A Wolf After My Own Heart Page 2

  Chapter 3

  There was a swinging door between the kitchen and living room, and Lila blessed it. Which was a switch from earlier, when she’d been carrying boxes and mistimed the swing (“Ow, God damn it!”).

  But now the contrary thing concealed her for a crucial few seconds, and when whoever-it-was pushed at the door and came through, she had the barrel up behind his ear before he was all the way in.

  “Jesus, you Domino’s guys are persistent,” she hissed. “I told you. I. Don’t. Want. Any. Pizza. Jackass.”

  “Please. If I was delivering pizza, it’d be Green Mill.”

  That startled a laugh out of her. She had to give it to him, he didn’t sound rattled in the slightest. And he was distractingly good-looking. Not every guy could pull off the classic Caesar haircut. Or had eyes the color of forest moss.

  Forest moss? Time to get laid. Not by this guy, though. Most likely.

  His looks made up for his clothes: He was wearing scruffy slacks, a shirt he hadn’t bothered buttoning up all the way (which revealed the shoulders and abs of a swimmer, which was even more irritating), he didn’t have a coat, and…was that blood on his shirt cuff?

  “Trespassing,” she prompted. “That’s you. That’s what you’re doing for some ungodly reason. Right now. In my house.” She started to walk him back into the kitchen. Once he’d kicked the door in, she hadn’t heard anything but footsteps, so hopefully her half-assed plan was going to work. She wasn’t afraid of him—not exactly—but there was the cub to think about. And he had just broken in. But she had no sense of real danger from him, and her gut instinct about people had yet to let her down. Still, precautions had to be taken. “Also, you noticed the gun, right?”

  “The one you’re aggressively cleaning my ear with?” He tried to move his head away; she followed the movement with the barrel. “Yeah, that didn’t escape my attention.”

  “You want to see aggressive cleaning? Break in again.”

  He rolled those green, green eyes at her and scoffed. Scoffed. She should have been irked but had to give it to him: The guy had some plums. “Aw, c’mon. This is America. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a gun in my face this month. Which is a huge problem, by the way. How many hoops did you even have to jump through to get that thing? Not very many, I bet.”

  Seriously with this? “Yeah, let’s leave your personal politics out of it, okay?”

  “Plus, it’s not loaded—Jesus!”

  She used that moment of inattention to drive her toes—clad in her second-favorite pair of steel-toed shoes—straight and hard into his ankle and, when he reflexively bent, Lila dropped the (empty) .380 and shoved him with both hands, hard. He toppled backward through the open basement door

  (shouldn’t have been in such a rush to get into the living room, pal)

  and she slammed it shut. And shot the bolt. It wouldn’t hold him for long, which was fine.

  She rushed into the living room, intent on her phone, only to pull up short when she realized

  “God damn it!”

  the girl–cub was gone.

  Chapter 4

  His own goddamned fault. He’d taken it easy on her. He’d been too interested in how she looked and smelled to pay attention to business. “I deserved to be pitched into a dark spooky basement,” Oz Adway announced to the air, then sat up and stifled a groan. “Ass first.”

  And everything had been going so…so…what was the opposite of “well”?

  After he tamped down his suddenly raging hormones and shifted, he’d tracked the cub and the yummy Stable to the wrong house, of course, and it was the Curs(ed) House, of course, and time wasn’t on his side, of course, so he had to drop everything (literally—the box of files had landed on his foot in his rush to strip) to rescue the cub and contain the situation.

  Plus his shoulder hurt from where she’d clipped him with the ambulance she drove for some reason.

  (Also she now smelled like honey and gun oil. Sweet and lethal. She’d take such good care of his cubs! Which wasn’t relevant to anything, so you’d think he could focus on the cub.)

  And he had to do all of it without scaring the Stable in question more than she already was, because Oz would sooner take on a raging werebear than a Stable backed into a corner. When Stables got scared, they thought up A-bombs and poisonous gas and reality TV. (To be fair, if he couldn’t shift, he’d probably be scared and grumpy and want to watch terrible people get kicked off a terrible island all the time, too.) So scaring a Stable in general was a terrible idea, never mind one who smelled like high summer in the country.

  Needless to say, in keeping with the entire goddamned day, nothing had gone right from the moment she’d nailed him like roadkill. More alarming/interesting, when he broke in, this particular Stable hadn’t been afraid, she’d been pissed. She hadn’t lost her head, she’d followed through on her plan. She hadn’t run, she’d met him in the doorway with a gun.

  Fantastic.

  Then he got a closer look at her.

  Fantastic. Curves, curls, glasses showcasing blue eyes that were lovely even when they were narrowed into slits. Short-sleeved red T-shirt and black denim shorts, though it was spring. Sharks on her socks. No shoes.

  Her curly hair had been his downfall. Not wavy. Curls that if you took one (gently!) and stretched it out (gently!) it would spring right back: pa-toing! And he’d been imagining exactly that when she introduced him to her basement. Ass first. With her foot. All he could do was watch the stairwell flip a one-eighty around him and then the cement floor jumped up and slammed into his back, which woke up his bad shoulder that hadn’t shut up since.

  You should apologize. And ask her out. And sire cubs on her.

  Whoa.

  What?

  He shook off the primitive thought which had come out of nowhere with such force it was like it wasn’t his thought at all, more like God yelling at him to hook up and make babies already, and tried to focus. Basement. Ass first. Cub in the wind. Stable in the NRA (probably). His sorta-sister, Annette, would laugh herself into a coronary when she heard. Which was the cherry on the sundae of the crap day that was today.

  He bounced to his feet with only the smallest of groans

  “Ag.”

  and limped upstairs, then paused at the door and listened, nostrils flaring as he tried to take in anything but moldy basement. Nothing, which meant she’d fled or was standing really, really still. Waiting. Probably upwind with the gun. Or worse, a lecture. Either way, he couldn’t exactly live in her basement, could he? (Nope.) Had to get back to the job at hand, right? (Yep.) Had to earn enough money to buy a good-sized house in the country for their cubs to romp and what the hell was that now?

  It took longer than he’d thought to break the lock—had to make it look like a Stable broke it—which made sense because it was that kind of day. She and the cub had both left by the time he made it back into the living room.

  Of course.

  Chapter 5

  In the end, there was nothing for it but to go back. “Because home is where you go to find solace from the ever-changing chaos, to find love within the confines of a heartless world, and to be reminded that no matter how far you wander, there will always be something waiting when you return.”

  “Not gonna lie.” Lila handed over a backpack bulging with toilet paper and heavy-duty trash bags. “That’s some real insight you’ve got.”

  “Not mine.” Rob blinked rheumy eyes while he pondered. He was slightly built, in a worn sweater, jeans so faded they were gray, and new running shoes. His hair was the color of his jeans, pulled back and secured with twist ties. He shoved up his sleeves, exposing bony wrists. “It’s Kendal Rob’s.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know who that is. He’s right, though. I’ve gotta go home. Well, technically it’s not my home yet. I mean, I only just signed the lease.” To the landlord’s instant and almost overwhelming delight. Which bore thinking about, but not right this second. “All my underwear’s still in boxes.” If that wasn’t “ever-changing chaos,” she didn’t know what qualified. “Anyway. Bye.”

  “Thanks for the stuff.”

  “Welcome.”

  Moving: pain in the ass. Figuring out what you can give away: actually enjoyable. It wasn’t the first backpack stuffed with essentials she’d handed over to a homeless person, and probably not the last. So the evening hadn’t been an entire wash. Just aggravating, stressful, and slightly expensive, like going to a John Wick movie.

  She’d fled the neighborhood, the wolf, and the guy who’d broken in, then checked into a hotel to give herself space and time. She’d thought about it half the night, pretending to mull her options, but she knew there had been only one, and what she was really doing was laying out the case for herself. Because the truth of it was she couldn’t afford to put the time, money, and effort into moving again, and she wouldn’t run. Well, she wouldn’t run far. And she wouldn’t/couldn’t call the cops. And it was her home, dammit. Her first house! Technically. As of yesterday.

  The stud she’d booted had nothing to do with any of her calculations. Because why would he? The wolf wasn’t a factor, either. She certainly wasn’t going back because she hoped to see it again, preferably at a safe distance. Or an unsafe one. No: This was about her pride. She wasn’t one to be run off.

  After Googling closest hotels, she’d booked something called an efficiency room at Hotel 340, whatever the hell that was. When she asked why management didn’t just commit to an extra twenty degrees and call it “Hotel 360,” she got a funny look.

  Turned out efficiency room meant “glorified closet” or, as the hotel called
it, “European style!” But she had to admit it was the nicest closet she’d ever slept in. Free Wi-Fi, too, which was vital. She’d also enjoyed some me-time with the shower nozzle, thinking about green eyes and broad shoulders until her knees wanted to give out, and once she was clean and dry she didn’t so much fall asleep as pass out.

  She made time the next morning to check out the library, which was also vital. Everywhere Lila lived, she immediately located: (1) the nearest ER, (2) the best grocery store, and (3) the library.

  She’d also been able to pick up a few necessities and donate merch on her way back to Lilydale. And so the time had come, because that box of faded hipster underwear wasn’t going to unpack itself. Nor was the box of cookbooks she never used to cook with.1

  She pulled up to her rental and eyeballed the place from the driveway. She’d thought it charming pretty much immediately, and that hadn’t faded even after an odd night.

  The house, built in 1920, was two-storied, slate gray with brown trim, and boasted an agreeably large front porch. (She’d never had a front porch before. Or any porch. Or a house.) The front yard was a typical suburban postage-stamp that probably took the owner all of fifteen minutes to mow, with a larger backyard that likely took twenty. (She’d never had a yard before, either.) Inside were laughably small bedrooms (she’d never had more than one and often not even that) and a laughably large kitchen (not hyperbole—she’d laughed out loud when she saw it), two baths (one just off the kitchen for some reason, in case you wanted to cook, pee, then cook more), dark hardwood floors, and lots of original woodwork. Too big for one person, but the price had been too good to pass up.

  The thing was a hundred years old, so instead of an open plan, it was chopped up into several small rooms, three of which had fireplaces in unlikely spots. (She’d never had three fireplaces before. Or one. Not since she was a kid.) The fireplaces made her nervous, natch, and she couldn’t look at one too long before her arms started to itch, but she’d had them checked over pretty thoroughly, made sure they were cleaned and cleared of decades of soot buildup. Off-street parking and a washer–dryer were definite pluses, but the detail that had sealed the deal was the mystery garden in back.

  If you went out the back-kitchen door, you’d see the detached garage (gray with brown trim, like the house), a stretch of lawn, and to the right a perfectly maintained smallish garden that she assumed had been lifted from the backyard of a London house way back in 1930. (No other explanation.)

  Thick trees crowded right up to the high fence, and there was a charming brick path leading through the lawn and coming to an abrupt halt at the far end of the yard. There was a small brown shed tucked in the corner, probably for rakes and a mower and lawn chairs and whatever else people needed sheds for.

  There was a small, black, wrought iron table and two chairs in the middle of the garden, which also had climbing vines and rosebushes on three sides. There was a small plot that would be perfect for herbs and tomatoes, maybe a salsa garden, and it was all tucked away and impossible to see from anywhere outside the house; the fence was that high.

  You could sit out there enjoying nature or wondering why tomatoes all ripened on the same hour of the same day, and no one would know what you were doing. You could be by yourself or have company. You could relax in the backyard while a great big wolf rested at your feet, and you’d fix it lamb kebabs. You could grill or just enjoy sickeningly sweet margaritas or flip through a cookbook you’d never use or stream one of the Scream movies or all of the above, and they’d have to look so hard to find you. And they wouldn’t know you were in there minding your own business, you and your wolf friend, unless you wanted them to.

  Even better, the landlord straight-up told her that if she liked the place well enough, he’d be amenable to selling. So that was that. Lease, signed. Check, cashed. Boxes, unloaded. Smoke detectors, installed, checked, checked again. Weird bear cub (werecub?) rescued. Cops blissfully unaware of what transpired. Intruder dealt with.

  Intruder with merry green eyes and swimmer shoulders dealt with.

  And now she was back. But she’d take precautions. Well. More precautions.

  Home again, home again, jiggity—yeah, she’d never understood that one. Home again, then. Best to keep it simple.

  * * *

  1. What? Lots of people collect cookbooks they never use to cook with. It’s not weird. Shut up!

  Chapter 6

  She was she was she was here! Here in this old house that smelled like dust and

  (lemons)

  something sharp, something that would hurt his eyes and nose if he ate it and if she was here and he was here then she was safe but the other, the other

  (cub)

  girl, she was out in the world, out of his territory, but maybe maybe she would come to the house of dust and sharp smells and by now he’d prowled around twice and there weren’t any predators

  (there’s me)

  and the cub might come and then they would both be safe he would keep them safe and then his own cubs would come and he could make everyone safe not like not like

  (the time Before)

  when he was a cub, not like when he was small so that was that was good she was good and the cub was good and he would keep everyone safe and no one would be hurt and no one would die and leave him leave him alone.

  “Boy! Get gone! I might not be able to see you, but I can smell you.”

  (Mama Mac oh hooray!!!!)

  (oh shit)

  He jumped so high all four paws left the ground and he was grown he was a big wolf now and not a cub but he still wanted to run to Mama Mac and run away from Mama Mac because that yell meant trouble and he had to fall back had to slink from sight and smell and it was good because Mama Mac would keep her safe inside and he would keep her safe outside and maybe the cub would come and that was good it was all good it was very very very very good.

  * * *

  Lila hadn’t been back five minutes when the old-fashioned doorbell rang. It was really old-fashioned, the kind where you wound the button like a clock instead of pressing it, and instead of a charming ding-dong you got a loud metallic rasp that sounded like the house was giving you a raspberry: bbbbrrrrraaattttttttt!

  “Let the madness commence,” she announced. Or would it recommence? Was that a word? Also, who masterminded the whole “let’s make doorbells sound harsh and rude” plan?

  Bbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaatttttttt!

  “Jeez, give me thirty seconds to get to the door.” And on swinging it open (even on hinges, the front door was heavy): “Huh.”

  A tiny woman in purple was beaming at her. She could have been anywhere from her late forties to her early sixties; her face was mostly unlined (save for the network of laugh lines) but her hair was white, she looked delicate but had a firm grip, she had dark brown skin but light blue eyes. Her jeans were dirty at the knees, but her sweater was spotless. She’d chewed off her lipstick, but her purple eye shadow was flawless. She came up to Lila’s shoulder, which meant she was slightly taller than a mailbox. A bundle of contradictions, standing on her doorstep.

  “Are you here about the stray?” Lila asked.

  “Maybe. What kind?”

  “A dog, I think.” She’d gotten a bare glimpse of a lean canine fading into the shrubbery when she pulled into the driveway. Dog, her mind assumed, just like she would assume horse over unicorn. But now she was starting to wonder. The creature had been so fast, she hadn’t had time to see if it was limping from, say, being clipped by a decommissioned ambulance. “But maybe not.”

  “You wouldn’t think it, given how close we are to Saint Paul, but there are a few coyotes out in the woods back of your house. They won’t hurt you, though.”

  “Right, right. The old ‘they’re more scared of you than you are of them’ saying.”

  “No, they just can’t be bothered. And before I forget, welcome to the neighborhood!” This while shoving a plastic container at Lila.