Page 5 of Can't Help Growling in Love
My alarm beeps from the bedside table, the sound familiar and obnoxious. I groan and flop on my back to reach my phone. I hit the snooze button, fully intending to sleep for another ten minutes, but a banner on my lockscreen pierces through the fog of sleep.
I bring the screen right to my nose, eyes still too bleary to see clearly, and open the app. My belly flips in excitement when I realize it’s a message notification from Damon Holt.
Hi, Juniper, thanks for reaching out. Yeah, I’m Asher Summers, but I’d like to ask you to keep that to yourself. I’m glad you and the other nurses are enjoyingS&S, it’s been fun to read. We’re doingDraculanext, for Halloween. Take care.
He replied. I didn’t think he would, and it’s good to know that I was right. My two favorite voices belong to one man.
But there’s something about the message that clears away the last of the morning brain fog.
He’s asking me to keep his identity a secret as if he’s afraid of being exposed.
Shit. I didn’t even think of all the reasons why someone would want to keep their careers separate.
I sit up in bed, leaning on the headboard, and type out a quick message.
Hey, sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intention. I won’t tell anyone, I promise, I just noticed and was curious. Can’t wait forDracula, I haven’t read it since finding out that vampires actually exist.
The Great Revelation was a shock to most humans, but I’d always loved stories about the supernatural. It never made sense to me how legends about dragons—or vampires, or shifters, for that matter—could originate in so many different parts of the world without there being a grain of truth to the folklore. Then we found out that the myths were real, at least to some extent, and to me, it all clicked together.
For some supernaturals, the transition wasn’t smooth, though. Maybe Asher is one of those?
Or maybe he just doesn’t want a stranger knowing personal details about him.
The thought sparks another wave of guilt.
I’m June Johansson, by the way. Seems only fair to share my name if I figured out yours.
I want to say more, tell him how his voice has made some of the hardest shifts seem bearable. How I listened to his interpretation of a sweet alien cowboy story on the drive back from seeing my parents last December, my heart heavy because they were still disappointed with me for becoming a nurse rather than a lawyer.
Unknowingly, he’d been with me through some of the most difficult and also joyful moments of my life. How do I explain that to him without sounding like a weirdo?
I spend so long mulling over whether I messed up by writing to Damon—Asher—that I’m suddenly in a rush, so I hurrythrough my pre-work routine, grab a banana and a granola bar to go, and clip on my helmet. My bike is waiting under the porch, right where I left it. Mom and Dad are still confused about why I chose to relocate to such a small town if I could be living the big city life they’d envisioned for me. But I’m glad I didn’t sell Auntie Ruth’s house as Mom urged me to do but moved here instead.
Exhibit A: I didn’t even lock my ride, yet no one took it, despite it being a beautifully restored vintage Dutch-style bicycle.
Cursing myself for being late, I swing left instead of right at the first intersection. I can’t stop at Cool Beans for a delicious, frothy latte. Now I’ll be stuck with break room coffee for the day.
I usually take Lakeview Avenue as it’s the shortest way to the hospital and it offers some beautiful scenery, which fuels me up with much-needed energy before my evening shift.But today, I find myself pedaling along Main Street, just to switch things up.
I cringe inwardly as I remember the stack of overdue library books I should have returned last week and duck my head as if the librarians could sense me riding past the library and come after me with pitchforks. I’ve just been listening to audiobooks more. Not only Damon Holt’s, of course. I chewed through several of my favorite authors’ new releases while raking the leaves in the backyard, cleaning the kitchen, and trying to sort out the boxes of Aunt Ruth’s belongings still cluttering up the basement. Also while despairing over the state of the roof, the leak I found in the upstairs bathroom, and the never-ending list of repairs that come with living in a house that’s at least four decades older than me.
Whenever I tell my parents I’m happy living in Harmony Glen, it’s not a lie. It’s just that sometimes, that happiness comes with long shifts at the hospital followed by waking up shivering because the heater broke again.
But I’m doing better now. If all goes well, I’ll be able to save up enough to replace the roof by springtime, which is fine. No one in their right mind would start roof repair work in the middle of winter anyway.
It’s early evening, and people are returning home from work or going out to meet up with friends. A family of four ambles down the sidewalk, with the orc dad carrying a baby in a sling while the mother, who looks human at first glance, holds their toddler’s hand, telling her to mind her feet as she steps over the curb.
I glance away, but a strange sort of longing settles in my chest. I want this. A family. It’s another reason why I moved here, away from the city. Harmony Glen is a nice place to raise kids. It has a close-knit community, lots of family-owned businesses, and hiking trails within easy reach.
There’s just one thing missing from my master plan—time to date. There weren’t many job options, so I took the only one that matched my qualifications perfectly. But it came with nighttime working hours because a good number of Harmony Glen’s residents are nocturnal, which means the ER never gets a break.
I don’t mind working nights, but I’ve become mostly nocturnal by necessity. I take Vitamin D daily and make sure to grab sunlight on my days off, but otherwise, my days begin when most people are already winding down for the night.
It can be lonely sometimes, even though I’ve made friends with my colleagues on the same shift.
I take a right onto Second Avenue, and the real reason for my changed bike route comes into view. A squat brick house sits on a large lot surrounded by businesses and residential homes that cluster much closer together, but the station stands apart, shaded by a line of trees on three sides.
Monster Tunes Radio Station Headquarters. The name of the business, written in white on a black sign affixed to the metalgate, is a mouthful. I slow but don’t stop because I don’t want anyone to notice me. Asher Summers might be in there right now. Or not—his time slot doesn’t start until later.
