Page 7 of A Wulver for the Week (Pine Ridge Universe)

S o, maybe I had a glass or three of wine while talking to Craig last night. I hate flying, but not as much as I hate thinking about flying, and last night I did a lot of thinking about so many things. I numbed my anxiety with fermented grapes instead of meds. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I wince through a crisp, bright spear of March sunlight and climb in Craig’s little gray hatchback. I think I told him I loved him last night.

And then I had a dirty dream that woke me up with my insides as slick as if I’d just had an hour-long session with my favorite historical romance bodice-ripper and my buzzing silicone friend.

“Put your kit in the backseat, Minnie, the boot is full of fishing gear,” he instructs, rushing to help me load my luggage.

I struggle with long garment bags, relieved that we’re flying first-class and have room to carry my bridesmaid’s dress aboard—and even more relieved that Craig isn’t acting weird. “I’ve never flown first-class,” I say.

“I hear we get champagne.”

“I might need some. I hate flying.” I sit in the front seat and rub my arms through my faded blue sweatshirt. Mama would want me to look like I stepped out of Vogue to travel, but I look like I rolled out of bed. I’ll worry about that after I land and my potential demise isn’t looming over me.

“I’m not keen on it, either. Boats, now, that’s another thing. Ships, cruises, that’s for me. Especially when they let you fish off the decks,” he chuckles.

“I think I’d rather cruise from New York to Florida. Do they make cruises like that?” Probably not on my salary... Not with my crappy amount of PTO, either.

“We’ll look it up on the plane. Next spring break, a cruise,” he rubs his hands, and his dark eyes glimmer.

Glimmer? Glint. I stare for a moment as I swear that something yellow peeps out from his dark irises.

Animalistic. Like... A wild cat or a wolf.

God damn that third glass of wine.

Wait, did he just say we’d go on a cruise next year? As in us ? Together ?

Man, I’m going to be so busy worrying about what I think he meant, I won’t have time to worry about dying.

I BABBLE WHEN I’M NERVOUS . I just casually tossed out that we’d take a holiday together next year! And she didn’t say no. In fact, Minnie is snuggled up against me, head leaning on my bicep as we both stare at my screen. “Ooh, look at this one—like a floating city! I’ve only been on a wee little cruise that went round the Scottish Isles, a tourist trap more than anything, but my mother’s mother, my Gran, she wanted to go—oh! This one goes to Miami—and the airfare back to New York is included in the package. Wonder if it’d be cheaper to book that leg of it ourselves. I mean, we’re saving a packet this year, aren’t we?”

“Mmhm, thanks to Gerri marrying Mr. Moneybags. Sorry, did that sound bitchy? He’s so nice; I don’t mean that he’s rich in a snobby way.”

“No, you sounded fine. So, Florida. Have you been there—yes! Yes, I remember now, you went twice before.” Damn it. The babbling keeps coming back. It’s a mercy when they call us to board.

“Ooooh,” Minerva clings to my arm when we rise, eyes shut tight. “I should have asked for something to take the edge off...”

I hoist all her bags and mine, sliding and bumping my way toward the gate as she clings and follows. “Go over the itinerary with me again,” I ask. “Tonight’s the big spa day?”

“No. No, the family dinner and a cocktail hour.”

“And tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner?”

“Beach day, and I think there’s going to be a luau. Also, I know what you’re doing, Craig.”

“What am I doing?” I ask, closing my eyes as she leans her head further against my shoulder, her hair under my muzzle, her scent enveloping me. I’m so high I don’t need a plane. I could fly to Florida in a hot air balloon, powered by the heat I’m giving off as her hand lands lightly on my knee.

“You’re distracting me.”

The plane begins to taxi down the runway, speeding up, wheels bumping and seats juddering as we leave the ground in fits and starts, eventually soaring high.

As the silvery nose of the plane climbs, Minerva’s gentle grip becomes tighter. I close my hand over hers and press my muzzle to her ear, hoping it feels like human lips. “I can distract you in other ways. Ways that I know will completely absorb your attention,” I whisper.

MY FEAR OF FLYING FADES as Craig’s hand closes on mine, his lips warm against my ear.

How can he distract me? Is he about to suggest we go into the spacious first-class bathroom and join the Mile High Club? Because I’m suddenly down for that.

Shit, I’ve pretended too hard and caught feelings before my mother even has a chance to look at Craig and reject him on sight...which is a real possibility. “Wh-what distraction?” I whisper back.

“Tell me the indications that LASIX should be used on geriatric patients with acute nephrotic syndrome and a comorbidity of congestive heart failure.”

I turn so fast that my nose smacks his. Our lips touch for a split second before I lean back, almost into the aisle, craning my neck to give him a “What the hell?” look. “What?” I demand.

“I...I thought asking you some questions to help you study for the CNO interview would get your mind off of other things,” he says with a bashful shrug of his shoulders.

I’m so turned on right now that it’s unhealthy. I would rip a hole in my comfy peachskin leggings and ride Craig like a cowgirl at a rodeo—if this wasn’t just pretend.

“No boyfriend, fake or otherwise, has ever remembered when I had exams for L.P.N, R.N., or now Chief Nursing Officer at the hospital. No one has ever cracked open a test prep manual to help me study, let alone to distract me from my silly fear of flying.”

“Aye, well... Seemed like a good plan.”

“It’s an amazing plan.” I swivel back in my seat to lean against him again. “I’ll answer that question once they bring us those little bags of pretzels.”

“All right, love,” he mutters against my scalp, almost as if he’s pressing a kiss to my head.

“We should... We should lean into this, shouldn’t we?” I whisper.

“What?” he whispers back, his hand slowly rubbing mine, our thumbs interlocked. The motion is soothing. Sleepy. Lazy.

Comforting and hot all at once.

I let out a shaky breath through my nose, hoping he doesn’t hear it and think it’s weird, or if he does, that he can’t tell what it means.

“We should lean into this—all this cute, couple-y stuff. It looks convincing,” I whisper.

“You’re so smart.” His head shifts. Moves. Lips gently press against my neck, and I close my eyes and breathe out hard so I don’t moan like a sex-starved spinster.

“I am?”

“And such a good actress.”

Fuck, when he’s pressing his nose into my neck like this, his voice is all muffled and growly... My nipples turn into painfully hard rocks, and the space between my thighs starts to throb in time with my heartbeat, every pulse a love tap on my clit.

“You’re an even better actor.” I reach back, hand running through his silky beard and up his sideburns into his lustrous dark hair.

I might be crazy, but it almost sounded like he said, “Who’s acting?”

“GOD, MY BUM’S NUMB ,” Craig groans and rubs his backside with one hand while he helps me to my feet with the other. The smiling first-class flight attendant opens the door to the jetway and ruins the rosy fantasy I was living.

For the past three hours, Craig and I have been curled up like one of the many mini pretzels I devoured, sipping champagne, watching a sappy rom-com, and cuddling.

My hands wandered over his thigh.

His hand brushed across my chest.

He didn’t mention my hard nipples, so I didn’t mention the hard bulge.

Part of me wonders if that means I misunderstood, if I brushed something else—but I know I didn’t.

Part of me wonders if I should suggest a friends-with-benefits arrangement. Am I desperate enough to settle for sex with a friend when I want more than that?

My knees suddenly wobble as the realization hits me like a branding iron, searing across my chest and taking away my balance and my breath.

I want Craig to be mine. For real.

No more questions. I like him as a person, as a colleague, as a friend. And now, I’m attracted to him in a way that I’ve never experienced with anyone else. He’s no longer a craving. He’s a need. Air, water, food, and Craig Macpherson.

“Up you go, love,” Craig murmurs and supports me back to steadiness.

“Thanks, sweetie,” I coo and shimmy past him, my butt pressing into his leg.

I want this man on my terms—and I’ve invited him to accept completely fake ones for the week.

Now what the hell do I do?

HAVE YOU EVER DROPPED a bag of chips at the seaside? Pardon me, fries, in America, it’s fries.

If you’ve ever dropped a bag of fries (or a bag of any food) when you visit the seaside, then you know how the seagulls appear from nowhere, hostile, demanding, arguing, clucking, and sniping. They all want a piece of you.

When we arrive at the pier, Minerva is a bag of chips, and her family members are the seagulls. They swarm, covering her in hugs, questions, and pointed comments. For a moment, I completely lose sight of her as she’s mobbed by large women (in both breadth and height) and men who hang back, waiting their turn. Hats wave and hands flap, pinch, and poke. People stare.

Do I get in there? Rescue her? Or is she perfectly happy being the middle of an attention sandwich?

Before I can answer my own question, Minerva’s hand snakes out of the pile of hugging and shouting and pulls me in.

The ring of relatives collectively draws breath, and then I’m the new target.

“You must be Craig!”

“What do you do, son?”

“So nice to meet you!”

“How long have you and Minnie been dating?”

“I hear you’re from Scotland.”

“What baseball team do you follow, Craig?”

“Do they have baseball in Scotland?”

“How long have you worked together?”

“How old are you?”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Mama! All y’all!” Minnie bursts out as I try to field ten questions at once. “Stop that, and let's get our luggage on the boat.”

“It’s not a boat; it’s a party yacht that the hotel rents out to guests for an exorbitant fee,” Mrs. Johnson says, as some of the clamoring voices simmer down.

“All y’all” must be some sort of group address, like when the barman roars, “Hush, youse!” back in Caithness and the entire pub falls silent.

Mrs. Johnson’s hands wrap around mine. “Don’t be silly, Minnie. Craig, you don’t mind a few questions, do you? You know I’m just trying to protect my baby girl.”

“You ask anything you like, Mrs. Johnson,” I charm, carefully taking my hands back. Most people can’t see paranormal beings, but most of us still carry a little insurance when we’re in a highly visible, high-pressure situation—and my insurance policy is on my pinky. It’s one of the most powerful (and expensive) glamours that Madge at the magic shop offers, a week-long concealment charm known as a glamour. It will work on nearly all humans—but still. There are exceptions.

I wrap my arm around Minnie’s shoulders, casually close, a fond smile on my lips. “I want the best for her, too. I’ve never been married—but I’d like to be.” I smile at Minnie and hope that she thinks I’m just playing my part.

Aunts back away with approving smiles, exchanging knowing winks. Minnie leans into me and winds her fingers through mine. “Yacht? Like fancy-ass yacht?” she asks, pivoting away from the pointed questions.

“Minnie! Oh my God!” A high-pitched squeal from the deck reveals a miniature Minnie with a sleek black bob and a blonde toothpaste commercial model in hand.

“Gerri!”

The gangplank drops to the little wooden pier, and someone on the boat lets loose a spray of confetti.

“Well, it’s a party now,” Minerva’s mother beams, giving me another long once-over. “Craig, you sit next to me.”

“Of course, Mom,” I say, abandoning Minerva to hug this woman, this woman I have to love because she made Minerva. “It’s bright out here, isn’t it? We’ve been having a bit of a gray winter in the mountains.” I reach into my traveling satchel and pull out my red and blue Braves cap. It crushes my ears a bit, but I don’t mind.

Minerva’s dad is beaming. “I like this one,” he says, loud enough for me to overhear.

THIS IS ACTUALLY WORKING !

Craig is happily standing with my Dad, uncles, cousins, and most of Barry’s male relatives at the bar. I’m relieved to see that Barry’s ultra-rich family looks pretty much like mine (except we’re mostly shades of brown, and they’re mostly shades of suntan and marshmallow). Men over sixty are in their tropical shirts with guts hanging above or below belts, caps, and big clunky rings on fingers that are starting to gnarl. The dads and uncles under sixty are in their preppy wear or jerseys. The young guys all look like they’re auditioning for a hotel commercial, carefully braided or gelled hair, wrinkly linen shirts, and Bermuda shorts. Craig blends right in, talking, drinking, pointing to the screens over the bar in the Reflections Cocktail Lounge.

Craig is competent. I can leave him alone. Don’t have to watch him every second—I think.

Me, on the other hand?

“Girl, that bearded wonder is yours? Mmm hmm! Want to get me a mountain man like that!” Aunt Virginia hangs on my arm.

“I can’t stand a beard on a man. Unhygienic.” Aunt May Ellen clucks her tongue, her face telling me beards on men are as welcome as a Southern Baptist guest preacher who pours unsweetened iced tea in the baptismal dunking pool.

“He can shave, Mama,” one of my cousins tries to shift Aunt May Ellen’s expression.

I pipe up, “I like his beard.”

“His hair is awful long,” Aunt Belinda murmurs, narrowing her eyes.

“I like that, too,” I say, voice hotter than I intended. “It’s long, but it’s lustrous. Thick and full and shiny.”

“Someone’s got it bad,” Gerri leans on my arm, her petite little figure wrapping around me like she’s six and I’m sixteen again. “Next year, we’ll be together again for Minnie’s wedding.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Mama says loudly, and my aunts, Barry’s aunts and grandmothers, and basically everyone in the “ladies’ cluster” hurries to get more mai tais and daiquiris.

“Okay, all the luggage has been delivered to your rooms! We’re going to shift from the lounge to the terrace. Dinner in forty-five minutes!” A suntanned man with a luxurious head of silvery white hair stands on the steps that lead to the sunken cocktail lounge, leaning on the gold rail in his crisp white shirt and navy shorts. “I’m sure everyone would like to freshen up. You can pick up your room keys at the desk in the lobby.” He claps his hands, and people scurry.

“Who’s that?” I whisper to Gerri.

“Barry’s grandpa, Barty. He’s a sweetie.”

“He looks like a tycoon on vacation.”

“He kind of is. He’s paying for everything and keeping people on a schedule, but I don’t care. All I care about is being Barry’s wife by the time this week is over.”

Craig sidles up to me. “Darling? Ready to go to our rooms?” he asks.

“Sounds good. I hope everything was delivered, like Grandpa Barty said.” I give Gerri a hug and peel myself away, clinging to Craig’s side—and trying not to sigh like a lovestruck teenager. He just feels so good.

“Oh, don’t worry. Everything will be exactly where Grandpa Barty said, or someone will be out picking individual grains of sand out of the ornamental grass by the terrace,” Gerri laughs. “All your bags will be in your room, I know it. We’ve been here two days already, and everything has gone smoothly.”

Craig and I nod and meander away, caught in a tide of relatives.

“Craig Macpherson,” Craig greets the smiling woman at the lobby desk with his name.

“Yes, Macpherson. With Miss Minerva Johnson? You’re with the wedding party in the Palm Wing, room 202.”

“Thank you.” Craig takes the pastel card in its silvery sleeve as she places it on the green-marbled counter and steps back to let me have my turn.

The woman frowns. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were Minerva Johnson.”

“I am.”

“Would you like a spare key?” She hands me one—the pretty little holder also reads 202.

“Um. Yes.”

We walk off, my arm around his waist, his arm draped around my back.

I say nothing.

Craig says nothing.

Is his heart pounding like mine?

They gave us one room!