Page 14 of A Wolf After My Own Heart
“Everyone has that,” was the prompt reply. “And the box is almost always full. And old. This isn’t even your baking soda, is it? I bet it belongs to whoever lived here before.”
“So you’re a werebear and a detective? Do you have an agent? I’m pretty sure you could get your own TV show. And I’d watch that show.”
“My folks would be mad. Gotta get through middle school first.” Sally fumbled with the box of baking soda, then dropped it, spilling white powder everywhere. “Sorry! I’ll fix it.”
“That’s…” Lila watched in amazement as the child scooped up piles of soda (it had been a big box), rubbed them on her arms and legs, then scooped more. And sprinkled it in her hair, then rubbed it…under her arms? “…not fixing it. What are youdoing?”
“Sorry. I’m a klutz. Wow, this stuff gets everywhere, huh?”
“Not really.”Laugh? Cry? Take away what’s left of the baking soda? Start looking for a new apartment?No, not that last one. Never that last one. She was in it to win it. Or until she died a terrible death at the hands of whoever was after the kid. Hopefully the former. “Not unless someone’s doing it on purpose.”
“Don’t worry,” Sally said and, oddly, Lila was reassured. “He won’t dare hurt you.” Then she set the near-empty box of soda down on the table, trotted to the basement door and down the steps.
Bbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaatttttttt!
“Great,” Lila said to her empty kitchen. She rose to answer the door, thinking that whoever changed doorbells to the traditional melodic-yet-dullding-donggggggwas an overlooked genius.
Chapter 8
God, that’s an irritating doorbell. Sounds like a robot yukking it up over a dirty joke.Oz wound the old-fashioned buzzer again and heard measured footsteps—because of course they were measured, of course they weren’t frantically fleet or running in the other direction or frozen in place—straightened from his habitual slouch and controlled the urge to run his fingers through his hair. He looked fine. It was all fine. He was fine.
And not to be crass, but she was, too.
Jesus. I’m sweating. And not because I had to shift back and get dressed in five seconds. What’s going on?It was like a crush, if crushes hit with a tsunami of jitters and flop sweat. Who knew crushes
(not a crush)
bore such a striking similarity to malaria?
(again: not a crush)
Lila Kai peeked through the lace curtain, raised the eyebrow he could see, rolled the eye he could see, unlocked the door, and swung it wide. “No soliciting,” she said pleasantly. Her curls were all out for themselves tonight, springing out from the headband she’d slapped on. Her dark blue eyes gleamed. Her pale blue socks read‘fuck off, I’m reading.’2
He smelled the gun oil a fraction of a second before he noticed the pistol at her side. “It’s loaded this time,” she added in the casually matter-of-fact tone anyone else might use to inform him it was raining. “In case you were wondering.”
“I know!” He stared at her, and not just because she looked like a sexy-yet-deranged Orphan Annie. “Because you fully expected me to come back. And…here you are!”
“Your enthusiasm is off-putting and weird.”
“I know!” he cried. “May I come in?”
“Well, there’s no way to keep you out,” she said, resigned. She pushed her glasses further up and stepped back.
He all but scampered across the threshold. “Thank you. You might not remember—”
“Sure I do. Your name is Ox, and your favorite hobby is trashing screen doors.”
He coughed. “It’s. Um. Oz, actually.” He glanced around the sparsely furnished living room. A couch, an old easy chair, and boxes marked…eyes? Andarms? No photos anywhere—nothing on the walls at all. “So…how’s the unpacking going?”
“Nope.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Nope to the chitchat. What do you want?”
“To know why you have boxes labeled ‘eyes’ and ‘arms’ in your living room.”
“Nope.”
