Page 9 of Moonlight and Mischief
“Good night,” she says as her mate takes her hand and pulls her against him.
“Thanks for watching out for us, Hazel,” I say, even though she’s thoroughly distracted by whatever Slate is whispering in her ear. The lovebirds walk into the darkness, stealing kisses as they go.
Jasper is a good friend. Someone I can rely on. But that’s all it is. He’s never given me any indication otherwise, and I’ve been hung up on someone else for most of my life. It’s just a close friendship. Nothing to worry about. But maybe we should curb our physical affection, so people don’t get the wrong idea.
Creeping into the cottage, I open and close the front door at a glacial pace to avoid making any noise. Slipping my shoes off, I tip-toe into the hall.
My grandmother’s bedroom door is closed. I quietly visit the bathroom and change into an oversized t-shirt I stole from Cedar years ago. Recoiling at the rusty squeak, I ease the sofa bed out and crawl under the covers.
Fatigue presses down on every one of my muscles. But before my eyes can drift closed, I hear a door latch click and swing open. My grandmother emerges from her workroom, a tub full of glass jars clinking in her arms.
Sitting up, I rub my eyes. “Good evening, Grandmother.”
“Oh, you’re back. Good, you can help me,” she announces, setting the tub on the table.
Laying back, I sigh. “Sorry, I’m really tired.”
“Don’t be selfish, we need to prep these,” she says dismissively.
I bite back a groan and pull the covers off. There’s no arguing with her when she’s like this, though I’m too tired to deal with it.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m cautiously pouring rowanberry juice concentrate into the tiny jars. Even with a funnel, it’s tricky. My hands slip several times.
“Watch it,” Sable hisses. She sounds nothing like a grandmother. She’s the pack’s crabby healer and I’ve had enough.
“I’m too tired to be any help. Let me get some sleep and I’ll work on it before school.”
She whirls on me, careful to not slosh the pink liquid she’s holding in a quart jar. “You’re always stayingup late with those friends, and now you can’t be bothered to help your pack?”
Tears prick my eyes. This feels like the last straw. I should keep my mouth shut, but if I saw a friend or one of my students being spoken to like this, I would tell them to stand up for themselves. Time to take my own advice.
JASPER
It would be kinda ick. Apparently, I’mick.
The heat of her, through two layers of fabric, went from a comforting warmth to a searing burn when compounded with my embarrassment.
Stripping off my shirt, I grab a glass of water and lean against my kitchen counter. Not that I need Marigold to think that I’m desirable, but surely I’m better than a tomato frog.
My glass makes a plink as I set it aside and pull out my phone. What the fuck is a tomato frog? Bulging gold eyes stare back at me. Its vivid orange-red skin has a black stripe down its pudgy sides. Damn, it is pretty cute.
I’m wound too tight to sleep yet, so I settle across my bed with an old detective novel I found on the shelves of the cabin when I moved in. The pages are yellowed and someone has written notes in the margins, which somehow make the book more enjoyable.
As the protagonist stumbles across a second victim’s body, someone raps against the front door.
Apprehension prickles through me like frost, leaving a primal alertness in its wake. It’s after midnight. Pulse racing, I pull open the door.
“Hey.”
Marigold’s doe eyes stare back at me. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
A huge t-shirt drapes over her lean build, bunching around the waistband of her joggers. She’s scrubbed her face free of any makeup, leaving her looking raw and somehow ethereal. Darkness smudges under her eyes, triggering a protectiveness that has me stepping closer to her.
“Are you okay?” My stomach clenches.
Her smile wavers for a split second. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Placing a hand on the small of her back, I lead her inside, closing the door to block out the gloom and cold. Marigold looks around my cabin, her lips parted slightly.
