“Nah,” she said. “You weren’t a man then. You probably hadn’t attained all of your”—she paused and made a vague, fluttery gesture at him with her hand—“uh, Spidey senses yet.”
His infectious laugh rolled around them. “Spidey senses? On a werewolf? Are you thinking I might be a hairy Peter Parker?”
“Oh, God, no!” she said with mock horror. “If I was going to fantasize about walking through the woods with a superhero it wouldn’t be one that was really just a dorky kid. Let’s try Bruce Wayne, shall we?”
“How about a happy medium? How about walking through the woods with a grown-up superhero who is modestly employed—I don’t exactly have Batman’s resources.” The trail took a sharp upward turn and Justin stopped, pulling her gently back to his side when she started to climb ahead of him. “Want to test my superhuman powers?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Does this involve either: one, me being unattractively carried away by any type of a creature who has more than two arms, or two, your having the ability to see through any article of my clothing?”
He rubbed his chin, considering. “No and no.”
“Then fine. I agree to the test.”
“Okay. You have to hold totally still.”
He walked a tight circle around her and Candice instantly noticed the difference in the way he moved. His body language was once again that of the man who had entered the clearing the day before—the warrior god who had not known who she was. He positioned himself behind her, standing so close that she could feel him draw in a deep breath. Then he bent, and whispered huskily into her ear.
“You don’t wear real perfume.”
She started to turn to answer him, but his words, which were spoken hot against her neck, stopped her.
“You must hold totally still.”
She froze, whispering back. “What do you mean by not real perfume?”
“You don’t buy that packaged and bottled stuff other women like so much and spray too much of on their bodies. Not you. Instead, you put drops of pure lavender oil behind your ears, on your wrists”—he drew another breath, then exhaled the warmth of his words against her neck—“and between your breasts. Am I right?”
“Yes, you’re right.”
Slowly, his hand rose to lightly, lightly caress her hair before he gently fisted it and pressed his face into it, taking a deep, hot breath. She focused on not trembling, and thought how glad she was that she’d conveniently “forgotten” to pull it up in a ponytail.
“You never blow-dry your hair. You let the air dry it. And you prefer the night air to the warmer, daylight breeze.”
This time she was truly amazed. How the hell could he know that?
“Am I right?” he asked again.
“Yes,” she whispered. “How did you know?”
“Your hair smells like moonlight and shadows, and I know those scents intimately.” His hands were still in her hair. “Why do you prefer the night air?”
“It’s something that started when I was a little girl. In the summer I’d wash my hair at night and then sit on the porch with a flashlight and read. My dad used to laugh and say that the moonlight made my hair wavy like the tide. I guess it’s a habit that stuck.”
“I’m glad. I like moon wavy hair,” he said.
“Do you?”
Justin gently nuzzled the ear he was whispering into. “Yes.”
His breath sent chills down her body that lodged in her thighs, making her legs feel wobbly and semidrunk. She was relieved when he took his mouth from her ear and moved back around in front of her. Smiling, he was once more just a handsome young man.
“Impressed by my superpowers?”
“Very.”
“Good. You’ll love my next display of EWP.”
“EWP?”
“Extrawerewolfory perception,” he said, with only a slight glint in his eyes. “So. Are you hungry?”
“If I say yes are you going to grow fur and chase down some poor helpless rabbit?”
“Maybe another time. Right now if you said you were hungry I’d simply clap my hands twice and then help you climb up the rise in the path so I could show you that I made your wish come true.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. I’m hungry.”
He waggled his eyebrows and leered at her. “Be careful, Ms. Cox—mine is the species that bites.”
Before she could respond with the pithy reply she was formulating, he grabbed her hand and pulled her up the incline. Candice glanced around, surprised that the dense woods had suddenly given way to a lovely meadow of soft grass that was dotted with blue wildflowers. Fireflies flitted in the dim evening light, looking like miniature fairies. (Candice squinted her eyes and made certain that they weren’t actually fairies. God, she hated fairies.) And then her surprise doubled. Not far from the path someone had spread a large plaid blanket, on which sat a huge wicker picnic basket and a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of white wine.
“You see what happens when you date a superhero?” he said.
“This isn’t a date. It’s an appointment,” she said automatically.
“Well, I think that depends.”
“On what?”
“On the good-night kiss.”
Smiling, he led her over to the picnic dinner he had so meticulously chosen, packed, and then brought out into the forest just for her.
Six
The dinner was scrumptious. Candice was amazed by the obvious care he’d taken with everything. From the excellent dry white wine from Venice and the real crystal goblets he served it in, to the decadently tender prime rib sandwiches and fresh fruit—everything was better than perfect. And that included the conversation. She couldn’t believe how easy he was to talk to. He was actually smart! A closet history buff, he told her stories about the settlers who had founded the various cities in Colorado—something she knew little about because she’d always focused on European instead of American lit.
And he noticed everything. Not just the details of the meal, but he noticed when the inflection of her voice changed, when she was distracted by the beauty of the blue wildflowers (which he promptly picked for her), and when she talked about her new passion—finishing her master’s and moving to Denver. He discussed the aspects of her new future animatedly. Unlike Godiva, he didn’t try to talk her into staying or dissuade her from following her dream. Justin honestly seemed to understand her need to move on.
But what surprised Candice most was how easy it was for her to forget he was so young. She wasn’t sure when it happened—somewhere between their discussion of the stupidity of the underfunded state education initiatives, and their mutual (and, on her part, rather blasphemous) agreement that the
“So, how’s the poetry assignment coming?” he asked.
“Better, I think. At least I got a little written last night.” She sipped her wine. Maybe it was the third glass of wine, or the intimate silence that surrounded them, but it felt easy for her to speak half-formed dreams aloud. “You know what’s weird? I’m doing this whole master’s thing so I can get a job reading other people’s writing, but I think I’m finding out that I actually like doing the writing part myself.”
“You want to write a book?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Right now all I know is that I’d like to write something that—” she broke off, suddenly
