Page 32

32

ZOEY

“Careful!”

The word is shrieked at me the moment my butt brushes against a hard object. Freezing mid-sit, I glance to the side and find a familiar-looking woman steadying a plastic box that rests precariously close to the edge of the table.

“I’m sorry. Should I sit somewhere else?” I ask.

The Sip ’N’ Stitch group has commandeered a large table toward the back of The Wild Rabbit again, and I went for the first free chair.

“No! Don’t be ridiculous. I came here for you, Zoey Gunner. Just … don’t knock over this box unless you want to spend the next hour picking up sequins.”

The glimpse of sparkle reminds me who I’m in a half crouch next to. As I settle in the chair, I examine the woman I glimpsed the first night I met Warner.

She’s gorgeous with her strong features and dark eyes. The tan skin on her high cheekbones is colored rosy, like she spends plenty of time in the sun. Today, her black hair wraps around the top of her head in a braid crown, and I admire the little turquoise drops that dangle from her ears.

“You keep checking me out, I’m gonna tell Warner he has some competition.” She gives me a saucy wink, making me smile wide.

“You’re friends with Warner?”

“Best friends. Oh, the embarrassing childhood stories I could tell!” She sets down what I realize now is a cowboy boot and holds out her hand. “I’m Courtney Benally. Glad to finally meet you.”

When I clasp her hand, rough calluses brush my palm. Apparently, vibrant footwear and out-of-season Daisy Dukes don’t preclude a girl from working hard.

“Good to meet you too.” Even as I pull my current project—the apology scarf I’ve almost finished—out of my bag, I study Courtney from the side of my eye.

My curiosity is fueled by one question: Is she a werewolf?

Courtney spends time at The Rabbit Hole, but she doesn’t seem to be a member of The Dark Moon Riders. Does every wolf in town have to be a biker too? Could she be one of the townspeople who are in the know?

None of these questions are things I can just blurt out, so I search for a way to approach the topic innocently.

“You said you’ve known Warner since you were kids?”

Courtney nods, a big grin on her face. “Yeah. I hung out with him and Roderick when we were little tykes. Their mom’s house is down the road from mine.”

“He was as charming then as he is now. Quick to laugh,” Amy Spencer offers, smiling across the table at us as her fingers wield a needle in a cross-stitch project.

Courtney leans close, muttering only to me, “Quick to tear up too. Sorry to tell you, Zoey, but you’re shacking up with a notorious crybaby.”

I snort, turning my head to whisper back, “Noted. I’ll make sure to treat him gently.”

Her eyes glitter as they meet mine, and I return to my original goal.

“So, I guess you know a lot about him. All his … moods?”

Hell. I suck at this. I was not made for the life of a detective.

Still, Courtney’s stare loses an ounce of humor, sharpening as her brows dip.

“I do in fact.” Her shoulder bumps mine as she leans in closer. “Like how animalistic he can get.”

She knows. And I never expected to feel such intense relief. But here she is. One more person who knows the truth about the guy I like. A potential friend that I could have an honest conversation with.

Keeping my voice low, I hold her eyes, trying to convey that I’m in the know too. “And you? Do you get … animalistic sometimes?”

A wicked smirk curls her lips. “Hell. Yes.”

She’s a wolf.

“Hey, Zoey.”

The sound of my name pulls me out of the delight of discovery. But when I turn to find Juliet hovering just behind my chair, more joy flowers in my chest.

“You made it!”

My friend smiles, but her lips pinch at the expression, and her eyes flicker around the busy restaurant. Something is stressing her, but I’m not sure what. Maybe she just has new-person-to-the-group jitters.

Well, as this is only my second Sip ’N’ Stitch, we can be newbies together.

“Here, sit down. Did you bring something to work on?”

I climbed up to the tree house earlier today to text Juliet about tonight’s meeting, and when I didn’t receive a response, I grew bored and returned to the reception-less wasteland that was my grandmother’s cabin. Unsure of Juliet’s crafting interest, I brought some extra yarn and hooks.

“I did.” The librarian settles in the chair to my left and reaches into her bag, coming out with a shoebox. There’s a rustle when she sets it on the table and pulls off the lid.

“Paper?” Courtney asks, practically shoving her boobs into my shoulder to stare around me and get a better view of the colorful collection of card stock. “What are you making?”

“Greeting cards.” Juliet holds up one that has a beautifully detailed mountain scene, rendered from carefully cut and layered paper. “I have more than I’ll ever need.” She blushes, as if admitting a failing.

“Lovely. You’re so talented.” This comes from a woman across the way from Courtney. “You just moved here not too long ago—do I have that right?”

“The end of May,” Juliet murmurs, her focus on a set of scissors in her hands while her shoulders grow tense.

“That long ago? My goodness. Can’t believe we haven’t been introduced. I’m Karen Hanson.”

The rest of the women around the table rattle off their names, but from the familiar tone a few use, I can guess they’ve run into Juliet at the library.

I get the sense that Juliet would rather not be the center of conversation, but Ms. Hanson doesn’t seem happy with a simple hello.

“And I believe I heard you were unattached. Have you been out with any of Pine Falls’ nice young men?”

I’m so surprised by her question that I drop my ball of yarn, then stifle a curse as I try collect it off the floor before it gets dirty and tangled. Juliet also flinches, tearing the delicate tissue paper she was cutting.

“I’m actively not dating right now,” the librarian states, conviction adding an edge to her tone.

Ms. Hanson opens her mouth, but Courtney is faster.

“Actively not dating? What does that mean?” The wolf tries leaning around me again so she can meet Juliet’s eyes. “Do you chuck books at people who approach you, carrying flowers?”

“Of course not,” Juliet grumbles. Then, she gives the table a smirk. “I value books too much.”

Some of the women chuckle, and most at least crack a smile. Mrs. Applewood, who’s been throwing me disgruntled looks ever since I sat down, glares at the fabric in her hands.

Suddenly, the quilter’s comments from the day Warner escorted me to lunch come rushing back.

“I don’t associate with dogs.”

At the time, I thought she meant my mastiff. Now, I’d bet all the softest flannel in Minnie’s closet that she wasn’t referring to Bruce.

Guess I found another townsperson in the know. Just not an ally.

“Well,” Ms. Hanson says, bringing attention back to her, “maybe you just haven’t met the right man. My son, for instance.”

Juliet’s lips flatten, and she doesn’t respond.

Courtney swoops in with a wicked smirk. “I’m single! Why haven’t you ever set me up with your son, Karen?”

The woman scowls at Courtney. “Because you already dated my son and broke his heart,” she growls.

“Did I? Wait, who’s your son?”

“Fredrick.” Her face has turned the same bright red as Courtney’s vodka cranberry.

“Fredrick?” The wolf seems to mull the name over, as if the memory of him is hard to recall. “Oh! Freddy!” She settles back in her seat. “Well, I wouldn’t call what we did dating .”

Juliet snorts up half her drink, and the poor Ms. Hanson gasps, reaching her hand toward her throat, as if expecting to find a string of pearls to clutch.

“Courtney …” Amy, unofficial leader of the Sip ’N’ Stitch gathering, uses a warning tone even though I swear I catch a quiver at the corner of her mouth. “Let’s keep the discussion of other members’ offspring PG-rated, okay?”

“Okay, Amy.” But the werewolf immediately leans over to whisper in my ear, “Freddy is selfish in the sack. I spent a good fifteen minutes explaining the importance of quid pro quo as it relates to oral. Better off with a vibrator.”

“Oh, Juliet. Dear, are you feeling all right?”

Some of the women at the table stare at the librarian with concern etching wrinkles in their brows.

My friend does seem distressed, her hands covering her face, shoulders shaking. A passerby might think she was quietly sobbing. However, sitting next to her, I make out the muffled sound of unsuccessfully stifled giggles.

Courtney isn’t the best at whispering.

“I’m fine,” Juliet finally chokes out.

Ms. Hanson’s knuckles are white on her knitting needles, and I consider if I need to escort Courtney home so she doesn’t end up murdered in an alley with crafting supplies. “And you, Zoey?” The tightness in her voice makes the question sound like a threat.

“Me?”

Ms. Hanson nods. “Are you dating?”

“I …” Shit. Shit, shit, shit .

Dating. One step away from a relationship. Then on the fast track to commitment.

This isn’t a question I thought I’d have to answer.

But once again, Courtney comes to the rescue.

Kind of.

“She’s fucking?—”

“Courtney,” Amy chides.

“Sorry. She’s holding hands with Warner Jameson.”

Okay, I guess I can deal with that description for now. Also, I think Juliet is going to pass out if she tries any harder to suppress her laughter.

I’m fine with being the butt of a joke if it makes my friend more comfortable.

“Well then …” Ms. Hanson takes a long sip from her white wine before putting her full attention on her project.

Matchmaking is officially off the table.

After a minute or two of awkward silence passes, side conversations start back up, and Courtney seems content to bedazzle her boots.

Juliet is more relaxed now that the spotlight is off her and after the fits of hilarity Courtney put her through. Amy pulls the librarian out further by asking about the latest bestsellers.

After another sip of my drink, I relax back in my chair, estimating how many rows I have left.

“That’s a fun pattern.” Courtney reaches out to touch the scarf I’m finishing. Her finger traces the raised design repeated along the length of the scarf.

The symbol is simple—two triangles, each bisecting at a single corner. Almost like a bow tie. I realize I incorporated it without thought. Crocheting is often like that for me. An activity I can do instinctually as my mind relaxes or focuses on something else.

“Thanks. I hope Warner likes it too. This is for him.”

“You made it. Which means he’ll love it.” Courtney smirks, and then her expression softens. “How are you adjusting?” Her quiet question has me meeting her gaze. There’s a quick flash of black, and I realize she just gave me a glimpse of her wolf, clarifying the underlying meaning of her question.

How are you adjusting to the whole mythical-creatures-are-real thing?

“Getting better. Not great at first.” I hook my yarn and debate saying more. After a second, I admit, “Normally, I talk about life changes with my therapist.” This time, I’m the one who tries to convey extra meaning with my gaze.

At her slight nod, I know she gets it. Normal therapists aren’t equipped to deal with a werewolf discussion.

My eyes trace over the table, and I wonder how many of the women here know.

An idea forms.

“Are there any therapists in town?”

Courtney smiles and tilts her chin toward the leader of the club. “Amy has a practice.”

“And she”—I keep my voice low—“serves all populations?”

After another subtle nod, the woman leans in close, and I discover Courtney does know how to whisper properly.

“Her partner is pack.”

Something small and happy flares in my chest. A little glow. Something like hope.