’s case, it’s lodged sideways.”

“Well, that is an entertaining mental picture, so thanks.”

“You know what would really make him mad?” she asked, her eyes a-twinkle. “Dating Leonard Tremblay.”

“Nice try, Darby.”

“Well, you can’t blame a girl.”

I TEND TO bake when I’m upset. Or bored . . . or premenstrual . . . or if it’s a Tuesday. I’ll use any excuse.

When I got home, I unpacked my groceries and baked six dozen chocolate chess squares to take into work the next morning. Chess squares are a Southern delicacy, derived from chess pie, a custard pie that uses cornmeal instead of flour for thickening. And when I used Reba Reynolds’s secret recipe, they turned out a sort of combination of brownie and cheesecake. Grown men have wept upon tasting my chess squares.

I’m a little cocky about my kitchen skills.

My plan was to use them as a sort of opening volley to persuade Buzz and Evie to change the Glacier’s menu. It wasn’t that the Glacier’s food was bad, it was just a little bland.

Fine, fine, I was hoping to get them to change the menu because I was bored. But Evie had already let me change a few things, such as adding spices other than salt to the burger mix. While she’d never admit it to Buzz, who sat at the counter every day with a slightly sulky expression, Evie said the customers were happier with my cooking than with his.

My plan was to suggest small alterations, soups, omelets with lots of fillings, an expanded dessert menu. We would serve good, wholesome diner food that wouldn’t leave me smelling like Ronald McDonald at the end of the day.

While my last batch of squares was cooling, I turned on my computer and found that I’d finally gotten Internet access through the local phone company. It was surprisingly fast considering the distance the lines had to stretch. I had thirty-two new messages in my Hotmail in-box. Four of them were from Kara.

“Mo, I know you won’t have e-mail for a few days, so it’s sort of pointless to write, but I miss you already. It’s weird. We’ve lived hundreds of miles apart for years now, but it seems worse now that there’s an entire continent between us. I keep thinking, ‘I should call Mo and tell her this,’ and then I remember that (a) you’re not at your house anymore, and (b) not only are you no longer in residence, but you chose to move your sorry behind across the freaking hemisphere.

“So, here’s how I’ve spent the last few days: Terrible first date on Tuesday night with that guy from the gym. Turns out his sweating issues were not related to treadmill time. I thought I was going to have to towel off when he hugged me good night. Book club on Wednesday night, which I failed to read the book for. Let’s be honest, I joined the club for the free wine and readily available men. Thursday night, I quit the book club and joined a new gym. So, really, it was a very productive week.

“Dad’s birthday is this weekend, and I’m heading home, which will give me a chance to break the news about your move. I’m sure Mom and Dad will be thrilled for you, though.

“Please call or write when you can. Love, Kara.”

I snorted. Kara’s mother used to call us the Tortoise and the Hare. We moved at different speeds, but we usually arrived at the same place eventually. Kara was the tiny blond dynamo. I was the freakishly tall observer. You would think that sharing most of our classes, working together, and spending all of our spare time together would sow discord, or at least occasional cattiness, between two very different teenage girls. But Kara and I skipped over those friendship growing pains. She never seemed to mind that I basically took up residence in her home, taking up her parents’ time and attention. For her part, Kara insisted that I didn’t know what I was getting into, that her parents were intrusive and overbearing, too, but on a less obvious scale than mine. Still, I will never forget John and Reba Reynolds’s willingness to bring “that hippie girl” into their home, despite dire warnings from gossipy neighbors. I’d spent a lifetime among people who extolled the benefits of sharing and giving, and I was still awed by the Reynoldses’ generous souls.

Scrolling through her increasingly manic missives, I clicked on the message she’d sent me that morning.

“Mo, I am assuming from your lack of e-mail either that you have had trouble getting Internet service or that you have been devoured by a grizzly bear. Come on, woman, I want all the details. How was your drive? What’s your house like? What’s Grundy like? Are you meeting any nice people? Are there any stores in town? Do I need to have the National Guard airlift Diet Coke and Twizzlers to you? I’m dying here. If you don’t respond by Friday, I’m going to call you, long-distance charges be damned. Love, Kara. P.S. Don’t make me give your new address to your mother.”