Page 5 of Witch's Wolf

All I wanted was… something. Not everything, not tonight, but something, maybe a touch or a kiss. One moment that would prove this tension between us isn’t all in my head. That I’m not imagining this magnetic pull between us. That seems to yank us together no matter how much he scowls or growls or keeps his distance.

One moment, but he shut me down.

Left me here in this cold, lonely room, clutching a glass of vodka like it will somehow soften the sharp edges of his rejection. I know it’s pointless, but I take another sip anyway. Anything to dull the sting.

Fuck. Why did he come tonight? I have to see him tomorrow!

Not just see him. I’ll have to spend hours with him. It’s the weekend for Stacy and I to stay with Monica at her place in Shandaken. Days filled with porch conversations, lazy drives and, of course, dinner with the Crawfords. Dinner with him.

It’s easy to imagine how that will go. Sam quiet and brooding at the table, but we’ll exchange awkward sideways glances. The tension building between us, stretching until it is unbearable. A wire about to snap. I should skip it. Tell Stacy go without me.

But Monica’s my closest friend, and Stacy? She’s relentless. If I don’t show up, she’ll know exactly why, and she’ll never let me forget it. It’s nothing to imagine what she’ll say.

‘What’s the matter, Erica? Can’t handle a little rejection?’

She’d have her sly grin fixed in place. The one that makes you want to hug and strangle her at the same time. The embarrassment of skipping dinner feels worse than the embarrassment of showing up. At least if I go, I can fake it. Pretend the memory of tonight doesn’t sting.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair as I rise from the dresser. Tomorrow, I’ll face Sam. The man who refuses to want me but can’t stop looking. The man who’s somehow managed to burrow into my thoughts and under my skin.

And God help me, I’ll find a way to survive it.

3

ERICA

The Catskills are shedding their winter skin. Snow has abandoned the mountainsides except for the peaks. The colors of spring are bleeding into the scenery. I’ve always loved New York in the spring, but today, driving along the winding mountain roads, “love” feels like an understatement. The dull, icy gray has been replaced by wild stretches of purple, yellow, and blue. Jasmine and azaleas have burst to life, painting the roadside like an impressionist’s dream.

No longer burdened by frost, the trees glow with vibrant greens, alive again. It’s enough to convince me I made the right choice driving up here, despite the echo of his final words in my head.

When Monica’s driveway comes into view, I exhale heavily, a mix of emotions swelling. Glad to see my friend of course, but that joy is colored with relief. Stacy’s Cherokee isn’t here yet, thank God. At least I’m spared her sly comments and knowing looks for a little longer. I park my car and step out onto the concrete driveway. Tall daisies line the driveway, swaying lazily in the breeze, unimpeded by Monica’s monster of an SUV.

“Aren’t you beautiful…” I murmur to the flowers, before getting my suitcase out of the back seat and turning toward the house.

Monica’s rounding the corner of the porch. She looks radiant, her smile as warm as the sunlight breaking through the trees. It’s a major change in her, one that makes me really happy. There is no doubt about the cause either. It’s Raul Crawford. She’s changed since the two of them got together in ways I don’t think she even realizes.

“Hey!” she calls, her voice bright and cheerful. “How was the drive?”

“Colorful,” I reply, matching her smile. “The wildflowers are incredible this time of year. Where’s Stacy?”

“She’s on her way,” Monica says, leaning on the porch railing. “So… how was last night? Raul texted that they got back late, but I haven’t seen him yet.”

My stomach twists as my shoulders tense. Of course Raul didn’t mention Sam’s outburst, or mine. Why would he? Or did Sam hide it from him? If he did hide it, what does that mean?

“Uh, last night was…” I hesitate, shifting my grip on the suitcase handle. “Complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Monica asks, her frown wrinkling her forehead.

“I made a mistake,” I admit, in a reluctant a whisper.

“What kind of mistake?” Monica probes, walking closer.

I bite the inside of my cheek, avoiding her gaze.

“I made a move on Sam.”

Her eyes widen and she gasps. She stops a few feet away, staring with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“No, Erica… you didn’t, I?—”

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