How to Flirt With a Naked Werewolf - Molly Harper [93]
“Mo.”
“Letting it go,” I said, snapping my seatbelt and settling into pleasant fantasies of bed-and-breakfasts and spas equipped with double massage tables.
Unfortunately, Cooper’s idea of a surprise was whisking me away to . . . a nature preserve.
“Camping?” I said, incredulous as we pulled into the parking lot of the Bardwell Camping Area. “Your surprise is camping?”
He gave me a halfhearted smile and reached behind the seat of the truck to hold up a heavy green canvas trail pack. I made a noise embarrassingly close to a whine. I wasn’t much of a camper. For one thing, I’d had enough of roughing it as a kid the summer my parents decided to follow the Dead and live out of the family’s aforementioned VW van. For another, I enjoyed creature comforts, such as not being eaten alive by mosquitoes the size of pigeons.
He jostled my arm as he dragged gear out of the back of the truck. “Come on, you’re always talking about how much you love living so close to nature.”
“Yes, close to nature. Not actually out in it. I mean, is this really a good idea considering everything that’s going on? The attacks, the crazy gun-toting ‘birdwatchers,’ the camera crews? You haven’t strayed so much as a mile away from the house in weeks, and all of a sudden, it’s time for a Super-Fun Death March through the woods?”
His face relaxed under the tension of all that forced energy. It sagged, seeming craggy and drawn. “There’s some stuff I need to tell you. And I can’t do it at home. I want to do this in a place where we can just pick up and leave it behind.”
My eyes narrowed. Was he finally going to talk about his past? His family? Why the stories about the hikers bothered him so much? Or was he just going to give me some sort of talk about how we shouldn’t see each other anymore and Samson was currently moving his stuff out of the house? Either way, we couldn’t keep going the way we were. I held out my hand. “Give me the damn backpack.”
He kissed the top of my head and strapped it onto my back. I couldn’t see a tent or a cooler on Cooper’s back and prayed that meant we were staying in some secret hunting cabin he had hidden out in the woods. I was proven wrong when Cooper led me on a hike along a barely beaten trail, away from a sign marking the entrance to Bardwell.
“Aren’t the campgrounds this way?” I asked, pointing toward the nice, clean, civilized-looking RV park. “With, you know, the electrical hookups and nice, clean picnic area . . . and the grills . . . the showers . . . and the . . . showers.”
“Well, I’m more of a roughing-it guy. You’ll love it. You know, sleeping under the stars. And I did bring a sleeping bag. Just for you . . . because I’m so considerate.” He took in my scowl. “I’m a dead man.’
“Yep.” I said, pronouncing the last letter with a distinct pop as we pushed through the brush.
I had to admit, it was a scenic death march. Everything was so clear, as if even the limited filters of life in town had been lifted. The light passed down through the trees, green and gold. Cooper, who seemed nervous that he’d overstepped the “Mo patience line,” kept up a steady stream of chatter. Funny stories about camping with his grandfather when he was just a pup. Stories about running with Samson in their early days of werewolfdom, most of which ended with Samson waking up naked on the front porch of a ranger station. Old local legends. The weather. When he started giving me the scientific names of the trees, I let him off the hook and chattered back.
We hiked longer than I’d ever chosen to walk in my entire life. We finally reached a small clearing, flanked by even more trees. The ground was hard-packed and smooth. There was a small stone circle in the middle filled with the black remains of burnt branches.
“This campsite seems pretty well used for being so ‘out of the way.’ Do you bring all of your girlfriends here?” I narrowed my eyes in mock