How to Flirt With a Naked Werewolf - Molly Harper [13]
I eyed Cooper again, trying to discern exactly where the territorial bubble he seemed to have established began. No one got within a foot of him, everyone shying around him to place orders at the counter, reach for ketchup. Again, except for Lynette, who couldn’t have communicated her eagerness to burst that bubble any more clearly if she’d been wearing a sandwich board that read, “10 Seconds from Naked!” So far, Cooper hadn’t responded to her overtures with more than a few disinterested grunts.
He was a charmer.
“If you stay past the first big snow, Cooper might actually speak to you without rolling his eyes,” Evie offered, her voice full of hope.
I muttered, “Well, woo-freaking-hoo. And you know, we had winter in Mississippi.”
Evie gave me a pitying shake of her head.
“We actually had to wear long sleeves,” I told her, but she seemed unimpressed.
“Shit fire!” I heard Buzz yell from the kitchen.
My eyes went wide, but everyone else seemed too occupied with their food to respond. Evie read my expression, smiled to herself, and rolled her eyes. “My husband, the poet.”
But then someone called in a stage whisper, as if not to disturb the customers, “Evie! I need some help back here.” A lanky Asian teenager in a stained white apron stepped around the corner, pulling a pale Buzz in his wake. Buzz’s hand was wrapped in a white dish cloth already soaked with blood. Evie’s expression changed to one of alarm.
“What happened, Pete?” she asked, concern roughening her voice. I quietly stepped around the bar and helped Pete steady Buzz. We took him back into the kitchen and sat him down on a case of canned chili beans. I gently lifted Buzz’s arm over his head so Evie could pull the cloth away. I saw enough of the wound that I thought I might have to sit down, too.
“Just a little accident,” Buzz mumbled, wincing with pain.
Poor Pete had worked himself up into a fine froth. Whether it was panic from the sight of blood or fear of losing his job, I had no idea. He babbled, “We were waiting for the fries to finish, and we got a little bored. And you know, Buzz just got these new knives, and he was bragging on them and trying to tell me that they were sharp enough to cut through a beer bottle, and I said, ‘No way.’ And he said, ‘I’ll prove it to you . . .’”
“John Matthew DuChamp, are you trying to tell me that after getting through two tours of duty unscathed, you’ve maimed yourself trying to cut a beer bottle in half?” Evie demanded.
Buzz was looking rather sheepish at the use of his full name . . . and green.
“It’s pretty bad,” Pete told her. “We need to get him to the clinic right now.”
“I’ll take him,” Evie said, whipping her apron over her head and reaching for her purse.
“It’s the middle of the lunch rush,” Buzz protested queasily. “You two can’t leave. I’ll drive myself.”
“You can barely stand,” Evie told him. “I’ll take you. Pete can handle the counter.”
“Alone?” Pete squeaked, sounding panicked. “You know what happens when you leave, Evie. Homer Perkins picks apart his food, yells that I got his order wrong, and throws stuff at me.”
“Oh, it was one time,” Evie said, patting his arm.
“It was an ax handle!”
Evie kissed Buzz’s forehead. “Fine, I’ll stay here, but Pete’s going to take you to get that looked at.”
“Well, if I take Pete with me, who’s going to cook?” Buzz asked.
Evie chewed her lip.
“Evie’s a disaster in the kitchen,” Pete explained to me, a