How to Flirt With a Naked Werewolf - Molly Harper [94]
“Only the ones who know about the werewolf thing,” he said as he stacked firewood into the stone circle. “Which would be you and you only.”
I dropped the bag. “You’ve never told any of your girlfriends about the wolf thing?”
He blinked a few times, as if I’d just posed an incredibly stupid question. “I haven’t really had that many girlfriends, and none I’ve stayed with long enough to tell about the wolf thing.”
“That’s sort of huge. How has this not come up before?”
“You never asked.”
I thought back to all of the conversations we’d had. “Oh, my . . . you’re right. As a girlfriend, I suck.”
“Well, you get bonus points for prying a bear trap off my leg. That can’t be discounted.”
“Ah, thank God, a retroactive points system. It’s really the only way I’ll win.”
It took surprisingly little time to set up camp. Apparently, experiences with my parents, which included hours spent searching outdoor concert venues for campsites that had good feng shui, had colored my perception of camping. With the thick double sleeping bag, a tent wasn’t necessary. As I unfurled it a safe distance from the fire, Cooper set out the rapidly disintegrating toilet paper and a little spade without comment. I chose not to think about that until it was absolutely necessary.
“What now?” I asked, with the fire blazing comfortably near my bare feet.
“Now I’m going to hunt,” he said.
My jaw dropped, but I felt immediately stupid for not realizing that Cooper would have to run down our dinner. What else were we going to eat? He grinned and rooted around in his backpack, producing packages of hot dogs and buns.
“Funny,” I grunted, slapping at his shoulder. Even though I knew something was brewing, it was sort of nice to have glimpses of the old Cooper back. It was as if he struggled with the decision to have this big “talk” more than the dread of my reaction. Now that he’d made his decision, he could relax.
“Keep up that attitude, and there will be no s’mores for you,” he said as I wandered to the edge of the clearing to find some long, thin sticks fit for roasting. I wiped them down as best I could and held my hand out imperiously for a hot dog. “I can do the cooking,” Cooper said, somewhat indignant now.
“Men always think they should be in charge of outdoor cooking.” I took the hot-dog package from him and skewered a few. “But the Y chromosome has been programmed with the ‘the blacker my food is, the more manly I am’ gene. I like my processed meats to be somewhere in the unnatural-nitrate-red range. Ergo I will handle the cooking, thank you.”
Cooper was quiet for a long moment.
“You’re trying to come up with some sort of ‘processed meats’ double entendre, aren’t you?” I accused him as I held the sticks over the fire.
“Yeah, you didn’t leave me a lot to work with,” he grumbled.
We ate an indecent number of hot dogs and s’mores, careful to hang our leftovers and trash in a tree several yards away from our sleeping bag. As the temperatures dropped into the cool range, I changed into thermals and thick wool socks, something Cooper didn’t have to bother with.
“So, what do you think?” Cooper asked, pulling me against his knees and kissing my neck.
“Camping is just like being at home, only much, much more work.”
He grumped, “Well, it’s not easy for me, either, you know. I’m used to sitting around a campfire with a bunch of overdressed, out-of-shape outsiders, swilling imported beer and pretending to laugh at their jokes.”
“The adjustment must be so difficult for you,” I said, wiping pretend tears of pity from my cheeks. Cooper got quiet, playing with my hands, lacing our fingers together. “You wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”
Cooper cleared his throat and dropped my hands. I obstinately grabbed his and lifted his chin so he had to look me in the eye. He took a deep breath and said, “About a year after I became alpha, this other pack showed up one night. They dragged Maggie out of our house, and their alpha threatened to snap Maggie’s neck in front of me if I didn’t relinquish control of the valley to