Chapter 10: Kate

Earlier, as we came upstairs for dinner, Holly said the other end of the hall belonged to the counselors. Bedrooms mostly. That’s where Elijah’s heading. You messing around with a counselor, Elijah? Technically, none of my business, but you’ve piqued my curiosity. And I could use a little blackmail ammo in case you decide to continue your weird performance art with me.

He doesn’t glance over his shoulder again, which seems odd. He was obviously being so careful before. Yet when my shoe scuffs the floor, he freezes. He turns then, but I’m still back by the stairs, where I can easily duck out of sight.

I’m surprised he heard that. Sound must really echo down here. It’s definitely quiet. Also bright and sunny with the skylight ceiling. I’m envying the counselors’ bedroom space until I realize that they’ll be up at the crack of dawn, blasted awake by spring sunshine. Maybe my den-like main floor bedroom isn’t so bad after all.

I track Elijah’s footfalls. A doorknob turns with a squeak. A hard jangle, and the door creaks open on new and stiff hinges. Another creak, followed by a soft click as the door shuts.

If he’s rendezvousing with a counselor, I definitely don’t want to hear that. But if I can ID his hookup, that’s a pellet of blackmail ammo to tuck in my back pocket.

The left side of the hall seems to be bedrooms. On the right, the first door is labeled Storage. A thunk comes from farther down the hall, still on my right. There’s one more door on that side. I reach it and read the sign. Office.

Another thunk, like a desk drawer closing.

Elijah is rifling through the office. Huh. Now that’s more interesting than hooking up with a counselor.

There’s a keyhole, but the door’s unlocked. I ease it open a crack. Elijah has his back to me. He is indeed rifling through a desk, and somehow I don’t think he’s looking for a pen.

As I watch, he finishes checking drawers. Whatever he’s searching for, he can tell at a glance it’s not there. He’s moving fast enough that I don’t think he expects to find it—he’s just checking. When he zeroes in on the desktop computer, I nod in understanding. If I had to guess, I’d say he’d been looking for papers, seeking information that would be easier to get at than computer files. The twenty-something staff aren’t going to keep much on paper, though.

Elijah flicks on the monitor. The computer pops to life with a login screen. He grunts and flips up the keyboard and then checks behind the monitor. Looking for a conveniently placed password.

I push open the door, and he jumps, spinning.

“Found you!” I chirp as I sail in. I waggle a forefinger. “You are playing hard to get.”

He stares at me. Then he gives a strangled. “Wha—what?”

I stop in front of him and bounce on my toes. “I looked for you at dinner and saw you with those girls.” Another finger waggle. “You better not be one of those guys.”

“One of . . . ?”

“A player.” I pronounce the word like a private school kid who’s never said it before. “Hitting on all the single ladies. Because you”—I step closer and grab him by the shirtfront—“are mine.”

He backpedals, and I release him with a giggle. “Kidding. I won’t manhandle you. Not yet at least.” I give an exaggerated wink.

“I, uh, don’t understand . . .”

“You made it very clear earlier that you were into me, and I have decided the answer is yes. Let’s do this thing.”

“Do . . . ?”

“Hook up. Or at least make out.”

He arches his brows. Just arches them, an unspoken question that he thinks he knows the answer to, but he’s not guessing in case he’s wrong.

“Player,” I say, drawling the word in my usual voice, that chipper squeal gone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his eyes twinkle. “You played me. I played you back. Now, can we move on, or do we want to neg each other a bit more first?” His brows knit. “Neg?”

“Flirting with me while pointing out my flaws to make me want to convince you that I’m good enough to date.”

“There’s a name for that shit?” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen guys do it, and I just figured they were really bad at picking up girls.”

“You weren’t trying to hit on me,” I say. “You were trying to scare me off, so I wouldn’t follow you and see what you’re up to.”

One split second of confusion, followed by a wide grin. “You got me.”

Liar. My explanation makes no sense, and he was far too quick to jump on it. Interesting. I’ll drop it for now. I need more info before I figure out what he’d really been up to with this afternoon’s performance.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask.

He shrugs, that overly nonchalant kind of shrug that precedes another fib. “Trying to get online, you know. They confiscated our phones, and I’m in a band, and we just posted our video to YouTube. I wanted to check our likes.”

“Band, huh. What do you play?”

“Drums.”

“What’s in your trap set?”

He gives me this lopsided grin. “Four-piece mostly. Kick drum, snare, two rack toms, plus cymbals. I’ll mix it up, but I’m fond of my four-piece. Keeps things simple.” A knowing look. “Did I pass the test?”

I give a grudging nod.

He leans against the desk. “I’m guessing you’re a drummer.” “I play a few instruments. All the loud ones.”

He laughs at that, and his eyes . . . God, he has gorgeous eyes. I step back, telling myself I’m escaping the lingering cloud of body spray.

“I’ll accept that you might play the drums,” I say. “You might even be in a band.”

“I am in a band. Comatose Honeymoon. And believe me, I couldn’t make that name up.”

“Maybe, but you aren’t sneaking into this office looking for internet access to check your video stats.”

He sighs. “You’re going to turn this into a serious conversation, aren’t you? I guess that means we aren’t making out.”

“Depends on whether you tell me the truth.”

He gives a sharp bark of a laugh. “So that’s my incentive?”

“Potential bonus.”

He laughs again, his eyes on mine, warm and open. Then a look passes behind them, almost like regret, and he straightens. “As tempting as that might be, whatever I was doing, it’s my business and—”

His head jerks up. I catch footsteps. I should have heard them first, and I kick myself. Apparently, those eyes and that smile distracted me, which is insanely embarrassing.

My consternation lasts a split second before I look for a place to hide. There isn’t one. No closets. No back exits. No filing cabinet big enough to hide behind.

I grab Elijah’s arm and yank him toward the door.

The footsteps are still a ways off. I peek into the hall. No one’s in sight. I push Elijah out and follow, shutting the door behind us. When I turn, he’s looking down the corridor, his lips parting in a “shit” that tells me we don’t have time to duck out the way we came.

I glance in the other direction, but the hall ends ten feet away. Still, I grab his hand and pull him in that direction.

He resists. “That’s a dead end.”

I yank harder, hauling him along after me. Then I spin him around, pushing his back into the corner as I lace my hands behind his neck. We’re face-to-face for a heartbeat before his eyes close and his lips move toward mine. When I don’t follow, his eyes fly open.

“Oh,” he whispers. “You didn’t mean we should . . .”

I didn’t. I’d figured putting my arms around his neck would be enough of a hint about what was going on, to fool whoever is about to see us. But I shrug and murmur, “Sure, why not,” and lift up to kiss him, pausing at the last second to be sure he’s game. His lips meet mine just as the person must step into the hall, because sneakers squeak, and a female voice says, “Oh!”

I fully intended to stop there. The person approaching will see us and say something, and we’ll leap apart with a fake-startled yelp and then sheepishly slip past her. Except Elijah doesn’t stop. He pulls me to him, his mouth on mine, kiss deepening.

The newcomer retreats with a tapping of footfalls. I have no idea where she goes. I’m a little too busy to notice. Elijah’s lips are on mine, his breath as sweet as fresh hay. There’s a moment where I realize that’s a really weird analogy, but the thought only flits past, banished by the kiss.

The kiss . . .

Hell and damn. It’s a kiss that makes wonder whether I’ve been doing it wrong all this time.

His hands rest in the hollow just above my hips, his fingers encircling my waist, and there’s a sturdiness there. Again, that’s a weird word to use, but it’s what it feels like, as if he’s planted his hands there, firmly gripping me, to say this is where his fingers will stay, that they aren’t going to suddenly inch toward another destination.

I wrap my arms around his neck, and the kiss goes deeper still. I close my eyes as I swear I smell the tang of grass and trees, taste sharp water fresh from a cold stream, hear the sigh of wind in trees as I smell beyond his horrible body spray to a deep musk that lights my insides on fire.

My blood pounds as if I’m running, as if we’re both in the forest and running, and within that sighing wind I hear the pant of a wolf at my side, the pound of paws, a soft growl, the musky smell of Elijah enveloping me and—

Holy shit.

I yank back, breaking the kiss, and I stare into his eyes. I blink. Then before he can react, I bury my nose in the crook of his neck, inhale sharply and breathe, “Werewolf.”