Молли Харпер - How to Flirt with a Naked Werewolf

“It’s my pancakes,” I told him solemnly. “They inspire loyalty.”

“Stop that. Stop making jokes when I’m talking about you getting hurt,” he said, looking me in the eye now as his fingers wrapped around my arm, pulling me closer. The warmth of his hand burned through my clothes and traveled up my arm. “You have to—nothing can happen to you, do you hear me? You have to take care of yourself.”

My brow furrowed at his sudden shift in demeanor. “OK, I’m sorry.”

“Promise me,” he insisted, the timber of his voice lowering to a rumble that vibrated through my chest. “Promise me you won’t take risks like this again. That you’ll stay inside at night, where it’s safe.”

His mouth was close, his breath gliding over my cheek like a caress. The heat of it, the intensity, had me dizzy. Everything around me was fluid motion and bleeding color. But Cooper remained still and constant.

“Promise,” he whispered huskily.

“I promise, Cooper,” I said, reluctantly pulling away from him. The loss of contact seemed to sober him. He straightened, his face smoothing out from the worried lines that creased it. He reached down to pat Oscar. My little sausage-shaped buddy shied away from contact with the recognized top dog.

Cooper sighed. “Let’s get you and Oscar home.”

He lowered into a crouch. I saw the light of transformation spread this time, starting with the skin over his chest and moving to the long, rangy limbs. I was so caught up in watching that he’d almost completely changed when I spluttered, “W-wait, what are you doing?”

“Phasing,” he said, looking annoyed when he had to switch back to human. “That bear could circle back, and it’s best if it sees a threat right away if it catches up to us. Besides, I don’t like walking through the woods naked. The limbs are dangerous to my . . . parts. And it’s awkward being naked in front of you.”

I nodded. “Agreed.”

Cooper phased fully this time, the light rippling across his skin, leaving black fur and sinew in its wake. He gave a short bark to Oscar. I had a half-second to wonder whether they could understand each other when Oscar fell in line with Cooper and marched through the brush toward home, the two of them sweeping my flanks like some canine military escort.

Cooper led us to the porch. As relieved as I was to see the warm, yellow light pouring out of the windows, the smoke rising from the chimney, I wasn’t quite ready to leave the woods yet. I had too many questions for Cooper.

I stood there staring at him. Cooper let out a sharp huff and jerked his head toward my front door. I guessed I was getting the kiss-off version of the werewolf good night.

“Um, good night, Cooper.”

Cooper whined and blew out another breath.

“Happy hunting?” I offered. This seemed to pacify him. He let out another sharp, commanding woof to Oscar, who answered back with two staccato yaps. Cooper nodded his head and darted away, his black fur melting into the darkness.

I looked down at Oscar, who seemed to be standing at attention. I rolled my eyes. “Did you just get left in charge of me?”

Oscar let out a deep growl that would probably be quite intimidating to squirrels everywhere.

“Great.”

HELL ISN’T HOT. HELL is cold—eye-watering, tooth-chattering, razor-sharp goose bumps cold.

Winter started off small. Wanting to keep my coat on hours after I’d gone into the kitchen. Not being able to put my bare foot down on my bedroom floor without losing my breath. Then, one morning, I walked out the door, bundled into my thick down parka, felt the icy slap of the air against my cheeks, and ran right back into the house.

I was sleeping later and later each morning to avoid waking up in the dark. I was aware that my thin blood made the transition to cold weather worse. My pride was the only thing that kept me from arriving at work wearing a full-body snow-suit. But in the mornings, I would allow myself the luxury of burrowing under four full-size quilts and waiting until the last possible second to get up and get dressed.

And that’s exactly what I was doing when Evie came into my room on my next morning off and whipped the covers from over my head.

“I thought we were going shopping today,” she said, bouncing the mattress and jostling the pillow from under my head.

“This is a direct violation of the ‘tell your friends where your spare key is hidden’ trust,” I told her, huddled under the blanket.

It was Sunday. Evie needed to drive to Bulk Wonderland in Conover to get some supplies for the saloon. While they relied on suppliers for food and drink, it was cheaper to buy some restaurant paraphernalia in bulk and drive it home themselves. I jumped at the chance to go with her, which was just a sad commentary on the current state of my social life. We decided to make a girls’ day of it. The agenda included lunch, manicures, and buying industrial-sized air freshener for the men’s room.

“It’s so galdamn cold, I think my eyelids have frozen in place,” I whimpered. “What made me think I could do this? I need heat. I need to get into a car and wince when my legs touch the seat. I need to have reason to know all of the symptoms of sunstroke, which I had memorized by the time I was twelve.”

“You’ll feel better this summer,” she assured me. “The days will get longer. You’ll be able to peel down to two layers of clothes. Come on, Mo, you promised.”

I whined and pulled the comforter back over my head.

“If you don’t get up, I will mention this episode to Cooper the next time he comes into the bar. Imagine the taunting that will follow.”

I gritted my teeth, whipping the covers from over my head. “You’re a hard woman, Evie DuChamp.”

“Don’t you forget it,” Evie said, patting my head. “By the way, did you say ‘galdamn’ back there?”

“There’s an inverse relationship between my temper and my ability to control my accent. If you hear me say ‘Fiddledeedee,’ run for the hills, because I’m getting ready to take out bystanders.”

Evie coaxed me into the car with the promise of mocha lattes and shopping malls. I thought it might be a little strange at first, to spend time together away from the Glacier. But on the long car ride there, Evie cranked up the B-52s, and we sang hideous renditions of “Love Shack” and “Rock Lobster.” I was grateful for the distraction. It kept me from firing questions about Cooper at her for two hours, and it was nice just to be silly and girly for a little bit.

When you live in a place as rough and Spartan as Grundy, the little feminine things you do for yourself are the first to go, such as pretty, impractical shoes and hairstyles that won’t stand up to wind or a knit cap. But by the time we passed the Conover city limits, I wanted to curl my eyelashes and gossip about prom dresses.

Conover would have been considered a midsize, average town in Mississippi, but I was surprised at how crowded and metropolitan it felt now that I’d spent so much time in a one-street village. I felt a little dizzy as we buzzed through heavy traffic, intersection after intersection. The blazing neon signs for McDonald’s, Best Buy, and Kmart seemed painfully bright. I realized with a touch of disbelief that I’d adjusted far too willingly to a quiet, weather-centered existence, that I’d probably never be comfortable in a big city again.

Lunch was at a frou-frou café called Anjou that served mostly salads and quiche. Evie had wanted to try it for years, but Buzz refused to go in on principle. We stopped at a brutally pungent strip-mall nail salon and soaked our hands in a mixture the manicurist refused to divulge the ingredients for—though she did confirm that we weren’t allergic to shellfish before dunking our hands. That made me nervous, but Evie seemed to take the possibility that we were soaking our fingers in crab goo in stride. Evie had her fingernails painted a deep wine color that would have looked ghoulish with my skin tone but complemented her russet hands. Since cooking and general nervous nail biting kept my nails short, I opted for a deep cuticle massage and a coat of clear polish. No one wants to find flecks of iridescent pink in their chili.