Page 11 of Howl Will I Know

I carry the first boxes inside and immediately like the cottage more than I did from the driveway.

The kitchen has green cabinets, brass handles, and a deep farmhouse sink beneath a window overlooking the back garden. Sunlight spills across the wooden countertops, giving the whole room a warm, welcoming feel. It’s small, but there’s something charming about it, as though the cottage has been waiting patiently for someone to come along and make it a home.

The living room is small but bright, with old wooden floors and a stone fireplace that looks as though it’s seen several generations of questionable decorating choices.

The window overlooks the woods, and I stand there for a moment, staring through the glass. The forest feels close, but not threatening.

That same strange tug I felt when I first dreamed about this place returns, quiet but insistent, settling in my chest. The trees rise behind the cottages in layers, their leaves beginning to turn at the edges, and somewhere beyond them, something calls once, a long low sound I can’t identify.

I should probably find that unsettling but it feels familiar.

I leave the window open while I unpack.

Unloading takes an hour and proves that I own too many books, too many mugs, and a lamp I’ve been meaning to throw away for the last three moves.

By noon, I’ve made enough progress to create the illusion of competence. Sheets on the bed, plates in the cupboard, and six boxes stacked against the living-room wall that I’ve mentally labeled Tomorrow Nora’s Problem.

The coffee I bought at Lucky Bean is cold, but I drink it anyway.

My mind drifts back to Hewit—to the way his whole expression changed when our fingers touched.

I lean against the kitchen counter and picture him standing on Nightjar Row, broad enough to block half the sidewalk, white hair brushing the collar of his jacket. His scars were impossible not to notice. Not just the ones on his hand. He had others along his jaw, pale against his skin, and more disappearing beneath his sleeves.

He waited as he watched me notice them. For what, I’m not sure. Fear, maybe. Pity.

I didn’t feel either. Curiosity, yes. I’m human. Attraction, definitely. Also, human and a woman with a functioning vagina.

There was something almost painfully striking about him, though, and not in the polished way of men who know they’re handsome. Hewit looked like a man who’d stopped caring what anybody thought of him and built an entire life around making sure they kept their opinions to themselves.

Then I touched his hand.

I stare down into my coffee.

That part is harder to explain. The sensation was sharp enough to make my breath catch. Not an electric shock exactly, although that would be the easiest comparison. Heat flashed through my fingers and up my arm, followed by an odd, dizzy second when the entire street seemed to narrow around him.

Maybe static. Very aggressive static that tightened my nipples and made the pulse throb between my legs.

I take another sip and make a face at the cold coffee.

Whatever it was, Hewit had felt it too. I’m sure of that because his body tensed. Not much because the man apparently communicates primarily through tiny adjustments in eyebrow position, but enough.

Then he told me not to come over, which I hadn’t been planning to do.

Mostly.

I nearly spill my coffee as a knock sounds at the front door.

For one ridiculous second, I wonder if Hewit has changed his mind and come to apologize for being the least welcoming neighbor in North America.

Instead, when I open the door, I find an elderly woman with lavender hair holding a casserole dish. Not dyed lavender because it seems to be growing in small, fragrant sprigs from her scalp.

“Oh good,” she says. “You’re real.”

I blink. “I was hoping so.”

“Marjorie Bell.” She thrusts the casserole at me. “Number eight.”

“Nora Moon.”