The Single Undead Moms Club (Half Moon Hollow series Book 4) (38 page)

“No one could have seen that coming,” I told him, shaking my head.

“That is not somethin’ you can control,” he reminded me.

“I wasn’t going to try to control it,” I told him. “I was going to see if
Jane
could control it.”

“Yeah, because that’s normal.”

I tilted my head as Danny took a running start at shoving Harley into the van. “Should we really be debating normal when my son is using football techniques to shove your son’s inflatable body into my minivan?”

“Probably not,” he admitted. “But I like our not normal.” He snorted, kissing my temple.

With a smile, I leaned into him. “I like it, too.”

Keep reading for a peek at the next hilarious Half-Moon Hollow romance from

MOLLY HARPER

Where the Wild Things Bite

Coming Summer 2016 from Pocket Books!

Before you find yourself stranded in the woods with a cranky apex predator, ask yourself—do I really
want
to go on a camping trip with a vampire?

—Outdoor Underworld: A Survival Guide for Camping with the Undead

S
ome evil transportation-hating monster had devoured my plane.

And in its place, the monster had left behind a little bite-sized plane crumb.

I stood on the tarmac of the Louisville airport, staring in horror at the plane crumb as my brown leather carry-on bag dangled from my fingers. This was not a momentous beginning to my trip to Half-Moon Hollow.

Despite the fact that I could see crowds of people milling around the airport through the windows, I felt oddly alone, vulnerable. A handful of planes were parked at nearby gates, but there were no luggage handlers, no flight staff. I’d never boarded a plane from the tarmac before, and the short, rickety mobile staircase being pushed up against the side of the plane like a ladder used for gutter-cleaning didn’t make me feel more confident in the climb.

When I’d booked my flight to westernmost Kentucky, I knew small planes were the only models capable of flying into Half-Moon Hollow’s one-gate airport. But I’d thought the plane would at least seat thirty or so people. The vessel in front of me would maybe seat a baker’s dozen, if someone sat on the pilot’s lap. There were only three rows of windows besides the windshield, for God’s sake.

“This is the right plane, in case you’re wondering,” said a gruff voice that was accompanied by a considerable whiff of wet tobacco.

I turned to find a florid, heavyset man in a pilot’s uniform standing behind me. His wavy black hair was counterbalanced by a pitted sallow complexion and under-eye bags so heavy they should have been stored on the nearby luggage cart. A lifetime of drinking had thickened his features and left a network of tiny broken capillaries across his broad nose. Given the sweat stains on his uniform, I might have doubted his current sobriety, but I supposed it took considerable motor control to keep that large unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. His name tag read “Ernie.”

“That is not a plane,” I told Ernie. “That is what happens when planes have babies with go-carts.”

Snorting, he pushed past me toward the plane, his shoulder bumping into mine. The olfactory combination of old sweat and wet cigar made me take a step back from him.

“Well, if you don’t want to fly, there’s always a rental car,” the pilot snarked, climbing the stairs into the plane. “It’s about a four-hour drive, until you hit the gravel roads.”

I frowned at Ernie the Pilot’s broad back. If there was anything I hated more than flying, it was driving alone at night on unfamiliar, treacherous roads. Besides, there were too many things that could happen to the package on a car ride between here and the Hollow. I could spill coffee on it while trying to stay awake. It could be stolen while I was stopped at a gas station. A window malfunction could result in the package being sucked out of the car on the highway. I needed to get it back to Jane as soon as humanly (or vampire-ly) possible. So driving was a nonstarter.

I gritted my teeth and breathed deeply through my nose, watching the way the sickly fluorescent outdoor lights played on the dimpled metal of the wings. The tiny, tiny wings.

The pilot stuck his head out of the plane door. “Plane’s not gonna get any bigger,” he growled at me around the cigar.

“Good point,” I muttered as I took the metal stairs. “I really hope that’s not some sort of euphemism, Mr. Creepy Late-Night Pilot.”

Even though my cargo was completely legal, I still felt the need to look over my shoulder as I boarded. My superspy skills were supremely lacking. It was bad enough, the looks that security gave me as I visibly twitched when sending my bag through the X-ray machine. But I’d never hand-delivered an item to a customer before, especially an item of such high value. My bonding and insurance couldn’t possibly cover an item that was considered priceless to the supernatural community at large. I just wanted to get it out of my hands and into those of my client, Jane Jameson-Nightengale, as quickly as possible.

The plane was not at all TARDIS-like. It was not bigger on the inside. And besides Ernie the Portly Pilot, it was completely empty. This was, after all, the last flight from Louisville to Half-Moon Hollow for the night, which made it a risky proposition, layover-wise. From what Jane told me, most Hollow residents didn’t want to risk being stuck overnight in Louisville, so they planned their connections earlier in the day. But I’d had a client meeting that kept me in Atlanta until the last minute and had booked a late flight. It worked better for me to land late anyway, since Jane, an oddly informal vampire who insisted on a first-name basis, would be picking me up from the airport. Pre-sundown pick-up times didn’t work for her.

Though minuscule, the interior of the plane was comfortable enough, with its oatmeal-colored plastic walls, the stale, recently disinfected smell, and its closely arranged seats. I clearly had my choice of spots, but I took the time to find my assigned seat in the second row. I declined putting my carry-on bag in the tiny storage compartment in the front of the plane. I was not comfortable with the idea of not being able to see my bag at all times. I turned, checking the distance from my seat to the door-slash-emergency-exit. Studies showed that passengers were five times more likely to survive a crash if they sat close to the emergency exits.

I knew I was being silly. The flight would only take an hour or so. What were the chances of the plane crashing when it was only in the air for sixty minutes? I was thankful that my brain had not absorbed and catalogued that particular bit of information. Just then, the pilot belched loudly.

OK, maybe my chances of crashing were better than average if this guy was at the controls.

And for some reason, as I boarded, the cruel, ironic bits of my brain were running through the list of famous people who had died in small plane crashes. Ritchie Valens, John Denver, Aaliyah.

My brain could be a real jerk when it was under stress.

I flopped my head forward, smacking my forehead against the seat in front of me. I was too tired for this. I’d spent almost two hours in Atlanta traffic just to get to the airport in time for the flight to Louisville. I’d braved lengthy and multistepped security checks. I missed my cozy little restored home in Dahlonega. I missed my home office and my thinking couch and my shelves of carefully preserved first-edition books. I promised myself that when I survived this trip, I would reward myself by retreating to my apartment for a week, bingeing on delivered Thai food and Netflix.

I heard footsteps on the metal ladder but did not move my head from the seat back. I heard whoever it was move down the aisle and slide into the row of seats across from me.

“Fear of flying?”

I ceased my forehead abuse long enough to look up at him. The other passenger smiled and quirked his eyebrows, the sort of “we’re in this together for the next hour or so, so we might as well be polite” gesture most people appreciated in a fellow traveler.

I, on the other hand, drew back in my seat. Oh, he was handsome, in that polished, self-aware manner that made women either melt in their seats or shrink into themselves in immediate distrust. Unfortunately for him, I fell into the second category.

I did not dissolve at the sight of his high cheekbones. I didn’t coo over his dark chocolate eyes or the dark goatee that defined his wide, sensual mouth. The collar of his blue V-neck T-shirt showed a downright lickable collarbone and the beginnings of well-defined pectoral muscles, and I did not liquefy. In fact, my initial reaction was to trust him far less than I trusted Ernie. So I might have been a bit more snappish than polite when I responded, “No, fear of awkward conversations before crashing.”

But it seemed my curt tone only made him grin. It was a sincere grin, without an ounce of condescension, which made him even more handsome. Some tiny nerve inside of me twinged, and I wished, just for once, that I could be the kind of woman who could start a conversation with a handsome stranger, approach some new experience—hell, try a new brand of detergent—without analyzing all of the possible ways it could go wrong.

While my mother had made it clear on more than one occasion that I was not “conventionally pretty,” I knew I wasn’t completely unfortunate-looking. My DNA had provided me with my father’s fine-boned features and my mother’s wide, full lips, though mine weren’t twisted into unhappy lines as often as hers were. My skin was clear and soft with warm peach undertones. My eyes were large, the amber color of old whiskey, with a slight, undeserved mischievous tilt. Taken all together, my slightly mismatched features made for a pleasant face. And yet, thanks to my wounded ego, men like this, completely at ease with themselves, sent me into a spiraling tizzy.

The handsome man’s smooth voice interrupted my mental self-flagellation yet again. “It’s too bad the flight is so short. They don’t even have a beverage service. You might have been able to take the edge off.”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” I told him, giving him a quick, jerky smile that felt more like a cheek tremor than an expression. I nodded my head toward the back of the plane. “Besides, where would they put the beverage cart?”

“Oh, well, maybe I’ll be able to distract you,” he offered, the corner of his mouth lifting again.

The intimate way he’d said it, the way he was smiling at me, eyes lingering on my jean-clad legs, sent a little shiver down my spine, despite the simultaneous warning Klaxons sounding in my head.

“And how are you going to do that?” I asked him, holding up my well-worn paperback. “You’ve got some very serious competition.”

Thank you, conversational gods, for not letting the phrase “stiff competition” leave my lips.

“Oh, I’m sure I could come up with a way to entertain you.”

And his smile was so full of naughty promise that the only response I could come up with was “Guh.”

The conversational gods had abandoned me more quickly than I had hoped.

I blushed to the tips of my ears, but he seemed amused by it, so maybe a red face was considered charming on the planet of the narrow-torsoed.

Given that I was from a very different planet—home of the ladies built like lanky twelve-year-old boys—I doubted very much that our definitions of “fun” matched up. He looked like the sort of guy for whom bottle service was invented. My idea of a good time was a movie marathon with my friend and assistant, Rachel, featuring at least five different actors playing Sherlock Holmes, and then a debate over who did the best job.

That’s right. Anna Whitfield, one-woman party.

“Do you consider Dante’s
Inferno
a little light travel reading?”

“It’s an old favorite,” I said.

“Well, you’ve successfully intimidated me, so congratulations.”

I laughed, but before I could answer, the door slammed behind us and the plane started to taxi. A small overhead speaker began to play pre-recorded safety instructions and I relaxed back into the seat. I pulled the safety instruction card from the seat pocket in front of me and began reading along.

“Really?” the stranger asked. I nodded without looking at him, checking the emergency exit door for opening instructions. It looked like a case of “Turn the big red handle upward and left while trying to contain your terror.” Excellent.