How to Flirt With a Naked Werewolf - Molly Harper [1]
First Pocket Books paperback edition March 2011
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Cover design by John Vairo Jr.; illustration by Robyn Nield
Interior design by Davina Mock-Maniscalco
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-4391-9586-4
ISBN 978-1-4391-9588-8 (ebook)
For Manda, who is always there.
For Matt, whose kitchen hijinks were inspiring.
-MMM-
Acknowledgments
IN JANUARY 2009, WE had a huge ice storm in Kentucky. We’re talking weeks without power, grocery and gas shortages, price gouging on generators . . . male neighbors shaving their heads in their driveways because they were tired of cold shampoos. I spent a week camping out in my in-laws’ living room, in front of their fireplace, with two children under the age of five.
These are the times in which family therapy sessions are born.
Fortunately, I used being trapped by frigid weather, in the dark, to get in the right frame of mind to write twenty (longhand) pages of a werewolf romance set in Alaska. That eventually became How to Flirt with a Naked Werewolf.
I want to thank my in-laws, Russell and Nancy, for housing us and keeping us going during that time. Thanks to my husband, David, who always keeps his sense of humor, no matter the situation. And to my mom and dad, who will shake up heaven and earth to make sure their kids are safe. Thanks to my agent, Stephany Evans, and to Jennifer Heddle and Ayelet Gruenspecht at Pocket for their seemingly limitless support and understanding.
And finally, to my siblings, Manda and Matt: I would not know how to write stories about large groups of funny, snarky people without having grown up around the pair of you. You humor me when I boss you around. You keep me on my toes. You call me on my bull. I love you guys.
1
When Did My Life
Become a Willie Nelson Song?
WHEN A NAKED MAN shows up on your doorstep with a bear trap clamped around his ankle, it’s best just to do what he asks.
This was a lesson I had to learn the hard way. A lesson that I didn’t anticipate that crisp June morning as I drove my ailing truck to the town limits of tiny Grundy in the southeast interior of Alaska. As sorry as I felt for my “new to me” four-by-four, I couldn’t stop just yet.
“Just a few more minutes, baby,” I said, stroking fond fingers over the worn-smooth plastic of the steering wheel. It jittered with every revolution of the axle, like an arthritic lady’s complaint, telling me I’d darn well better find a decent mechanic when we got into town. The 1999 Ford, which I’d lovingly dubbed Lucille while driving through Kansas, would need a little pampering to make up for the wear and tear of our first trip together.
I had driven thousands of miles, inhaled endless to-go cups of bad coffee, and endured a three-day ferry ride from Washington to reach the ornately carved “Welcome to Grundy” sign. As it came into view, my heart leaped a little at its declaration that the town was home to 2,053 people. I was about to change that number.
Deciding that Lucille had earned a short break, I pulled over just in front of the sign and put her in park. Her whole body seemed to quiver, then sigh, before she stilled. Stepping out onto the broken asphalt shoulder, I unfolded myself from the driver’s seat and stretched my long legs. I ran my fingers along the carved wood, admiring the way the workman had managed to fit motifs from Inuit art into the design without muddying the clarity of the sign. Art and function, all in one.
I stretched my arms over my head, enjoying the crackle of my stiff vertebrae snapping back into place after that last six-hour stretch. Even in the relative warmth of late June, I shivered. Chagrined, I tucked my hands into my crisp new North Face jacket, purchased as a first