Wolf Pack Page 8

  She's grinning now. Grinning like a wolf.

  “I'd like that,” she says, leaning down and kissing me. It is a fierce kiss, a soft kiss, and she tastes like pine and mint and cold, fall evenings, like the evening curling around us now, the forest moving quietly, each branch dancing in a soft, chill wind.

  “So,” I tell her, when we finally break away for air, “if it's not a one-night stand...” I lift my brows, too, as I smile a little at her. “That would make this... A first date?”

  She laughs again, pulling me close, an arm around my shoulders as she shakes her head, the warmth of her body radiating into me. “The oddest first date ever.”

  I smile at her and give her another small kiss, wrapping my arms around her bare waist.

  “Oh, I don't know,” I tell her, her heat chasing away the cold of the night. “I liked it,” I tell her, which is a stretch for some of the activities of the evening...but then I tell her the absolute truth, breathing it out into the cool, dark air, “I like you.”

  She raises a lovely brow, and then she's grinning as she pulls me back toward the cabin. Her wounds, I'm realizing, are already gone. I apparently have a lot to learn about werewolves.

  “Let's see if I can get you to love this date, then,” she tells me, her voice soft and low, sending a shiver of pleasure racing through me.

  I take her hand and let her draw me back to the cabin, where the warm glow of light spills out through the familiar, comforting windows, chasing away the dark.

  -- A Wolf for Valentine’s Day --

  “Seriously, Trish—no one wants to spend Valentine's Day alone!”

  I stare at my sister with narrowed eyes as I try very, very hard to concentrate on taking deep breaths. I count to ten. I only make it to four before Jackie crosses her arms in front of her, puts on her classic big-sister-pout and goes for broke: “we all know you're still going to be single on Valentine's Day anyway,” she tells me with a shrug. “So, really, why not make the best of it?”

  Five, I count carefully in my head, feeling steam pour of my ears. Six...

  “Jackie,” I say then, applauding myself internally for how utterly calm I sound. “It's Christmas Day.” I gesture around to the mound of torn wrapping paper and ribbon strewn around us, Jackie's kids busily trying to hack into the packaging for a brand new Tonka truck with blunt safety scissors, our mother already passed out on the couch, her glass of sherry beside her on the side table. I shift my weight uncomfortably in my seat, wishing I'd had the foresight to pour myself a glass of sherry. “This is really the last day anyone should be thinking about Valentine's Day,” I mutter with a sigh.

  I glance down again at the last present I just unwrapped, peeling off the ribbon and bow from the small envelope with mounting trepidation. “Merry Christmas, Trish!” is scrawled across the top of the envelope in a red, glittery gel pen, in my sister's characteristic uber-neat penmanship.

  I had, of course, reason to be dreading what might be inside that innocent-looking envelope. Historically, gifts from my sister that come in envelopes are, shall we say, unique.

  There was, for example, the time that she thought I'd been “packing on the pounds,” (her “trying to be helpful” words, not mine), and she'd signed me up for this crazy Swedish gym downtown where they tried to sweat weight off of you by making you take five-hour long saunas while drinking glass after glass of salt water. “What?” she'd asked me defensively when I opened the envelope, read the gift certificate and my jaw fell open. “It's all the rage in Sweden!” she'd told me.

  There was that time that she'd gotten me a gift certificate for a “night with the polar bears” at the local zoo, because—and I quote my sister here—“you're a vet! You love animals!” It's true—I do love animals. But what I thought was a fund-raising gala at the zoo was an actual night with the polar bears, where a few brave souls were supposed to spend the night in the enclosure with the polar bears to try to set some sort of record for a “man versus bear” television show.

  There was also that time my sister gave me a gift certificate to an exotic animal pet store that mostly sold monkeys, because, again, “I love animals.”

  As you can see, my sister has good intentions.

  Sort of.

  She's just really not good at giving gifts.

  So what I have in my hands today is another gift certificate. But this one isn't to a monkey store or for a night with polar bears or for hours and hours of sauna time.

  No. Somehow, this one is a little worse.

  Because I now hold a gift certificate that reads: “good for three nights at Rainbow Yoga's Annual Valentine's Day Singles Retreat!”

  “Oh, Jackie,” I tell her with a little grimace. And then, because I'm not sure how to word this properly, I rise, making a beeline for the kitchen and the open bottle of sherry.

  “Trish, seriously, I really thought you'd be thrilled!” says my sister with a huff, following me through the swinging doors into the kitchen. I can tell she's pissed at me—her long ponytail is tossed over her shoulder, and she's twirling her finger through it like she used to do when I got gum stuck to something she loved when we were younger, or when I read her pink diary when she was in high school. But my sister isn't that person anymore—and I'm no longer the little sister who wreaked havoc on her My Little Pony collection with safety scissors.

  We're both grown adults, and we both have very different lives to lead.

  Like my sister. Who's soccer mom extraordinaire. She's wearing a velour track suit right now, a headband in her hair, because after we all came to mom's house for Christmas breakfast, Jackie informed us that she's going to go jogging before Christmas brunch because “she has someone to watch the kids.” My sister who brought her yoga mat with her to our Christmas day festivities, because she said she needed to squeak in some time for yoga today while she was here.

  I'm surprised she didn't bring her mobile scrapbooking unit along with her.

  We stare at each other across the kitchen island as I pour two glasses of sherry. I raise an eyebrow and slide one of the glasses across the granite counter top toward Jackie.

  “You and I both know you're still going to be single in February,” she sniffs, picking up the glass and narrowing her eyes as she glares at me. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

  I take a very deep breath.

  “Helpful,” I repeat, downing the glass of sherry in one burning gulp. “Jackie...” I say, taking another deep breath and setting the glass down on the counter. I shake my head, not entirely certain how to phrase what—to me, at least—is painfully obvious. I settle on: “while I very much appreciate the gesture, it's not exactly helpful that you want to help your 'pathetic' sister get a girl because you don't think I'm capable of that myself.” I wrap my fingers tightly around the stem of the sherry glass and raise an eyebrow.

  “I would never say pathetic,” Jackie tells me with a shake of her head, her ponytail flopping over her shoulder again as she twirls it around her finger, her frown deepening. “It's definitely a little sad,” she tells me innocently, “but not pathetic.”

  “How is it your place to try to fix this? As if I even want it to be fixed?” I tell her, tapping my fingernails on the counter. “I like being single,” I tell her then fiercely, holding up my hand when she starts to argue. “Do you even know how many hours I put in every week at my job? Being a veterinarian isn't some nice little sit-com where I sit around and pet puppies and kitties all day,” I tell her, feeling my words sharpen. “I don't have time for—”

  “Like you're going any younger?” my sister snaps at me. “Trish, you're thirty-five! When was the last time you were on a date?”

  “When was the last time it was any of your concern?” I ask her, folding my arms in front of me obstinately.

  “It isn't!” she admits, which actually surprises me. Jackie seems subdued for a solid five seconds before she rallies, leaning forward, blustering at me: “But whatever about the fact that it's a singles ret
reat! God knows the yoga will do you good!”

  At that I actually chuckle. “Jackie,” I tell her, softening as I come around the counter. I take my sister by the shoulders and give her a tiny, good natured shake. “I am the last person in the world who's ever wanted to try yoga.” I let her go, running a hand through my short brown hair. I shrug a little, lean back on the counter. “Where is this place, anyway...this Rainbow Yoga center?” I lift my brow as I say the name and try not to smile.

  “It's in Boulder, Colorado,” my sister tells me smugly, leaning back on the counter, too. When I glance at her with raised eyebrows, she shrugs. “I had David pay for it before we got our divorce back in October,” she tells me, her head to the side, her eyes flashing with the familiar impishness that my sister has always been practically famous for.

  I snort at that. “Really? You had your ex-husband pay for my Christmas present?” I consider the envelope, lifting up the sherry glass again, ready for another refill.

  “Yeah, well, we all know what was happening with him and his secretary, and I wanted a little payback for all that,” she tells me with another shrug, leaning into her elbows on the counter.

  For a long moment, neither of us says anything as we both stare down at the envelope.

  “Boulder, Colorado,” I tell her again, voice soft and wistful as I stare out the kitchen window at the sturdy palm tree in the backyard, waving its palm fronds in the warm Christmas day breeze. “Boulder, Colorado,” I repeat, “in February.”

  “I know how much you love snow. That's one thing I do know,” Jackie tells me with a small smile, bumping her shoulder gently against mine. “I'm sorry—I didn't mean to imply you were pathetic. Honest,” she says then, biting her lip. “I really was trying to be helpful. I can't ever tell if you're telling the truth when you tell me that you're too busy for a girlfriend, or if you're...really not that busy, but you're just not getting out there. You're not a big sister,” she tells me, shaking her head. “It's my job to worry about these kinds of things.”

  I sigh, filling up our glasses again. “I'm not lying to you,” I promise her. “I really am too busy for any kind of relationship commitment right now.”

  But even as the words come out of my mouth, I can feel the lie sour.

  It's true—I'm definitely busy.

  But it's not the whole truth.

  I open the envelope again, stare down at the gift certificate, taking out the brochure for the place. Rainbow Yoga. It's probably full of hippie women and tie dye and people talking about feelings all the time...which isn't bad. It's just not my scene. I'm the science lady. I sigh a little, take a deep breath, open the brochure.

  “The gift certificate comes with free massages, three organic meals a day—I mean, it's nice, sis,” Jackie promises me, peering at the brochure over my shoulder. “I mean, you could go to the retreat and not even do a bit of yoga if you didn't want to.” I can hear the familiar wheedling tone in her voice, the type of tone she's notorious for using when she's trying to manipulate someone into doing something.

  “It's not that I'm not grateful for this,” I tell her with a big sigh. “And I'm pretty pleased that you had that asshole pay for it,” I tell her with a wink as I slide the brochure back into the envelope. “And I love you,” I tell her, leaning over and squeezing my sister tightly around the shoulders. “But yoga...a singles retreat...even the very word retreat.” I run my fingers through my hair again nervously, shake my head. “I mean, it's all moot. I probably couldn't get the time off from my practice, honestly—we've been swamped with new clients. And the thought was very nice,” I tell her again, smiling half-heartedly, “but it's just not...really my scene.”

  Jackie taps the envelope with a finger and slides it across the space between us on the counter to rest beside my elbow. “Just do me a favor and think about it, okay?” she tells me with a small smile. “After all, like you said—it's a long way to Valentine's Day. You have time to think about it. No need to make any decisions right this very minute.”

  We toast each other with the sherry and drink it down, while Bing Crosby sings about White Christmases on one of the balmiest Christmas days West Palm Beach, Florida, has ever seen.

  She's right. Valentine's Day is a long ways off. And it was really nice of Jackie to do this for me. But now's not the time to think about it. Valentine's Day is almost two months away. I don't have to decide now.

  So I put it out of my mind.

  ---

  “Miss Dalton,” says Elizabeth, knocking loudly on my office door. “Can I have a moment?” she asks me, her brows up.

  I glance up from the myriad spreadsheets I'm trying to make sense of on my laptop. My eyes are practically crossed, and when I look up at my secretary, standing in my office doorway, all I really see is blurred numbers instead of her warm, kind face.

  “What's up, Elizabeth?” I ask her, rubbing at my eyes and leaning back in my desk chair. Elizabeth flicks on the overhead light in my office, and I wince down in the chair, not a little unlike a vampire exposed to too much sunlight.

  “You've been at it for hours,” Elizabeth tells me gently, taking in the papers strewn across the desk, the multiple cups of cold coffee sitting by my elbow and my hunched back. I try to lean back a little against the chair, but wince again—God, my back is killing me. “It's Sunday evening, Miss Dalton,” says Elizabeth with a sigh. “Aren't you hungry? Don't you want a break?”

  My secretary is in her fifties, is full of vinegar when I need her to be, and sugar the rest of the time. But right now, I can tell that there's more than an ounce of vinegar in her tone. She only ever calls me “Miss Dalton” when she's being firm. “No, Elizabeth, I'm fine—really,” I promise her with a long sigh, opening the top drawer of my desk to rifle through the takeout menus for another quick dinner option. “I have to go through all of this billing's cycle, and—”

  “What you really need to do is to hire an assistant,” says Elizabeth, shaking her head and placing her hands on her hips in her patented no-nonsense manner. “I'm serious. You're the veterinarian. It's your job to take care of the patients, not their many, many charts. An assistant can do that for you, and you'll get some hours of your life back. It's a win-win,” she tells me, raising a single brow.

  “I keep meaning to hire one,” I tell her, which—even to my ears—sounds like a very lame excuse.

  “Well, good, because I already put an ad in the paper about it,” says Elizabeth, her head to the side as she smiles widely at me.

  I drop the stack of takeout menus back in the drawer and sigh. “Is this a hostile takeover?” I ask her with a wink. Elizabeth shakes her head, and then she sets something down in front of me on my desk.

  Suddenly, I don't feel so hungry anymore.

  “Your sister called,” says Elizabeth blandly, tapping the envelope still marked with “Merry Christmas!”

  “And?” I ask her, not touching the envelope.

  “She asked me to come into your office and set this down in front of you and, I quote her directly here, 'give you a meaningful look.'” Elizabeth stares down at me with one brow raised over the edge of her glasses, her arms folded in front of her. “So, I've given you the meaningful look. And I've called ahead for the plane tickets and to make sure your room was still reserved at the, ah, Rainbow Yoga place,” she tells me, her eyes twinkling.

  “I really can't go,” I splutter. “You know my hands are tied. I have appointments all next week,” I tell her, gesturing to my calendar, heavily marked with sharpie and actually stapled to my office wall.

  “Lucky for you, I cleared them all. And, anyway, Margaret wanted more clients,” says Elizabeth, naming the veterinarian I just hired. “There's no reason in the world you shouldn't go to this,” she tells me. “It'll be nice!”

  “I have a reason for you,” I tell Elizabeth, shaking my head. “And it's really the most obvious one.” I hold up a single finger. “I don't like yoga! I mean, I've never done it in my entire life!” I shrug a l
ittle, flustered. “Honestly, I don't know the first thing about yoga! Who the hell doesn't know a single thing about yoga and goes to a yoga retreat?”

  Elizabeth shrugs. “There's a first time for everything, right? Your plane leaves tomorrow. If you'll go,” she tells me, rocking back on her heels, her head to the side as she considers me. “On a nice vacation,” she says, enunciating each word, her eyes narrowing, “that's been already paid for...” She trails off.

  Elizabeth has been my assistant for as long as I've been a vet. She knows me backwards and forwards and knows exactly how hard to push, and exactly when to let me make my own decisions.

  I stare down at the envelope. Admittedly, it would be utterly stupid not to go—I know that. My sister had her ex-husband pay for this, she really was thinking of my best interests, and there's absolutely no law that says that, once I get there, I have to do a single second of yoga. I could spend the entire time getting massages, ordering in room service, taking in the beautiful snow and city...

  It'd be stupid not to go.

  I sigh, running a hand through my hair as I prop my elbows up on my desk and grin at my secretary.

  It's been a really long time since I took a vacation, after all...

  “Okay. Could you please send my sister a thank you card? I guess I'll be seeing you next week,” I tell Elizabeth, and she casts me a knowing smirk and makes her way out of my office.

  Wow. An actual vacation. I stare at the pile of papers on my desk and lean back in my chair, feeling overwhelmed by the very thought.

  But everything will still be here when I get back, I remind myself.

  That night I get home and pack my cold weather gear, surprised by how excited about this I'm actually becoming. Now that I've convinced myself that I don't have to do a single minute's worth of yoga there—or spend any time with the other “singles” who will be at the retreat—I'm actually excited about the prospect of a vacation.