Page 3 of Wishing for a Werewolf (Ferndale Falls Forever #2)

Autumn

Deep breaths, Autumn, I tell myself. Keep taking deep breaths.

But all my years of yoga in an attempt to rein in my fiery nature fail me, burned away by Rune’s overwhelming presence. An aura of power surrounds his massive body, so palpable I expect to see heat lines shimmering off him.

In the back of my mind, horny Autumn stirs from hibernation, stretches, and looks at Rune. Well hello, big boy, she purrs.

Nope, nichts, no. We are not doing this. I put horny Autumn away for reasons. Completely, utterly valid ones, and the walking wall of muscle isn’t going to change any of that.

I haven’t had a boyfriend since I finished college and moved back to discover almost all of the people my age had taken jobs elsewhere instead of returning to our shrinking hometown.

The last guy I tried to date lived two towns over.

That doesn’t sound like much, but Kevin made it clear on our third date that if we got serious, he expected me to be the one to move.

As if I could do that when I’m needed at the family farm.

And now that sales are dropping off, I especially don’t have time to date.

But the past month has made it so much harder to keep horny Autumn contained. Ferndale Falls is now inundated with an injection of fae hotties who look like they stepped out of a Magic Mike movie.

Fae hotties who don’t wear underwear.

Shit. My cheeks heat. I must be tomato red. Stop thinking about Rune’s underwear or lack thereof, Autumn! God, I need to make sure I get a BOO tonight, though the allure of a battery-operated orgasm wears a bit thin when faced with the reality of this big hunk of man flesh.

He looks far too composed, when here I am, all flustered. Turnabout’s fair play, and all that jazz.

“I prefer lacey see-through panties that are color coordinated to my outfits,” horny Autumn says, and I must admit I don’t hate showing him a bit of my old sass. “With bras that match.”

Rune’s intense gaze flicks down to my cleavage as if he can burn through my dress to see the dainty confection of aqua lace and ribbons underneath. His body locks rigid for several seconds. Then his hands flex hard enough to make the muscles of his forearms ripple.

My grin widens, and I want to crow. He’s a hard man to read, but I’ve got him now.

Thank god he’s got his sleeves pushed up to the elbows.

Also, who knew forearms could be that sexy?

Forearm porn—is that a thing? Because it totally feels like it should be a thing: a camera slowly panning across a bare forearm, which flexes constantly while the guy does something crafty with his hands. Yum.

BOO time, Autumn. It’s totally BOO time. While watching forearm porn videos, if I can find some. What am I thinking? Of course I’ll be able to find some! I have faith in Rule 34 of the internet: if you can think of it, someone’s made porn of it.

“I feel like we’re getting off track,” his voice sounds rough as he yanks his eyes up to mine. “We were talking about the spell you did.”

“And I’m telling you I didn’t do it… or I didn’t do it on purpose,” I admit. “Besides, it doesn’t seem to have done anything to you, right? I mean, you kept me from falling—thanks for that, by the way—but what else has happened? Nothing.”

“The magic I felt was far too powerful to be nothing.”

“Well, I don’t know what you want me to say.” I fling a hand wide. “I already told you I don’t know what kind of witch I am.”

“You need to find out,” he growls, his eyes narrowing. “I’m pack protector. I can’t afford to have any kind of spell on me.”

“Sure, I’ll get right on that,” I drawl, sarcasm coloring my voice. As if I’m his to command! I spin and wave over my shoulder. “See you, neighbor.”

Babybelle starts to wiggle immediately, and I wrap my other arm around her and press my lips to her soft head to whisper, “Hush now. Don’t ruin my grand exit.”

For a change, she does exactly what I ask, snuggling into my hold and providing zero distractions from the feel of Rune’s intense gaze burning a hole in my back the entire time I walk out of sight.

Ha! The nerve of this guy trying to order me around for something I didn’t even do.

Or probably didn’t do.

Okay, maybe didn’t do.

But might have?

A sigh escapes as my brain refuses to settle enough for me to find my calm.

I release my final yoga pose, moving from downward dog into a sitting position.

As much as I hate to admit it, the werewolf is right.

If my magic finally kicked in, I need to figure out what it is.

Thank god I know just how to do it: tonight’s Witch Bitch Spicy Book Club meeting.

I get ready in a whirl, and in thirty minutes I’m out the door.

Tank bounces down the farm’s dirt driveway, modern suspension a luxury unheard of by its engineers.

My car’s an ancient and incredibly boxy Land Rover from back when the company made rugged work jeeps instead of luxury SUVs.

Its olive-green color reminded me of all the old WW2 movies my grandfather loved, so when I was twelve, I named it Tank, never imagining it would one day be mine.

It’s so old there’s no computer, just “real engine parts,” as Joe likes to put it.

The gas station owner and town mechanic is the only reason Tank’s still running.

Turning onto the road leading to town, I stomp on the clutch and put Tank into third, the gearshift so loose I find it from practice instead of feel.

I barely survived high school without killing Trevor, the class clown.

There are only so many “so you drive stick” jokes a girl can take before she contemplates bodily harm.

Yes, I like guys. Yes, I’ve handled a few dicks in the years since.

But as a bit of a late bloomer, Trevor’s jokes always hit a little too close to home for my still-virginal teen self.

Ferndale Falls is so small that, in no time at all, I’m trundling down Main Street.

In contrast to the past several years, most of the adorable shops are open, happy rectangles of light spilling across the sidewalk.

Even in the soft darkness of early evening, you can still see the pretty colors of each revitalized storefront, offset by contrasting gingerbread trim.

The street splits to circle the town green, which is now a full-on park with a wide grassy area bordered by short trees, bushes, and flowerbeds that should be empty at this time of year, but magic often ignores seasonal shifts.

As if called into being by my thoughts, the walking tulips dart onto the pavement in front of me, making me slam on the brakes.

Thank god I’m only going fifteen miles per hour!

The last thing I want to do is accidentally hurt one of the animated flowers.

Blossom heads bobbing, still as lush and colorful as a bright summer’s day, a line of them skitter back to the town green, their little root feet flashing white in the beams of my headlights.

I roll down the window and stick out my head. “You guys have to look before crossing the street!” There aren’t many cars—downtown is more of a pedestrian area—but the flowers still need to watch out.

Their long leaves flap in agitation, and they start to move more quickly. Hurrying onto the grass and over to the nearest flower bed, they sink their roots into the ground to sleep for the night.

I pull up in front of the town bookshop, I Touch My Shelf, and grab my canvas bags of cocktail mixings. The glass bottles clink happily as I jump out of Tank and hip-bump the door shut.

The shop’s wooden door opens onto one of my favorite places in the world, the scent of paper and ink and leather filling the air.

A mixed hodgepodge of Tiffany lamps brightens the store with colorful light, wooden bookshelves line the walls, and a cozy seating area of gold and burgundy covered sofas beckons.

I grin as I navigate around display tables topped with the latest bestsellers, including ones dedicated to orcs and shadow daddy fae. “I love your priorities, Naomi!”

“What can I say?” My friend looks over from where she’s standing behind the shop’s wooden counter, her pretty brown face breaking into a huge smile. “I love me some orc.”

“That’s because you’re lucky enough to be married to one.”

One of the witches taken to Faerie several months ago, Naomi discovered her ability to teleport and got a hunky orc husband who adores the ground she walks on.

She closes the old brass cash register with a clang and hurries over to me.

Short and deliciously plump, she’s dressed in orc clothing, leather pants and boots and an embroidered tunic top I’d kill for, since it’s so perfectly my style.

As she wraps me in a warm hug, her deep-brown curls tickle my cheek. Then she pulls back. “You making your cereal-milk cocktails?”

“Yep!”

“Thank god. Orc cider is nice, but a girl misses chocolaty alcohol goodness sometimes.”

“One cocoa puffs white Russian coming up.” I head over to the table that holds the little coffee station and start pulling cereal milks and liquors out of my bag.

“Hello my fellow Witch Bitches!” Hannah carols from the door.

Tall and thin, my friend still wears her “small-town mayor” uniform, a tailored blouse and dark-washed jeans.

Her long brown hair hangs perfectly straight and glossy—I tried to iron my hair into that look back in high school, and it never held, my waves just as stubborn as the rest of me.