Page 5 of A Wulver for the Week (Pine Ridge Universe)

I t’s not a date. It’s a meeting. Strategy. Planning. We can’t get a minute to ourselves at work. We need to eat. That’s all.

So why am I suddenly shaving my legs all the way up to my thigh and trading my comfy granny panties for my hopeful third-date thong just to go grab dinner at Pine Ridge’s only semi-upscale restaurant?

Could it be because of the little lines that Craig just blurted out without an ounce of smooth, mixed with the lilting Scottish accent I’ve only ever heard when he’s worked up? Phrases like “You look like an angel” and “any man lucky enough to date you” and the way he said he’d better get used to seeing me wet?

Sir!

Sir, we cannot flirt like that.

There is no way that voice, that hair, and those dark twinkling eyes have been hiding under my nose for five damn years and I only notice it now— after I’ve invited him to join me in five days of lies and family interrogation.

“Yes, that’s what happened, Minerva. Because that’s the kind of luck you have,” I snap at myself as I run my moisturizing blend of argan and shea oils through my curls, scrunching them so they bounce instead of droop. “There is no way in hell you can hit on him now, you know that, right? You’ll look like a crazy stalker, inviting him to join you as a plus-one ‘as a friend’ and then asking him out for real? He’ll think that was your plan all along. Ugh!” I’m so pissed at myself right now. If I had been a little more observant and a lot less busy, I might have asked Craig out for real years ago. Then we’d really be a couple. We might even be married.

You know what’s the most horrifying?

I’m wishing I’d scooped him up sooner, that I hadn’t been so blindly content, moving through life single and not looking to mingle—which means my mother was right.

I’m getting a rum and coke with my dinner. I need a drink and something to keep me warm since I won’t have that sexy bearded Scotsman to do it.

“ALL RIGHT, SO TAKE a look-see.” Craig holds out his yellow pad and shows me a hastily sketched family tree. Mine.

I push away the remains of my spare ribs and potato skins. (Diet be damned. Craig even insisted I take half of his brownie sundae.) “Okay, we have Aunt Belinda and Uncle Elijah with Gerri and Chris, and Gerri marries Barry. Then here are my parents, Dana and Chuck, and they have my brother Denton and me. He’s deployed right now, Germany, Air Force. He already said he can’t come to the wedding. I’m bummed about that, but happy because he was just home for Christmas and will be home for Thanksgiving—he thinks. Also, he knows me better than any of my cousins, and I won’t have to try to fool him.”

Would I be fooling him at this point?

I nod my way through Craig’s accurate family tree and all the sidenotes he’s written, like “Aunt Belinda, nice, but Type A all the way. Resting Bitch Face that could kill weak men.” I snort with laughter on that one.

“Uncle Nicco, actually from Italy. Will die if you tell him any major US pizza chain is ‘authentic Italian food.’ Once threw a bottle of olives at Uncle Elijah.”

“Craig. This is amazing. How’d you write so much so fast?”

“Reflexes. Speaking of which—” he snags the check from the waitress the second it lands on the table, whisking it away, “it’s my treat. I asked, I pay.”

“Okay, fine, but then I’ll ask you next time, and I have to pay.”

“Oooh. Is that a deal breaker? You have to pay?” He shakes his head. “I suppose I could learn to live with that. My instincts don’t like it, though.”

“Well, you won’t really have to let your date pay. It’s just two friends having a meal,” I laugh lightly, “and everything at the resort is included. You won’t have to do anything but tip, and I could live with that.”

“What else should I know? Should your love interest open your doors? Pull out your chairs? Bring roses or chocolate?”

Damn, he’s good. He looks up through lowered lids, eyes almost lost in a sweep of dark raven hair, pen poised. “I don’t know. That all sounds good. I’m a tough girl. Big girls don’t cry and all that. Pampering could be fun—for a week. But wouldn’t that get old for you? Is that what you like to do for your uh... partners?”

“Aye, I like to treat my woman like she’s a queen. She can be tough as nails, but I’d love it if she’d let me fuss over her a wee bit. I don’t see why showing a woman you’d spoil them is a bad thing—but in your family, what’s the norm?”

The norm? I can’t even remember my last name right now. I could be the “tough girl” getting spoiled and adored. “My mother would probably like to see me with someone attentive.”

“Good! I won’t have to act, then.”

For a second, our eyes lock and dance with questions, then slide back to the paper between us.

“Um. So, speaking of women,” I sip my drink and play for time, trying to recover from the way he said “my woman,” “I’m guessing there’s no gorgeous girl back in Scotland who might shank me when she hears about this?”

“No, no. My parents have been after me to find a girl for years now, but it’s hard. You know? They have to accept all of me.”

What’s so hard to accept? The accent? It’s hardly there, and when it pops out, it’s adorable. No, stirring , that’s the word. The beard? Some women don’t like beards, I get that, but I’m... I’m suddenly wondering how that would feel brushing against my shoulders as we sunbathe in bikinis and trunks, maybe in a secluded spot where my dozens of relatives aren’t.

“I’m sure you understand that. Why else would a beauty like yourself be single?”

I blink back to reality and stab the roof of my mouth with my straw. Beauty? Me?

“I’m sorry, I meant beautiful inside. And out! Obviously. Damn it, where is that waiter?” Craig tugs his collar and looks so miserable that I laugh.

“A surprising amount of men are little wusses and can’t handle being married to a strong woman who also comes home absolutely wrecked, dehydrated, ashy, and ready for a long, hard f— shower . Shower . I... My hot water bill is crazy,” I cover.

But he smirks—and I know no one at this table bought that bullshit I just tried out.

“Where is that waiter?” I demand into my now empty glass.

“Must be taking a break,” Craig groans and stretches.

Muscles ripple in long, lean, rangy lines. I never understood what that word meant before, but now I do. Lean and hungry... like a wolf that’s been tracking prey.

Stop that, Minerva! Craig is the sweetest man you’ve ever met. Honestly, girl. There’s nothing wolfish about this guy.

“Okay. Um. You a Braves fan?” I ask.

“Not especially. Hockey and rugby, lass. Those suit me.”

“Well for this weekend, prepare to listen to my father and uncles go crazy about major league baseball, spring training, and the opening rosters for any team in the league.”

“Got it. Borrow a book on baseball from the library.” Craig nods and takes a note.

“If you ever... if you ever need a fake girlfriend for when your parents are here from Scotland—sorry, that’s stupid. You’re too mature to lie to your parents.”

“They’d see through it too quick, Minnie,” he chuckles, adding some more notes to his legal pad. “I don’t blame you for wanting your week to run smoothly so you can just enjoy your cousin’s wedding without your mother playin’ matchmaker,” he says sagely. “I don’t think of it so much as a lie as a convenient confusion of terms. I’m a boy. And your friend.”

Never realized just how good a friend... My hand slides on top of his for a moment, lightly resting. “Sure are.”

“So, that’s all settled. No guilt.” He smiles—but unless I’m mistaken, he’s the one who suddenly looks guilty.

What’s he keeping from me?

Guess I’ll find out in two weeks...