2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Delilah
N ote to self: wearing gloves in July is not inconspicuous.
As I was recovering from my head-on with that gorgeous man I wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t imagined prior to his waltzing inside the shop, I realized something felt off. I got into the shop, scratched my head, and my nail got stuck…except it was a claw.
I never had reason to look into it, before, and it turns out the internet isn’t the most reliable source of information on real-life werewolves, but I always thought the full moon had to be high and bright in the night sky for one to undergo, erm, changes . Apparently, after three long years of howling, my limbs have decided to forget the memo .
I sigh, though I shouldn’t be surprised. Faye always says it’s not a science, and I guess something was bound to change, at some point. That doesn’t mean I have to be ecstatic about it.
This month’s full moon peak is scheduled for the day after my birthday, as the calendar I keep on the fridge, trapped beneath a strawberry-shaped magnet, reminds me every time I wander too close to the ice cream stashed there; yet it seems my body has decided to get a head start on the job. All I could do was cover it up, but of course, my gardening gloves were nowhere to be seen, and I had to resort to the lost and found box. I hope the claw will retract before it breaks through the faux-suede barrier, or worse, before a customer comes in and sees. I almost got caught as it is.
After–well, I forgot to ask for his name– he leaves, ignoring how my heart rate increased at his closeness, I get to work on watering all the plants and flowers according to their specific needs. As I water my favorite monstera, I catch myself inexplicably flustered by the memory of his compliment and his broad presence, but for some reason, it’s his voice that is stuck in my head. The way his mouth formed the word beautiful , like he meant it in the truest sense of the word. I wouldn’t say I’m frivolous–I don’t think I get to be, since I sometimes turn into a salivating monster–but I can’t deny it felt nice. Even though I have the sneaking suspicion he hasn’t smiled genuinely in a decade.
And what does he want with Myrta, anyway? She didn’t tell me we were expecting any visitors, so I’ll have to ask her about it before he gets to talk to her.
If Fern Port were the kind of place that got a lot of tourists, he wouldn’t fit the description with that tailored suit and pretty, soul-scavenging eyes and–oh gosh, focus, Lila .
I look furtively around me before taking the gloves off, and luckily, my wayward claw is gone. As if on cue, while I tuck the gloves in the pocket of my work apron, a customer comes in.
Except it’s not any customer–it’s Dean. Dickhead Dean, as Faye likes to call him. I-kissed-once-at-sixteen-and-have-regretted-it-ever-since-Dean.
“Good morning,” I smile cautiously. “How may I help you today?”
“Why the formality, honey?”
Unpleasant chills go up my spine at the nickname, which should sound sweet in the right mouth, but proves slimy out of his. I’m a very patient person, when I’m still me. But I won’t deny I’d feel a little safer if I still had that claw out.
“I’m working, Dean.” I say calmly. “How can I help you?”
He purses his lips, lowering himself to place both elbows on the counter nonchalantly. I take a small, yet instinctive step back.
“Do you have any gerbs?”
“What are those?”
He laughs humorlessly, his eyes bright with impatience. “Maybe you should go over your flower knowledge.”
I will not bite him. Deep breaths.
“The large pink ones?” he asks, halfway between annoyed and amused by my apparent ignorance.
“Did you mean gerberas?”
“That’s what I said.”
Dick! I think in Faye’s voice.
“Sorry, we’re all out.”
His sly smile drops, and he cocks his head to the side. “You never seem to give me what I want, eh?”
I blink rapidly a few times, eyeing the space between the exit and his lanky form. I don’t think he’s going to try anything, and maybe I’m exaggerating, but I don’t feel comfortable. I wish he would leave.
“I’ll ask Myrta to give you a ring when the next gerberas are ready, Dean. Have a nice day,” I say by way of goodbye, but he doesn’t budge.
“You kicking me out, Lila?”
I shake my head, clearing my throat. It’s just Dickhead Dean. I could scare him to death, if I wanted it badly enough. And that’s always the issue, isn’t it? I’d perish before saving myself, if it meant not hurting someone else.
“Then I think I’ll sit over here and keep you company. I’ve got some time to kill,” he grins, and there’s no doubt there are two wolves in the room.
“I’d like you to go,” I say, because I’m either brave or stupid, and I don’t want his company–not now, not ever. “I have a lot of work to do.”
“Maybe you–”
“She said you need to leave,” Suit and Tie’s voice says.
Cedric
This guy exudes trouble, and I’ve never had patience for men who think they can do as they please.
He turns to face me slowly, bushy eyebrows raised and arms crossed over his chest.
“You are…?” he asks boredly.
I fix the cuff of my shirt, not bothering to look him in the eyes .
“Does it matter? She asked you to leave, so you’ll leave,” I say coolly.
“Uh–” the girl starts, her eyebrows pinched, probably worried we’re about to break into a fight and dismember every plant pot in sight in the process. She can’t know it won’t come to that–he won’t have time to react violently, if that’s his intention.
“Get out of my face,” he says, turning his back to me once more.
I sigh. The blazer I’m wearing creases easily.
“Wrong answer,” I say under my breath, and with a few short steps I’ve reached him. I tap on his shoulder, and when he turns around, he barely has time to speak before I’ve gripped his arms and pulled them behind his back, effectively immobilizing him.
“What the–”
“When a lady says go, you go,” I tell him, perfectly aware of the wide hazel eyes on me.
I might like her attention, just a bit.
As he uselessly struggles, I apply pressure to his neck in the precise point that, should it not make him pass out, will at the very least make him woozy enough not to bother her anymore. As I do, he slumps over, moaning.
“Is he okay? What are you going to do with him?” she asks frantically, walking around the counter after us.
“What do you do with garbage? You throw it away.”
“We don’t have a big enough trash can,” she mumbles.
As I step outside, I notice a cluster of men chatting in the square, and I walk up to them with my arm around the dead weight to prevent him from toppling over.
“Gentlemen, perhaps you might be of help? The poor guy fainted,” I say, as distraught as I dare look. “I’m not from here and I have a terribly important work meeting, so I didn’t know if–”
“Dean?” one man says, while two others help Dean’s slumped form over to a chair. He will come back to his literal senses in approximately four minutes, so it’d be preferable if I could get back to my business as soon as possible. “We’ll get him to Dr. Rowisk, he’s just around the corner. Thank you!”
“You are most welcome,” I say with a grimace as I turn around to head back to the flower shop. She is right by the door, unsuccessfully sneaking.
“Did I contribute to making your morning more interesting?” I ask.
“I’m not a damsel in distress, you know,” she says with furred brows. It’s endlessly endearing. I don’t think she could summon a menacing expression if her life depended on it.
“Never said you were,” I reply as a short, beady-eyed woman wrapped in a magenta shawl stops a few steps from the shop’s door, which the girl and I are currently blocking.
“Myrta! This is–”
“Cedric Campbell ma’am,” I interject, extending my hand. “Pleasure.”
“We’ll see about that,” the woman rasps, adjusting the visor of her wide-brimmed hat.
Isn’t that a promising start?