Page 15 of A Wolf After My Own Heart
“A glass of water?”
She sighed. “You know that every building and every house you passed to get here has running water, right?” But she was leading him into the kitchen, thank God. Her back was to him, so he flared his nostrils and tried to parse the cub’s scent from everything else. But it was trickier than he’d expected, not least becauseherscent was overwhelming: cotton and blackberries with a smidge of gun oil and something that was just her.
“So how long have you been an EMT?”
“I’m not an EMT.” This over her shoulder while she filled a glass.
“But you drive an ambulance.”
“That’s not an ambulance.” She handed him the glass. “And I said no chitchat. What do you want?”
To know what the hell is all over the floor? Oh, and to father cubs on you. Mustn’t forget that!“To welcome you to the neighborhood?”
“Nope. Try again.”
Oh, Christ. It’s baking soda. Nicely done, hot Orphan Annie.He drained the glass because it was time to grab the theoretical bull by the theoretical horns. “Why is there baking soda all over your floor?”
“Oh, that?” Lila looked around, appearing to only now notice the drifts of soda. “Yeah, that’s baking soda.”
“I know it’s baking soda.” He also had a pretty good idea about why it was out. “Why’s it all over the floor?”
“I use it to brush my teeth.”
“You needed all that to brush your teeth?” he asked, dumbfounded. “On the floor and table? In the kitchen? Also, why are you brushing your teeth on the kitchen floor?”
“Well, I also use it for deodorant,” she elaborated. “And calluses.”
“What?”
“And to clean my bathroom. And to slow down kidney disease.”3
“Oh my God!” He hadn’t smelled a thing! How could he father cubs on her if she had kidney disease? And why was that his big worry right now? “You’ve got a kidney disease?”
“No. But I’m a huge fan of the Boy Scout motto.”
“I don’t get it,” he admitted.
“That’s fine.”
“So you’re okay? You don’t have a kidney disease? You could theoretically be around for years and years?”
She blinked. “Um. What?”
He was staring around at the wreck of her kitchen. “Why’s so much of it on the floor?”
“Grease fire.”
“You had a…” As far as he could smell, the stove (which, per Mama Mac, replaced the 1972 model that resulted in the Curs House’s third kitchen fire) hadn’teverbeen turned on, never mind in the last twenty-four hours.
“More water?” she asked with faux brightness. “No? Fully hydrated? Goodbye.”
Nothing. Not a whiff of the cub. Just baking soda and blackberries. He turned, following his nose, and then…
“Are you having a stroke, Ox? Your nostrils are flaring all over the place.”
…he caught something. A ghost of a whiff on one particular item of clothing, which he snatched up.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, snatching it back. “What is it with the scarf?”
