Four Weddings and a Werewolf

Chapter Nine

The grinding sound of a lawn mower woke Veronica from her slumber. Moaning, she buried her head under her pillow and pulled the edges down over her ears to block the noise. At her feet, Cocoa meowed, then meandered onto the pillow on top of her head. She was too tired to tell her only friend that her pillow was not a new cat bed, so she reached up and stroked the cat’s back. Veronica was tired and drained from having pulled two all-nighters in a row. Her eyes ached and her brain was fuzzy. All she wanted was another hour of sleep. Just an hour. Maybe two.

It was Saturday, for crying out loud. Who mowed their lawn at daybreak on Saturday?

The swaying groan of the lawn mower as it came closer, then faded away, made her back teeth grind. It sounded as if it was coming from outside her window, but that couldn’t be right. She could almost imagine Logan mowing his lawn, shirtless, his muscles flexing as he pushed the machine across the lawn and back. If it wasn’t for the irritation growing in her belly, she might’ve fallen back asleep and had very good dreams about his muscles flexing while he was performing other hard labor. She may not have wanted to have anything serious with Logan, the player of the year, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t fantasize about the downright delicious man.

A dog barked. There were shouts. It was Logan’s voice, rough and commanding. He was definitely the mowing culprit. The dog barked again, over the sound of the grass-chewing machine. God, she hated canines in every form.

How long was Logan going to mow? Another hour? He didn’t have that much lawn.

“I have a patch of grass you can mow,” she mumbled with a smile, and tried to fall back into that kind of a dream.

They’d been together all week, and although Veronica never would’ve thought it, Logan was a great help. He’d gone with her to every appointment, had stayed out of the way while she took care of business, and for lunch and dinner he’d taken her out. They’d gone dutch on all the bills so far, although he’d fought hard each time to absorb her portion. She didn’t have to worry if the werewolf following her was going to show up—she felt safe with Logan at her side. He was always on watch, always on alert.

It was an odd feeling…trusting someone to take care of her when she was used to taking care of herself.

She’d received an envelope with notes and pictures every day in the mail. Some of the pictures were of her car in front of a restaurant she’d visited for dinner one night. Others were of the outside of her office building, the photo zoomed in through the open blinds of her office window. The more pictures showed up, the edgier Logan became. She had the distinct feeling he’d never taken this long to solve a problem like this.

She still couldn’t believe that the ink analysis results on the letters had come back as blood. Now, before she took the mail out of her box, she put on gardening gloves. And shuddered when she looked at the darkening shades of red. The mere thought of someone writing the notes in blood was appalling. Seriously sick and twisted.

The mowing continued, grating on her last nerve. Sleep was no longer a possibility.

“That’s it. No more.” Veronica slid Cocoa off the pillow and jerked the covers off. Sliding out of her cocoon, Veronica fumbled down the hallway, into the front room, and yanked open the front window. The sun was blinding. She gasped when she peeked beneath her lids. Logan wasn’t mowing his lawn. He was mowing hers. “Logan!”

That clumsy old dog was jumping up and down frantically, barking at the base of the mower each time his fat paws hit the ground.

“Hey!” Veronica pinched her eyes shut. “Logan!”

The engine of the mower died.

“Morning, Sunshine!” he called out. He was close to her window.

She backed away. “What are you doing? Your lawn is over there.” She scrubbed her eyes, but couldn’t open them. Not yet. If she kept her eyes shut and only mumbled the words, she wouldn’t wake up completely. She could go back to bed and pretend the day hadn’t started yet. She could slip right back into the dream where Logan was beside her, stroking her to another climax.

“I know where my lawn is, but thanks for pointing it out. I finished mine, noticed that yours could use a run-through, and thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“What I wouldn’t mind is another hour of sleep.”

“Rough night?” Why did his voice sound shaky, like he was holding back a laugh?

“Yeah, you could say that.” She swallowed cotton. She needed water. “I was up all night fixing the favors.”

“I offered to help.” Logan’s dog barked, and Veronica swore it was so loud that it busted her eardrums. “Redoing two hundred favors had to suck.”

She cringed at the memory that was too fresh in her mind. The bride had changed the color of the ribbons from sky blue to turquoise and had decided she wanted mints stuffed into the tiny plastic champagne flutes instead of almonds. She would’ve asked Heather to help, but she was busy tweaking the seating arrangements for the reception. The bride came back with a few “minor” changes that of course ended up being major. Certain people RSVP’d last-minute and needed room where there wasn’t any, some couldn’t sit by the speakers, others by the bathroom, yada yada.

Another hour of sleep. That’s all it would take to make those favors a distant memory. “How much longer until you’re finished?”

“You have to leave soon, so another fifteen minutes maybe? Ten?”

Her eyes shot open at the words. Logan was shirtless. And sweating. And his muscles looked even larger than yesterday. Maybe that was because she could see them flex and bulge as he toyed with the mower handle and flicked the brake lever thingy. Or maybe it was the way the rays of the sun streaked over his body, casting an even tan across his skin.

“What time is it?” Backing away from the window, Veronica squinted at the time on the wall clock. Noon. “Shit!”

She’d slept in. Big-time.

She had so much to do before the wedding at two. She had to get ready. Drive to Everett, to the Nightshade hotel, drop off the favors, and check the setup of tables and chairs. She had to race to the church, make sure everyone was in their place, tweak a few decorations, then talk to the bride and groom.

Veronica slammed the window shut and ran down the hall to her room. Outside, the mower hacked and sputtered, and caught once more. She passed the bathroom on the way to the wardrobe. At the glimpse of her reflection, she skidded to a stop. And backtracked.

“Noooo!” Gasping, Veronica stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She had pink glitter glue smudged all over her face and blue glitter glue swirling in a swishy pattern across her forehead. Black bags drooped below her eyes and her chocolate-colored hair was frizzy, sticking up all over the place, and completely out of control. God, she looked like the Bride of Frankenstein! “No wonder Logan was laughing! Ugh.” She slapped her hand to her forehead. “Total disaster.”

She showered as quickly as she could—and cut herself while shaving around her knees—then slathered a hell of a lot of lotion over her body. She didn’t have enough time. She wasn’t going to be able to get to Everett, a town thirty minutes north of Seattle, with enough time to spare.

She was taking too long and running out of time.

“Damn it.” No time to squeeze into her Spanx. Dashing to the closet, she yanked a black dress off a hanger. It reached mid-thigh and ballooned a bit at the bottom. With a ballerina neckline, three-quarter-length sleeves, and seams that lined the sides, the dress fit her body perfectly, playing up her curves and flattening her stomach. It was her go-to classy number. It had a tie that was supposed to wrap around her waist, but it wasn’t on the hanger, so she ditched it. Running to the bathroom, Veronica fought her way into the dress, tugging the soft fabric down her thighs as she turned the corner into the bathroom.

“Veronica! You about ready?”

Logan. She hadn’t even heard him come in.

“Yeah, I uh…” She pulled her hair into a ponytail, cinched the tie tight, and smoothed down the sides. It didn’t work. Her hair wouldn’t tame. She yanked down her hair, ran a brush through it and tousled the sides. She hated leaving her hair down when she was working, but she couldn’t walk around with wild strands of hair jumping from her ponytail. “How’d you get in?”

“I knocked, but you didn’t answer,” he yelled from the living room. “I tried the door and it was open.”

She must’ve left it open last night when she let Cocoa back in. That wasn’t like her, but going to bed after three in the morning wasn’t like her either. No wonder she wasn’t firing on all pistons. She rubbed lotion over her face—no time for foundation—lined her eyes with Charming Charcoal, and smoothed strawberry-pink lip gloss over her lips.

“You really need to keep your doors and windows locked,” Logan said. “The last thing you want to do is give this guy easy entry into your house.”

“I know, I know! It’s not like I meant to leave it open.”

“You wouldn’t even know that he was in your house until it was too late.”

“The postcard said he was going to meet me at the wedding,” Veronica said, stealing one last look in the mirror. She looked horrible. As if she’d had very little sleep, couldn’t get her hair to cooperate, and didn’t have time for makeup. Ugh. Nothing worse than starting off the morning on the wrong foot. “He’s not going to break into my house.”

Logan mumbled something about being overly confident, but she couldn’t quite hear him. She threw on her work heels—a pair of strappy sandals she could miraculously walk around all day in without getting blisters.

“What was that?” she asked, racing down the hall.

Logan faced the kitchen with his back to her, and when he spun around, Veronica lost her breath. He was completely put-together, dressed in a black-and-white tux that fit his frame flawlessly. The trim coat hugged his chest and clung to the muscles on his arms, then tucked into his slacks, showing just how lean his waist really was. He was standing tall, his shoulders pulled back—his perfect posture no doubt attributed to his time in the Marines—and his dark hair was a styled mess, made darker by the gel streaking through it.

“You look”—his jaw slacked as he gave her the once-over—“stunning.”

“Thanks.” Veronica smiled from the inside out. She didn’t want to be close to Logan—any closer and the spark she already felt for him could inflame into an inferno—but the fact that he thought she looked stunning made her squirm with giddiness. He’s a player, she reminded herself for hundredth time. A player who isn’t looking for anything long-term. He’s not who you want, he’s not who you want. “You shined up pretty good, yourself. How’d you get ready so fast?”

“It doesn’t take me long.” His dark eyes blazed with something hot. “You did something different with your hair.”

“I don’t ever wear it down to work, but I’m out of options.” Without meeting his gaze, Veronica tossed her purse over her shoulder and snatched the bag with the favors. She made it into the heart of her living room, and caught sight of a tiny black velvet box situated in the center of her coffee table. “What’s that?”

Logan picked it up and spun it in his palm. “It’s not yours?”

Feeling the blood drain from her face, she shook her head. “Tell me you brought me a gift.” Though she knew from the look on his face that he didn’t.

“Stay here.” His jaw clenched tight. “Don’t move.”

He swept through her house, checking every room, slamming open doors.

The stalker had come in. When? While she was in the shower? No, that wasn’t possible because Logan had just been out there mowing the lawn. He would’ve seen something. Her hands shook when she realized it had to be last night…while she was sleeping. Someone had been in her house, had let himself right in. Had he watched her when she slept? Veronica’s body chilled at the thought.

“Nothing looks touched or disturbed,” Logan said. When had he returned to the living room? “I’m going to open it.”

His words were spoken in a fog. Veronica nodded, and watched as he yanked back the top of the box. His face twisted into a disgusted scowl.

“What is it?” Did she even want to know? “Logan?”

He swallowed hard and spun the box around so she could see. Two emerald earrings sat in the center of a silky white pillow. They were larger than any emeralds she’d ever seen on earrings, but they were surrounded by what looked like sticky pieces of dog hair. Wolf hair, she corrected. Dark brown-red droplets were scattered over the pillow, and long, stringy chunks clung to the fur.

“Is that—”

“Bloody wolf hair.” Logan’s voice was so low, he nearly growled the words. “Son of a bitch got into your house.”

She covered her mouth with her hand and began to back away from the box, from Logan. “The notes were creepy, and the blood and pictures, but this—he broke into my house!” Her voice cracked and she spun around, looking at her home in a completely different light. He’d been here. Watching her. Walking through her living room. God, he could’ve done anything in here. He could’ve helped himself to her food or slept on her couch. She shivered as her thoughts raced out of control. “But he didn’t break in—he walked in! I left my front door wide open! What am I going to do?”

Logan snapped the box closed and shoved it into his coat pocket. He looked angrier than she’d ever seen him. On edge. As though he was barely keeping a rein on his composure. “If he really wanted to hurt you, he would’ve done it last night. He would’ve hurt you while you were sleeping.”

She tugged at the ends of her hair, frantic for some sort of security. “And that’s supposed to help? How am I going to sleep here now?”

“He doesn’t want to hurt you,” Logan said almost to himself. His gaze was focused far off, and his words were clipped. Mumbled and harsh. “He wants you for himself. He wants to romance you into being his mate.”

“His what?” Veronica screeched, going dizzy. “I have to sit down.” She moved to the couch, but stopped when she thought about what the stalker might’ve done there. “I can’t sit. I can’t—”

“It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.” Logan caught her by the arm and pulled her against him. He smelled good. Strong and fresh, with a musky, manly scent. It roused something inside her—the desire to lean her head against his chest and let him care for her. “I’m not letting you out of my sight from now on. You’ll stay with me if you have to.”

She buried her head in his chest and nodded.

“Okay, we’re going to lock up and go to the Sanchez reception. You’re going to call Heather and have her take care of the ceremony.” Logan stroked his hands over her back and rested his head on hers, soothing away her worries little by little. “After the wedding, we’ll figure out the safest place for you to stay, even if that means checking in to a hotel for a while.”

“I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe he was here.”

Logan’s body tightened. “Seems like he’s everywhere, and getting closer. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it happen again.”

Veronica didn’t know how he would keep his word, since the stalker seemed to be two steps ahead of him thus far, but she believed him. This time, when Logan held her against him and spoke tenderly against her hair, his words felt like an oath. A promise. The way a lover tells his partner that there’ll never be another.

Veronica wished he’d make those promises to her, too.

But as he’d said, time and again, it wasn’t meant to be…