How to Flirt With a Naked Werewolf - Molly Harper [3]
Nate Gogan reminded me of Yosemite Sam, with a fluffy salt-and-pepper mustache and a worn tweed jacket paired with a bolo tie fastened with some sort of horn. He’d been waiting at his office for me, despite the relatively late hour, with the paperwork for my rental. He was a one-man Welcome Wagon, wrapping a grandfatherly arm around my shoulders as he led me back to his office. The room was entirely paneled in warm, sherry-colored wood, with Mr. Gogan’s degrees and civil-service awards nailed to every available square inch that wasn’t occupied by fishing or hunting trophies. Mr. Gogan, who insisted that I call him Nate, must have kept the local taxidermist very busy.
Apparently very conscious of my thin Southerner’s blood, Mr. Gogan plied me with offers of coffee, tea, hot chocolate, even whiskey, to help me warm up while we signed the lease. He seemed extremely pleased with himself as he witnessed my signature, locking me into a one-year commitment to the house.
“I have to tell you, Miss Wenstein, I hope you’re happy here in Grundy,” he said, smiling beatifically. I didn’t bother correcting his mispronouncing my name. Mo Duvall-Wenstein is a bit of a mouthful. And after nearly thirty years as a hyphenate, I was used to people thinking that Duvall was my middle name and not my mother’s refusal to conform to “a patriarchal society’s campaign to eradicate maternal surnames.” Seriously, try explaining that to a college registrar.
“And I’m sure you’ll get a warm welcome,” he promised. “It’s not every day that a pretty, unattached woman moves into town. I know a couple of fellas—nice, good-looking, God-fearing boys—who would be very happy to meet you.”
After days surrounded by indifferent fast-food workers and big-rig drivers prone to obscene gestures, I couldn’t help but reciprocate his enthusiasm. I grinned. “Are you a matchmaker as well as an attorney?”
Mr. Gogan’s lips twitched under his thick mustache. “I do what I can to help continue the town’s population. I found my Gertie when we were in seventh grade at the Grundy Elementary School, been married for forty-three years.” He turned a picture frame toward me, showing a smiling, plump-cheeked woman with snow-white hair piled on top of her head. “Not everybody’s that lucky. Some people need a little nudge.”
“How long have you lived here?” I asked him.
“All my life,” Mr. Gogan said proudly. “’Course, I had to go to the lower forty-eight for law school, but I was only comfortable going as far south as UW. Couldn’t bear living so close to the equator as Mississippi. I’d probably melt.”
“It’s not for everybody,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. Although I’d griped constantly about Mississippi’s climate—and once threatened a coworker with an atomic wedgie if he said “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity” one more time—I felt a little twitch of loss, a pang of nostalgia for that bone-softening heat. For the first time since stepping out of the truck, I felt a chill zip down my spine. What if I was making a huge mistake? What if I wasn’t strong enough for this? Could I snatch the rental papers from Mr. Gogan’s desk and run back to my truck without making a scene?
“Well, we’re all set here,” Mr. Gogan said, giving the papers an official-looking stamp and returning them to his files.
That would be a no, then.
Mr. Gogan plopped a worn, brown suede cowboy hat on his head and said, “I’ll help you get checked in at the motel.”
“Actually, I’d hoped I could just settle right into the house,” I told him.