Page 10 of A Wulver for the Week

“Lots of guys might agree to this, ‘Hey baby, sure, sure, I’ll help you out,’” she says, her voice comically deep, “but only someone like you would see it through.”

“Aye, well. That’s me. Reliable. Now, get a good night’s sleep, hm? Pick you up at six.”

“Got it. And... I love you, Craig. You are the man. I owe you, big time.”

I swallow hard. She loves me.

But she said it in the way drunken lads turn to their mates at the pub and profess their undying love and friendship. She loves me for sticking with her through thick and thin—and that’s an honor. “Aw, get away with yersel’,” I mumble, feeling the blush under my fur. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

7: Flying and Florida

So, maybe I had a glass or three of wine while talking to Craig last night. I hate flying, but not as much as I hatethinkingabout flying, and last night I did a lot of thinking aboutsomany things. I numbed my anxiety with fermented grapes instead of meds. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I wince through a crisp, bright spear of March sunlight and climb in Craig’s little gray hatchback. I think I told him I loved him last night.

And then I had a dirty dream that woke me up with my insides as slick as if I’d just had an hour-long session with my favorite historical romance bodice-ripper and my buzzing silicone friend.

“Put your kit in the backseat, Minnie, the boot is full of fishing gear,” he instructs, rushing to help me load my luggage.

I struggle with long garment bags, relieved that we’re flying first-class and have room to carry my bridesmaid’s dress aboard—and even more relieved that Craig isn’t acting weird. “I’ve never flown first-class,” I say.

“I hear we get champagne.”

“I might need some. I hate flying.” I sit in the front seat and rub my arms through my faded blue sweatshirt. Mama would want me to look like I stepped out ofVogueto travel, but I look like I rolled out of bed. I’ll worry about that after I land and my potential demise isn’t looming over me.

“I’m not keen on it, either. Boats, now, that’s another thing. Ships, cruises, that’s for me. Especially when they let you fish off the decks,” he chuckles.

“I think I’d rather cruise from New York to Florida. Do they make cruises like that?” Probably not on my salary... Not with my crappy amount of PTO, either.

“We’ll look it up on the plane. Next spring break, a cruise,” he rubs his hands, and his dark eyes glimmer.

Glimmer? Glint. I stare for a moment as I swear that something yellow peeps out from his dark irises.

Animalistic. Like... A wild cat or a wolf.

God damn that third glass of wine.

Wait, did he just say we’d go on a cruise next year? As inus?Together?

Man, I’m going to be so busy worrying about what I think he meant, I won’t have time to worry about dying.

I BABBLE WHEN I’M NERVOUS. I just casually tossed out that we’d take a holiday together next year! And she didn’t say no. In fact, Minnie is snuggled up against me, head leaning on my bicep as we both stare at my screen. “Ooh, look at this one—like a floating city! I’ve only been on a wee little cruise that went round the Scottish Isles, a tourist trap more than anything, but my mother’s mother, my Gran, she wanted to go—oh! This one goes to Miami—and the airfare back to New York is included in the package. Wonder if it’d be cheaper to book that leg of it ourselves. I mean, we’re saving a packet this year, aren’t we?”

“Mmhm, thanks to Gerri marrying Mr. Moneybags. Sorry, did that sound bitchy? He’s so nice; I don’t mean that he’s rich in a snobby way.”

“No, you sounded fine. So, Florida. Have you been there—yes! Yes, I remember now, you went twice before.” Damn it. Thebabbling keeps coming back. It’s a mercy when they call us to board.

“Ooooh,” Minerva clings to my arm when we rise, eyes shut tight. “I should have asked for something to take the edge off...”

I hoist all her bags and mine, sliding and bumping my way toward the gate as she clings and follows. “Go over the itinerary with me again,” I ask. “Tonight’s the big spa day?”

“No. No, the family dinner and a cocktail hour.”

“And tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner?”

“Beach day, and I think there’s going to be a luau. Also, I know what you’re doing, Craig.”

“What am I doing?” I ask, closing my eyes as she leans her head further against my shoulder, her hair under my muzzle, her scent enveloping me. I’m so high I don’t need a plane. I could fly to Florida in a hot air balloon, powered by the heat I’m giving off as her hand lands lightly on my knee.

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