Молли Харпер - How to Flirt with a Naked Werewolf

From this feminine haven, we were thrust into the gray, industrial reality of Bulk Wonderland. I helped Evie load boxes of paper napkins, paper towels, aluminum foil, and plastic wrap into the cart. I couldn’t seem to stop myself from buying the ridiculously oversized bottle of shampoo and the huge box of tampons. I also purchased a one-hundred-count box of condoms, which I tried and failed to hide from Evie.

“Alan’s asked me to dinner again this week,” I told her. “You never know what could happen.”

Evie had stopped in her tracks but recovered enough to say, “Oh, you know that we’re going to spend a lot of time talking about that, maybe even the entire drive home.”

As we wandered among the shelves of Bulk Wonderland, I went into hoarding mode. In truth, I was getting more worried about the approaching winter. I found myself constantly checking my cabinets. I worried about keeping enough personal groceries on hand, about keeping the baking supplies I needed for the saloon. Did I have enough eggs, cereal, toilet paper? Should I buy more in case there was some drastic change in the weather? I started throwing weird items into my cart—a three-pound jar of peanut butter, a 120-count box of Sno Balls, enough chocolate chips to sink a battleship. When Evie caught me buying a six-pound block of cheddar cheese, she went into what she called a “first-winter intervention.”

“Sweetheart, it’s important to keep emergency supplies on hand, but you’re venturing into crazy survivalist territory,” she said, prying the cheese out of my hand. “Most people keep enough in their homes so they won’t have to go out in the really nasty weather, but it’s never gotten so bad that your truck couldn’t get to Hannigan’s or that someone couldn’t get to you. It’s not like you’re going to be reenacting scenes from the Donner party.”

“I know, I know,” I grumbled. “It’s just, it’s getting colder, and I know the first big freeze of the winter is coming up. I’m a little nervous.”

“Don’t be. You’re going to be fine. Besides, the first freeze is big fun in Grundy. We have a big party at the saloon, lots of food and dancing,” she said, grinning as she tossed more sensible supplies into my cart—batteries, a case of bottled water, powdered milk, cans of Sterno. “It’s a great time.”

“Why would you celebrate the first freeze of the year?”

Evie shrugged. “For a lot of people, it’s their last chance to socialize. Afterward, most people don’t make it into town to visit.”

I cried, “I thought you said it didn’t get that bad!”

“I said that people don’t make it into town, not that they can’t. If you had to decide between staying at home, where it’s cozy, or trudging through two feet of snow just to run into town for toilet paper, what would you do? The Big Freeze is a tradition passed down generation to generation,” Evie said solemnly. In a hokey “resonant Indian folktale” voice, she added, “For many moons, it has provided a way for unattached men and women of Grundy to find the person they plan on shacking up with for the season.”

At the look on my face, she burst out laughing, with just enough malice that I wasn’t sure if she was kidding or not.

“There’s not a lot to do here during the winter.” She shrugged. “It’s either sex or curling.”

I shuddered in horror at the thought of any sport that involved ice, heavy stones, and brooms. “I’ll take the sex.”

Evie winked. “That’s my girl.”

“But not with Cooper.”

“Well, now you’re just being obstinate,” she huffed.

For most of the ride home, Evie and I argued over whether (a) I would attend the Big Freeze party as a guest or hide out in the kitchen where it was safe and (b) what I would be wearing. I insisted that I would enjoy myself much more if I was out of Leonard Tremblay’s range of fire. Evie insisted that I suck it up and dance like a big girl, preferably in the low-cut red party dress she’d seen hanging in my closet.

“No way!” I cried as we parked in the alley of the saloon. “I don’t even know why I brought it up here.”

“Because you look hot in it,” she said, climbing out of the SUV. “You know that, which is why you hauled it across a dozen state lines. Admit it, that’s your ‘going to get some’ dress.”

“I don’t have a ‘going to get some’ dress,” I insisted, cringing when she dragged my bulk box of condoms out with a flourish.

“Exhibit A,” she said, looking down her nose at me.

“Fine, it’s my ‘going to get some’ dress.”

Note to self: Find Evie a hobby that doesn’t involve getting me laid.

BUZZ’S HAND HEALED, but he hadn’t mentioned coming back into the kitchen. He was devoting his attention to inventing new ways to use Jägermeister. Please, Lord, let me never hear the words “Jäger ’n’ eggs” again. Breakfast should not burn on the way down.

In other medical news, Susie Q had been released from the hospital. Since she lived alone and would need pretty steady care for the next few months, her doctor told her to move down to West Texas to live with her daughter for a while. Susie’s grandkids were supposedly allergic to dogs, so I would be playing hostess to Oscar for a little while longer—most likely, permanently, but no one had the heart to tell Susie.

Grundy was already a little less fun without Susie’s big hair and sassy Western wear. It seemed bizarre to plan a menu and pick out party decorations when one of our own was leaving town on a gurney. But Evie and Gertie said the Big Freeze was one of the highlights of Susie’s year, and she would have wanted us to go on with the dance. We planned to put her picture on the bar, with a little candle and her favorite beer.

Such was life in any small town. Tragedies knocked the population on its collective butt and were chewed over for weeks, and then adjustments were made. We knew we couldn’t do more for Susie Q, so we tried to go back to normal. The lunch crowds found something else to talk about. Gertie took over the postmaster position, which meant I was actually getting mail delivered to my house, a new and unexpected luxury. And Gertie seemed to enjoy being a “working gal” for the first time in her life.

Alan spent weeks tracking “Susie Q’s wolf” through the area. He found tracks circling through town, but nothing else. No animal remains, scat, tracks, nothing. He never even saw an actual wolf. What astounded him most was the number of times he was led past my house while tracking wolf signs.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, Mo,” Alan told me one afternoon over a cheeseburger platter. “It’s like you’re living on some sort of wolfy scenic route. I can’t believe you haven’t seen anything.”

I giggled, the hysterical edge giving my laughter an authentic ring. I tried my hardest not to sneak a glance out the window, where I saw Cooper parking his truck near the curb.

“Nah, the only thing I’ve seen out my way was a bear a little while back.”

Alan’s eyes widened in alarm, and his hand reached out reflexively for mine. Oh, crap. I probably shouldn’t have said that. Sure, it was better than blurting out, “Oh, well, I have a werewolf who drops by every once in a while.” But now I had to give Alan a heavily edited version of the bear incident and find a way to tip off Cooper so he wouldn’t slip up.

I gave Alan a quick and dirty explanation, cautiously omitting exactly how close I’d gotten to Yogi’s bastard cousin and how involved Cooper had been in chasing him off. I tried to ignore the way Alan’s jaw tightened when he heard that Cooper was at my house. That didn’t bode well.