Call of the Highland Moon (The MacInnes Werewolves #1)

Call of the Highland Moon (The MacInnes Werewolves #1) Page 4

“There’s a mushy little heart of your own in there somewhere, my dear. I’ll uncover it yet.”

“Idle threats,” Regan called after her as the door shut, taking a moment to uncoil into a long, feline stretch. “Anyway,” she yawned, “she’d need a jackhammer.”

“Celestine’s right,” Carly remarked with a small smirk, getting up and walking to the front window to look out. “You are a cynic.”

“The hell you say.” After a moment, Regan appeared at her side. Together, they studied the dimly lit street in front of the shop, their breath fogging up the chilled glass.

“Hmm. Weather’s moving in.”

“Think we’ll be able to open tomorrow?” Carly asked her, watching the thickening curtain of snow falling from the sky. It was wrong, she knew, since it was her livelihood that would be taking a hit. But the thought of sleeping in and then staying in her PJs all day, reading and drinking hot cocoa (and on a Wednesday, no less), sounded just about perfect.

Except for the part where she was still waking up alone.

Carly bit back a sigh, tired of fighting off the same old mope. She could try to blame work, but it wasn’t like she’d had such a stunning social life before she opened the shop, either. She’d never been much of a party girl, and having two overzealously protective older brothers hadn’t helped. But the fact remained that being here six days a week, from nine in the morning until whenever she got done—even with two employees—had eaten up whatever was left of her social life. Regan usually managed to drag her out a few times a month, but she was hard-pressed to find any of the drunk and idiotic men she usually met appealing. If only she could manage to turn a shade less red than her usual “volcanic” whenever a reasonably attractive male approached her, then, maybe.

Well, Carly sighed inwardly, no need to have a pity party about it. Her life was fulfilling enough, even with the occasional bout of the lonelies. Hopefully one day a handsome bookworm would wander in to sweep her off her feet. Until then, she’d take the PJs and the cocoa as an acceptable alternative.

“We’ll be stuck at home if it does what it’s supposed to, but who can ever tell?” Regan eyed her friend, tuned in as usual to how she was feeling. “You okay tonight? Want to go down to the brew pub and bitch a little? I’m up for it.”

Carly managed a half-smile, but shook her head. She was sure Regan really was up for it, and would also probably join her in a good wallow. It always amazed her, but despite all of the attention she got, Regan had about the worst luck with men of anyone she had ever known. She claimed it had ceased to bother her long ago, but Carly often wondered.

“We’re quite a pair, huh?”

Regan simply shrugged and slung an arm around Carly’s slim shoulders.

“At least we can be scary old cat ladies together someday.”

“Only if I can bring the doilies.” Carly laughed softly, allowing her mood to brighten a little. She might well be on the scary old cat lady track, but Regan was not going to let her drive herself crazy, at least.

They watched the snow in companionable silence for a few minutes, until Regan could no longer fight the need to fill it.

“So … what’s on the docket for next month, anyway?” she asked. “Naked pirates?”

Carly turned to fix her with an innocent smile. “You wish. No, I think you’re really going to like this one. Jeanette Gleason’s new one, Stroke of Midnight. It’s a modern take on Cinderella with a disgustingly happy ending. And now that you mention it, I’ve got your copy right behind the counter.”

Regan winced. “You’re just lucky I love you.”

“Yeah,” Carly laughed as she patted her friend’s head. “Same goes.”

t t t

Half an hour later, Carly lay sprawled out on the camelback loveseat, one arm thrown over her eyes, basking in the comforting silence of the place where she felt most at home. The cups, glasses, and plates had been washed and put away, the crumbs had been vacuumed up. The contents of the cash register that sat atop the richly colored, slightly distressed mahogany cabinet that she used for a front counter had been tallied and readied for deposit.

It had been a fun evening, she thought with a faint smile, as usual. Still, she’d felt an overwhelming sense of relief when Regan had finally gone after helping her clean up and then rambling on about … well, something … before finally heading out the door about five minutes previous (while still carrying on some sort of conversation—presumably, at that point, with herself). Regan liked to talk, but fortunately, you could get by when you were seriously tired by just smiling and nodding periodically.

Tired. More like exhausted, Carly thought. She enjoyed her book club, making small talk with her customers and friends, even the occasional night out when Regan gave her no room to decline. Still, the company she tended to enjoy best was her own.

Carly removed her arm from over her eyes, rose up on her elbows, and turned her head to look through the wide, floor-length picture window at the front of the shop. Framed as it was by the crushed red velvet curtains drawn back on either side, the snowy winter scene could have been an atmospheric moment in a holiday movie, pretty as a postcard. The old-fashioned streetlights lent a faint glow to the thick curtain of snow now obscuring all but the faintest image of the wide front porch of the Boat House, the restaurant across the street.

Too bad this was real life, which in Carly’s case included a fun little car with bad traction and an obstacle course of snowbanks that seemed to have all the malicious gravitational pull of Charlie Brown’s kite-eating tree.

“Ugh.” Carly groaned loudly and flopped back down, lying splay-legged for a moment as she contemplated the possibility of planting herself in a giant pile of snow on her short drive home. Sometimes, the appeal of living in a place so famous for its lake effect that it had everything from streets to beer named after it wore a little thin.

And she had just about convinced herself to head out into it when the phone erupted into nerve-jangling rings.

“Christ!” Carly barely managed to avoid jumping out of her own skin. She looked at the wrought-iron hands of the large clock that hung on the wall, saw that it was about ten of ten, and wondered if Regan had changed her mind about trying to get her to go for that drink. It was either that, or one of her brothers trying to play hero to the helpless female. Again. Against her better judgment, she padded, barefoot, across the thick Oriental rug to the source of the annoying sound and picked up the phone.

“I’m fine,” she said firmly into the receiver, hazarding a guess that she was about to find a family member on the other end of the line. After all, it was snowing. And God knew that, left to her own devices, any number of things might happen to her during the two-mile trip home. She could die of hypothermia! Be attacked by a mob of starving squirrels! Hell, she could pull a Ripley’s Believe It or Not and spontaneously combust!

“Don’t shoot the messenger, okay? Mom’s having a spaz.”

Carly closed her eyes in a silent prayer for patience, placed a hand on one cocked hip, and started tapping one finger against her hipbone. Luigi, naturally. The Lackey.

“Weege, I’m just closing up and heading home. Tell mom I’ll be fine.”

“Aw, come on, Carly,” her brother pressed, “I can be down there in the new Tahoe in two minutes, mom won’t give me the lecture on how I’m a horrible brother and have probably sentenced you to a snowy death … again … and you and me can play Playstation and eat Doritos until we pass out! It’ll be awesome.”

Ah yes, Carly mused, the new Tahoe, made possible by the fact that her grown brother, who had graduated college but preferred to spend his time playing at line chef at the Boat House (part-time, of course) and emceeing on weekends at the Main Street Comedy Shoppe, still lived comfortably and rent-free in her parents’ house. Whereas her other brother had somehow become a reasonably responsible dentist. Genetics was an infinite mystery.

“Weege,” she sighed, hating that she always came out of their conversations sounding like the world’s youngest old fart, “you know I love you, but some of us, especially those of us who are not thirty-year-old men whose mommies still cook for them and do their laundry, are tired after a long day at work and just want to go home and have a hot bath.”

“And some of us are getting a little tired of being threatened with a wooden spoon,” Luigi grumbled. “Have a heart, will ya?” And Carly knew just how he’d look in that moment: a husky, hairy man-boy wearing ancient track pants, rolling his eyes, and keeping close his open (and mostly empty) bag of the aforementioned Doritos on the couch beside him. That was Weege, though, Carly acknowledged as a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He was like an annoying yet lovable kindergartner.

“I do have a heart, Luigi. My fatigue is just stronger right now.”

“You are a royal pain in the ass, Carlotta. Have it your way, see who gets his butt chewed for this.” And with the invocation of the forbidden name, he was gone with an irritable click.

Carly glared at the receiver for a moment before replacing it in the base. One of these days, she was going to get in the last word, even if she had to tie him to his beloved recliner to do it.

“Okay,” she sighed to the empty store. “Time to pack it in.” As long as her butt had finally moved from Point A—the hard part, as far as Carly was concerned—she might as well get it moving toward Point B: a steaming bath, and bed. She slipped her feet into the pair of big, furry boots she kept by the front door, pulled on her long, dark blue wool coat, and was headed back to the counter to grab her purse when a noise, so soft that at first she wasn’t sure whether or not she was imagining it, reached Carly’s ears.

Scratch.

She paused, cocking her head toward the back of the store. She’d almost decided she had imagined it when it came again, so faint she almost missed it.

Scratch.