Page 7 of Wishing for a Werewolf (Ferndale Falls Forever #2)

Autumn

After a morning spent reading dry witch-history books without finding anything that helps me figure out my magic, I spend the afternoon catching up on work, mixing and pouring multiple batches of peppermint soap into a series of large mold blocks.

We make all of our regular soaps using the hot process, which means they cure fast, so you have to make sure you get them even before they set.

But I’ve done this so often I could make soap in my sleep.

In fact, I often dream of it, which is sad when you think about it.

I’m only twenty-five—I should be having sexy dreams!

Sexy dreams full of big hunky men who growl and go commando…

“Stop thinking about Rune, horny Autumn,” I mutter, shaking my head and swiping the back of my forearm across my forehead. “All I need is a BOO from Mr. Good Vibes, and I’ll be fine.”

As I grip the lever of the industrial mixer and tip it to make my last pour, Babybelle rushes into the barn, bleating for attention with a little cry that sounds just like the human word, “Me! Me! Me!”

“I know it’s you.” A laugh escapes me as I lean over to scoop her up into my arms, wiggling my nose back and forth over her soft forehead. “You want to come and help? I was going to make you some butternut goat cookies.”

Her little head butts my cheek in a loving tap, and I take that as a yes.

After securing the door of the soap barn, I stride past the farmhouse to the end of the backyard and my little cottage.

Originally built to house the head farmhand, I moved into it when I returned from college.

These days, most of the goat milking is automated, so Dad only needs one farmhand to help with the animals, and Steve already has a home in town.

Like the main house, the cottage is painted white with fanciful green trim and even has a covered front porch just big enough for a swing.

I grab my mail from the little box tacked up by my front door—Mom picks up all of the farm’s mail from the big mailbox out on the main road and sorts it for us, leaving mine here.

Inside the cottage, the cream walls and rich-brown hardwood floors gleam golden in the evening sunlight.

Bundles of dried herbs hanging in the kitchen sweeten the air with hints of rosemary and lavender, and that first deep breath always smells of home. I love it.

I set Babybelle down inside my peaches-and-cream kitchen and close the door. She doesn’t get to run around the cottage unsupervised, not after she chewed on the rug I have in the living room. I was able to maneuver it so that corner’s now hidden by the couch, but…

As soon as her little hooves hit the hardwood floor, she gives a happy bleat and runs over to where one of my pretty fall kitchen towels hangs from the oven handle. I snatch it away right before she chomps down on one of the pumpkins embroidered along the border. “No, Babybelle! That’s not food.”

Undeterred, she races around the room, looking for something else to get into.

Shaking my head, I rifle through the stack of today’s mail: ads, a few bills, and…

“Ahhhhh! This is it!” The return address at the top of the pale-pink envelope says it’s from the Ferndale Falls Events Committee, the volunteer group that oversees the town’s fall festival.

They always let the winner know before anyone else, and the elderly women running the committee refuse to do anything by email.

I slip a finger under the flap, ready to rip it open and read that my farm has won the competition to hold this year’s hay maze.

Then I freeze, my mouth dropping open in disbelief. The envelope isn’t addressed to me.

It’s addressed to Rune.

“This has to be a mistake,” I mutter. But it’s not only his name that’s the problem. The envelope says 739 Farmway Lane instead of 735, like it would if it were really for me.

“No goat cookies for you today.” I scoop Babybelle off the floor. “You can blame the big bad werewolf.”

“No!” she cries.

“I know. It’s a travesty.” I march for the front door, plucking my keys from the entryway table. “Let’s go and tell the big lug just how much of one it is.”

Since it’s less than a mile to his house on back-country roads, I settle into Tank with Babybelle on my lap and wrap the shoulder strap of the seat belt over both of us. “Will you stay like this, or am I going to have to leave you behind?”

“Stay,” she baas at me, holding still for the first time in her life.

I don’t know how, but I can tell she means it.

At the end of the long dirt driveway, I ease Tank onto the main road, my feet stomping the pedals.

How in the world is Rune of all people getting letters from the events committee? He’s only been in town for two hot seconds!

It’s a good thing I know the area so well, or I would have missed the turnoff for the old Clemmons place.

Grass has filled in the start of the driveway, and the mailbox lies on its side, the post uprooted.

Maybe that’s why Rune’s letter ended up coming to the goat farm—Rosie, the mail carrier, must have figured we’d do the neighborly thing and get it to him.

Heavy woods surround us only a few yards in, shading the way. Tank’s lack of suspension really shows as we bounce down the rutted road, and Babybelle lets out a complaining baa that gets broken up into little sound bites: ba-aa-aa-aa-aa.

“Sor-ry, g-irl.” My voice comes out jittery, too, and I fight down a laugh. I’m supposed to be getting my mad on!

By the time I pull to a halt in front of the house, my insides feel like a James Bond martini, shaken not stirred.

Snatching the letter off the passenger seat, I jump out and clomp up the front steps of the sprawling Victorian that looks ludicrously large for one man. It’s a grand old house, or at least it used to be. Now, the windows are dusty, and the front rooms look deserted.

When the doorbell doesn’t make any sound, I knock on the door. When that doesn’t work, I pound. Ah, there’s my mad! It’s coming back.

“Rune! You get that fine ass out here!”

The door opens so abruptly the side of my fist lands on muscle instead of wood, but that muscle is almost equally hard.

“Sorry!” Dammit, I’m supposed to be angry at him, and here I am apologizing. But even if I’m upset, I didn’t mean to hit him. “That was meant for the door, not you.”

“It’s nothing,” he rumbles. “Did you say my ass is fine?”

“What?” Embarrassment makes my voice hit a high note, and I lie. “No.”

The edges of his lips curl, showing a peek of fangs, which is so hot.

But totally not the point! I wave the letter in his face. “What is this?”

“I have no idea.” A bear paw of a hand wraps around mine, pulling it to a halt. He squints at the envelope and shrugs. “I still can’t read it.”

“Why not?”

“Faerie’s inherent translation magic only works on spoken languages.” He pushes the letter back toward me and lets go of my hand. “Read it to me?”

It wouldn’t be neighborly to say no, but hell, the real reason I nod agreement is I’m dying to know what it says.

Before I can open the letter, Babybelle twists into action, squirming until she slips from my grasp. As soon as her little hooves clatter against the wood of the front porch, she races between Rune’s legs and straight into his house.

“Oh, no! Babybelle!” I push past him and give chase.

Rune calls out behind me, “It’s all right.”

“It’s really not.” I sprint down the hallway. “She can chew up a rug in two seconds flat!”

Babybelle looks back over her shoulder to make sure I’m following, then gives a triumphant bleat. With a bounding hop and a flick of her white tail, she dives into an open doorway. “Me! Me! Me!”

We race through the living room, then the dining room, white sheets covering all of the furniture and making the rooms appear like ghosts of themselves.

The mini-goat’s hooves clatter over the hardwood floor in a dancing beat as she dashes back across the hall and into what must be a den or office, furniture-less except for a white-enshrouded desk and empty built-in bookcases climbing the walls.

“Do you actually live here?” I pant as I spread my arms wide and attempt to box Babybelle in a corner, only to have her careen past me with a playful hop.

“Yes,” Rune grumbles, his voice closer than I expected.

I glance over my shoulder to find him following hard on my heels, his big body moving silently behind me in a way that makes my skin prickle.

We finally chase her into the big white kitchen and across to the pantry.

Seeing its shelves are empty and therefore safe from any rottenness she might get up to, I give a triumphant “Ha!” and shut the door.

She thumps against the wood, and I crack it open.

Babybelle’s little nose sticks out, snuffling, and she bleats.

She barrels inside, parkours off the back wall with a midair flip, and dashes past me only to be scooped up by Rune.

His huge hand cradles her body, and she’s never looked tinier, but Babybelle cuddles against his chest and headbutts his chin. She’s no fool, my little one—she knows a good thing when she feels it, and Rune snuggles seem to be her new favorite.

“Just a minute. Let me catch my breath,” I gasp, fanning my heated face with the envelope. The kitchen is spotless, but not in an I’m-addicted-to-cleaning kind of way. Instead, it feels unused, the countertops bare, the sink dry and empty. “Cook a lot?”

“No.” He grimaces, and I wonder what that’s about but don’t push.

I’ve got more important things to focus on. The envelope rips with a satisfying sound, and I open the letter and read:

Dear Mr. Rune,

Congratulations! Your farm has been chosen to host this year’s hay maze for the Ferndale Falls Fall Festival. Your submission was excellent, and we look forward to seeing the completed maze.

As you may recall, the unseasonably warm weather we’re having this year means the festival will be held the weekend after Halloween instead of before to coincide with peak fall-leaf color.

Please confirm that you’ll have your hay maze up and running by midday November 7th, so that we can arrange for hayrides from the town green out to your farm.

Sincerely,

Greta Greely

Ferndale Falls Events Committee President

“Hay maze?” He scowls. “What’s a hay maze?”

“It’s where you use hay bales to create a temporary maze for people to solve.

When they find the exit, they get a prize.

” How the hell did he get the thing I’ve wanted for years without even knowing what a hay maze is?

I glare at him. “Why would you apply for it and how did you create the blueprints for a great maze, if you don’t even know what one effing is? ”

“I didn’t apply for it. The only thing I did was offer to run some kind of gourd cutting competition. I was sketching on the town green, and a little old lady asked if I’d do it since I like art. I said yes, because I thought it would make me feel like part of the community.”

“The pumpkin carving contest?” I flap the letter at him. “That’s not the same event at all!”

“So this is a mistake.”

“Let me see something.” I pull up the events committee website on my phone. It’s slow and outdated, like someone made it with Paint 2000, but Mrs. Greely’s grandson taught her how to make simple blog posts, so…

The page with the fall festival submissions finally loads, and I scroll down the list to get to the hay maze. “Only two applications for the hay maze. That will be me and Maria, so how can you win it without even applying?”

“I told you I didn’t.” He frowns down at me.

“Hey, I’m just doing my due diligence over here, trying to figure this out.” I unpinch my fingers and zoom in, but the website keeps saying the same thing. “None of this makes any sense. It’s not logical.”

“Magic seldom is.”

My eyes snap up to his. “What do you mean?”

“You did this. Your spell.”

“I sure as hell did not!” Anger pulses through me. “If I could do magic, why would I mess up the thing I really need to—” I choke off, unwilling to admit my worries about the farm’s future.

“I know your magic did something to me.” He picks up the letter. “And this is what’s gone wrong.”

“Nope. Nuh uh. I didn’t do this, and I’ll prove it to you.”

“How?”

My lips twist as I look him up and down. “It won’t be easy. You’ll need to be charming.”

“I can be charming.” Rune scowls harder, which only makes his cheekbones stand out even more than usual. He looks good, but charming is pretty much the last thing I’d call his expression.

“You’d better be. Because Operation Events Binder will depend on it.” I flourish my hand across the air like I’m highlighting a banner and start humming the Mission Impossible theme song.