"I'm sure you're wondering about your clothes."
He moved past me to take a seat at the end of the table, and my cheeks heated once again because I hadn't been thinking about my clothes at all. But I managed to sit down too and answer, "Um, yes, I'd love to get my clothes back so I can be on my way."
"On your way to where exactly?" he asked, picking up his spoon. "I didn't see a vehicle parked by the lake. Did you hike in?"
"Something like that," I answered vaguely, grabbing my spoon. If this wolf was somehow associated with Sea and Wild, I didn't want him to know about my runaway status. And if he wasn't, I didn't know if I'd be able to convince him that there was an entire secret kingdom underneath his house.
“Sorry, but this place is ancient, without a dryer to be had," he said with an apologetic shake of his head over his bowl of porridge. "Found a YouTuber who says you can throw them in the oven as long as they’re not soaking wet — but after your night swim, that’s not exactly an option, is it? I'm doing the best I canwith a bit of line in the kitchen and the oven set as high as possible.”
He regarded me with an expectant look, and I got the feeling this was his way of asking why I had decided to take a night swim in an off-limits lake.
“Not a bad solution,” I said after racking my brain for anything better.
“If you’re dying to get out of here, I can loan you a pair of my workout trainers, and you can roll them up before you get on your way to…”
Another expectant look.
Which I pretended not to see as I tucked into the porridge. But I could feel his eyes on me, patiently waiting for his answers as I avoided talking with a huge mouthful of what turned out to be… wow…trulyterrible porridge. Bland and dry. Like eating paste with texture.
My reaction must have shown on my face because he said, "Sorry, I rarely cook for anyone but myself. I mostly consider breakfast for the calories, not any taste."
"Oh, do you have someone who cooks for you back home?" The question slipped out before I could stop it — jealous and nosy.
His mouth hitched. "No. I usually have lunch at the work canteen, and then it's a few clicks on Deliveroo for dinner. What? You've never heard of Deliveroo either? Did you come from the airport to take a kip into the lake, then?"
Instead of answering his question, I pointed out, "You still haven't told me your name."
He stared at me for a long beat, his expression completely unreadable. But then he answered, "Aidan. My name is Aidan Normanwolf —or Norwolf. The press has been shortening it since the 1800s."
Aidan. For some reason, his first name rippled through me, and with a jolt, I realized I recognized his alternative last name, too.
"Norwolf!" I repeated. "Like whatever this is you're selling on my shirt."
"Exactly," he answered. "I'll tell you what a Norwolf is if you tell me your name, too."
He raised his eyes from his porridge to meet mine again, and a fluttering sensation appeared in my stomach. Not arousal. Something else. A nervous dance of self-conscious butterflies that made me duck my head. Before confessing, “I’m Naomi. Naomi Hamilton."
Silence. And a frisson of fear broke through the butterflies. Did he know who I was, after all? Had he heard about Sea's and Wild's supposed claim on me?
“No wolf-based last name, then?” he asked, clearing away my moment of doubt.
“No, my father was turned,” I explained, letting out a breath of relief. “It’s kind of a long story, but he wasn’t born a wolf. He’s from Ghana, actually, and that’s why I have a regular last name.”
“Why do I get the feeling that everything about you is a long story?” he asked with a wry smile that made his gray eyes crinkle at the sides.
“I’m sorry.” I dipped my head. “I know I must sound completely crazy.”
“I’ve heard crazier,” Aidan assured me, pushing his bowl away. “Besides, have you ever met an Irishman who didn't enjoy a completely crazy and long story?"
"I…" had to swallow into my suddenly dry throat before answering somewhat truthfully, "I wouldn't know."
Then, before he could follow that up with more questions, I asked, “Is that town on the other side of the mountain a wolf one?”
“No." The wry smile disappeared. "At least not as far as I can tell. How do you not know this? I assumed that was where you hiked to the lake from.”
“Then what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” I asked instead of answering his question.
“I’m on… vacation — actually more like a working sabbatical. This house is a loaner from… ah, I guess you could call him a distant acquaintance of mine.”
