Page 39 of Wishing for a Werewolf
Mom and Dad share a look, wanting to protest again but not wanting to be rude to a guest.
I take advantage of their hesitation and say, “Rune’s already agreed.” Things need to change to keep the farm afloat, and since they won’t do anything until we’re desperate, I’m going to push this. I pull out Rune’s letter and hand it to him with a pen, pointing out the signature line. “Sign here.”
When he’s done, I fold it up and stuff it into the prepared envelope. Then I spin and race out of the barn, Babybelle bounding along beside me. We’re not far from the end of the driveway, and it doesn’t take me long to make it to the mailbox right as the white postal jeep rounds the bend of the main road.
I wait until Rosie pulls up and hand the letters directly to her. Her brown face breaks into a smile as she reads Mrs.Greely’s name, and she says, “You’re helping with the fall festival this year?”
“As you well know.” I grin. Rosie’s the nicest person on the events committee.
“You do it up right, and I can see it happening again next year.” She gives me a wink as she pulls away to putter on down the road.
I spin to find Rune walking toward me.
“The letters are sent. We’ve officially accepted our roles for the pumpkin carving contest and the hay maze, with a note that we’re helping each other.” That’s sure to light a fire under the town’s old-lady gossip network. They’ll probably think wedding bells are ringing for the two of us, never realizing it’s a magical mix-up of epic proportions instead of romance.
“Good.” He comes to a stop right in front of me.
“You don’t have to, you know.” I gesture back toward the farm. “You don’t have to help with the actual hay maze.” Who the eff knows how I’ll do it without him, but I could ask the Witch Bitches to help, or maybe Hannah could convince Severin to magic the bales into place. “I’ll, uhh… I’ll find someone.”
Rune must hear the hesitancy in my voice, because he hits me with the full intensity of his golden gaze. “Won’t your family help?”
“They’re not exactly thrilled about the hay maze.” A swirl of emotions tangles in my chest, and I can’t keep the disappointed hurt from my voice. “I thought they’d love it, because my grandparents used to host the hay maze all the time when I was little, but I was wrong.”
A big hand wraps around my shoulder, warm through the damp of my shirt. “Tell me.”
Leaning into the firmness of his grip, I finally blurt out all the things I’ve been bottling up. “The farm’s not doing well. We’re not in trouble—not yet!—but if things keep going like they are, we will be.” My eyes rove over the pasture and our small herd of goats, who’ve emerged from the barn to graze now that the rain’s letting up. Cheddar bumps against Gouda, and the two snuggle up like sisters as they crop at the grass. God, I love this place! “I keep coming up with ideas for how to improve things, bring in new customers, but…” My free shoulder spasms in a quick shrug.
“Is the soap shop one of these ideas?” he asks, his deep voice a comforting rumble, free of judgment.
“Yep. The soaps the farm makes are good, quality soaps, but they’re notspecial. Not compared to what the competition makes. I want to add a line of artisanal soaps to attract those customers, but my parents are against it, because it would take money and resources they don’t feel we can risk.”
“What do you think?” He gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“My parents keep saying we need to focus on what we know, but the data shows our sales are slipping more and more each month. Doing the same thing isn’t working.” Mom and Dad mean well, but these days, they’re nothing but walking balls of worry, white-knuckling their way through life. The more sales start to slip, the more tightly they cling to what we’ve been doing, unwilling to hear anything I have to say. But I’mright—I can feel it in my gut—and it’s an effing relief to have someone listen to me. “So I think the real risk isnottrying something new. It’s also the reason I want to host the hay maze, so we can remind everyone we’re here and making a great product.”
“Everything you say sounds perfectly reasonable, and I will help you with the hay maze.” He gives my shoulder one last squeeze. “As I told you before, we’re in this together.”
My heart skips at his words, at having someone on my side for a change. The way Rune backed me up in the barn was the first real support I’ve gotten for one of my ideas for how to help the farm. It means more than he could ever guess.
And damned if I don’t like the way he says “together” when he speaks of the two of us.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rune
To thank me for helping to store the hay, Autumn insists on spending the next day helping me turn my house into a home.
She picks me up early the next morning and drives straight for downtown.
“I thought the stores we’re going to are out by the highway?”
“They are.” My fire shoots me a mischievous grin. “But first…”
She pulls the car over and parks on the curb at the lower end of Main Street. The town green spreads out in front of us, bathed in slanting bars of morning light, the walking tulips still dozing in their flower beds. We’re in front of one of the shops I’ve never seen open before. Although it was a faded-peach color only yesterday, it’s now freshly painted arich burnt orange with deep-green trim. The windows are so clean they gleam in the morning sunlight, and it’s got all the hallmarks of one of the buildings newly restored by shadow fae magic.
“What is this?” I ask as I climb out of the car, a gust of crisp fall air lifting my hair from my shoulders.
“It’s Hannah’s latest triumph! The town’s new coffee shop, Grounds for Celebration. Come on. The first pumpkin spice latte is on me.” Autumn grins as she swings open the door, and we step into a shop finished in deep-brown wood. Golden globes hang from the ceiling, casting a warm light. An earthy scent layered with milk and the sweet tease of sugar and spice perfumes the air. Humans fill most of the small tables, but there’s one wood nymph in the corner, and a blur of glowing blue dots swirls wildly above another table. One by one, the pixies slow down enough to come to a hover over a tiny white cup filled with brown liquid so dark it’s almost black. Using a miniature straw, they each take a sip before flying up to rejoin the flock, screaming, “Whee!”
