Page 12 of A Wulver for the Week

Part of me wonders if that means I misunderstood, if I brushed something else—but I know I didn’t.

Part of me wonders if I should suggest a friends-with-benefits arrangement. Am I desperate enough to settle for sex with a friend when I want more than that?

My knees suddenly wobble as the realization hits me like a branding iron, searing across my chest and taking away my balance and my breath.

I want Craig to be mine. For real.

No more questions. I like him as a person, as a colleague, as a friend. And now, I’m attracted to him in a way that I’ve never experienced with anyone else. He’s no longer a craving. He’s aneed.Air, water, food, and Craig Macpherson.

“Up you go, love,” Craig murmurs and supports me back to steadiness.

“Thanks, sweetie,” I coo and shimmy past him, my butt pressing into his leg.

I want this man onmyterms—and I’ve invited him to accept completely fake ones for the week.

Now what the hell do I do?

HAVE YOU EVER DROPPEDa bag of chips at the seaside? Pardon me, fries, in America, it’s fries.

If you’ve ever dropped a bag of fries (or a bag of any food) when you visit the seaside, then you know how the seagulls appear from nowhere, hostile, demanding, arguing, clucking, and sniping. They all want a piece of you.

When we arrive at the pier, Minerva is a bag of chips, and her family members are the seagulls. They swarm, covering her in hugs, questions, and pointed comments. For a moment, I completely lose sight of her as she’s mobbed by large women (inboth breadth and height) and men who hang back, waiting their turn. Hats wave and hands flap, pinch, and poke. People stare.

Do I get in there? Rescue her? Or is she perfectly happy being the middle of an attention sandwich?

Before I can answer my own question, Minerva’s hand snakes out of the pile of hugging and shouting and pulls me in.

The ring of relatives collectively draws breath, and then I’m the new target.

“You must be Craig!”

“What do you do, son?”

“So nice to meet you!”

“How long have you and Minnie been dating?”

“I hear you’re from Scotland.”

“What baseball team do you follow, Craig?”

“Do they have baseball in Scotland?”

“How long have you worked together?”

“How old are you?”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Mama! All y’all!” Minnie bursts out as I try to field ten questions at once. “Stop that, and let's get our luggage on the boat.”

“It’s not a boat; it’s a party yacht that the hotel rents out to guests for an exorbitant fee,” Mrs. Johnson says, as some of the clamoring voices simmer down.

“All y’all” must be some sort of group address, like when the barman roars, “Hush, youse!” back in Caithness and the entire pub falls silent.

Mrs. Johnson’s hands wrap around mine. “Don’t be silly, Minnie. Craig, you don’t mind a few questions, do you? You know I’m just trying to protect my baby girl.”

“You ask anything you like, Mrs. Johnson,” I charm, carefully taking my hands back. Most people can’t see paranormal beings, but most of us still carry a little insurance when we’re in ahighly visible, high-pressure situation—and my insurance policy is on my pinky. It’s one of the most powerful (and expensive) glamours that Madge at the magic shop offers, a week-long concealment charm known as a glamour. It will work on nearly all humans—but still. There are exceptions.

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