The Forgettable Miss French (Shadowvale Book 3) Read online

  As often as she could, she took Aunt Gwen out with her. Sometimes here to swim as well.

  Ginny parked, got the pies out, and walked toward the pier. The little boardwalk followed the shoreline for a good bit, bending around behind the trees where it jutted into the lake for fishing. She went out to the end, sat down with the shopping bags next to her and her legs crisscrossed, then got one of the pies out. It did smell good. And that smell was usually enough to bring Seymour out.

  She opened the box and held it up, letting the breeze travel over the golden crust and pick up the scent of the juicy berries inside. Smiling, she called out for him in a singsong voice, “Seymour…I have pie…”

  A second passed, then two.

  The water near the deep center of the lake rippled. Her smile widened. “Pie,” she repeated. “Blackberry. Your favorite.”

  The ripples moved toward her, picking up speed as they approached.

  He surfaced a few feet away, his gorgeous head breaking the water’s tension like a submarine rising. The thin spines that ran in v-shaped ridges from his brow all the way down his back to the tip of his tail glistened with beads of water, but lay flat to his skin. His dark, luminous eyes blinked at her, then focused on the pie. A little trilling sound left his throat, and he smiled eagerly.

  “Nice to see you, too, Seymour.” She felt like he remembered her, but there was a chance it was just the pie. She rarely came to the lake without bringing him some, unless she’d come for an evening run, and then she didn’t always see him. Hmm. She hoped it wasn’t just the pies.

  He lifted his front right flipper, barking at her and pawing the water.

  “I didn’t come to swim today. I should have, though.” The neighbor’s pool was just a lot more convenient than driving to the lake every time she wanted to swim. She liked swimming with Seymour, though. He was like a giant dog, eager for attention.

  Although, she’d learned that he could give off little electrical shocks, like an eel, when there was contact. Since the first time that had happened, he hadn’t done it again, though. “I just came to see you and bring you pie. You still like pie, don’t you?”

  He nodded, sending droplets flying.

  She laughed. “Just a second.”

  She worked her fingers gently between the crust and the tin on either side, her thumbs braced on the bottom of the plate. “Ready?”

  His tongue lolled out, a sure sign of his affection for all things pie.

  “Here goes.” With a much-practiced forward motion, she flipped the pie out of the tin and into the air.

  Seymour craned his neck, mouth open in a display of teeth that were more accustomed to shredding fish, and caught the pie. He swallowed it down in one gulp, then looked at her expectantly.

  She shook her head in amusement. “You really need to learn to chew.”

  Chapter Two

  Ezekiel “Easy” Grayle stared up at his new home and sighed. Not because of the house, though.

  The house was the nicest home he’d ever owned. It was pale gray with white trim and a dark blue door, and it had more than enough room for a single guy. Way more. But instead of using one of the two upstairs rooms for an office, he was converting the main floor dining room instead. Doing that would allow him to live on one floor, saving the upstairs space for the rare guest.

  Besides that, the dining room was a large space and near the kitchen.

  He was a writer who liked to eat while he worked. He was also a werewolf, and most werewolves needed to eat a lot to keep up with their fast metabolism.

  The house also had a pool, something he’d only shared in his condo building. Now he didn’t have to. Water was great for the creative process, and he was looking forward to seeing what effect it had on his.

  No, the house wasn’t the problem. It was everything else in his life.

  Like how this was not where he’d imagined himself at this stage in his life or career. But he hadn’t expected anything that had happened to him in the last three months either.

  Sure, the movie deal was a dream come true. A dream he’d let himself have only a couple years ago when his books really started taking off. Tomahawk Jones, supersoldier, was going to be on the big screen.

  Easy grinned at the idea as he found the key under the mat, just like the realtor had promised. His book, his characters, coming to life as a movie. That really hadn’t set in yet. It was crazy.

  Much like this town. Key in hand, he looked around at the cul-de-sac from his new front porch. At the mature oaks dripping with Spanish moss, the white picket fences, the beautifully manicured lawns with colorful flower beds and carefully cultivated topiaries. The whole street was like that. Picture-perfect.

  Except the house next to his, which was a little less pristine, but he was okay with that. Nice to know someone else had a life that kept them from spending every waking moment on whatever neighborhood beautification project had to be underway.

  He felt a kinship with whoever lived there. Like they might already be friends. Him and them against the neighborhood. He shook his head. That was his writer’s brain, getting away from him and creating a story from nothing.

  Whatever the situation was with all this perfect landscaping, he was going to have to hire a yard guy. He had a furry thumb, not a green one. He didn’t have any intention of puttering around in the yard either. Not when he had a book in desperate need of writing and a looming deadline that was a constant reminder of that.

  He walked back to the moving truck he’d rented. He’d towed his motorcycle behind it, but his car was arriving by transport tomorrow. He got to work getting the bike off the trailer and into the garage, then he unlocked the truck’s rear door and slid it up as he made a mental note about finding a yard guy.

  At least being a werewolf was okay in this town. Especially a werewolf with problems. That had really helped solidify his decision to move here.

  He’d had to go somewhere, though. Since he’d been struck by lightning three months ago, his shifting abilities had become less than predictable. Living among humans was getting dicey.

  He frowned. Truth was, even living among his own kind might cause problems, but he’d been assured that in this town, weird wasn’t just okay, it was normal.

  He prayed that was true. Because if the moon was full, there was no controlling his urge to shift. It was going to happen, no matter how hard he tried not to, no matter where he was, or who he was with. Now that he understood that, it wasn’t such a big deal. He could prepare.

  Sort of.

  Problem was he never knew if he was going to end up a wolf or not. Crazy. He’d never realized he was such a mutt until the lightning strike.

  Now it was anybody’s guess what he was going to turn into because, apparently, he was cycling through every random bloodline ever introduced into his gene pool. So far, he’d seen himself become a pack’s worth of different wolves, a fox, a coyote, a Siberian husky, and, most curious of all, a beagle.

  Whichever one of his relatives was responsible for that indiscretion, they had a lot of explaining to do.

  A lot.

  It was embarrassing. He’d stopped joining his pack for group runs because of it, but he’d been able to handle that. Running alone wasn’t as fun, but it still worked the kinks out.

  Then, two weeks ago, everything had changed. He’d been about to do a book signing at a big-box store, and the visual of a full moon on another book’s cover had caused him to shift. A freaking picture.

  He’d managed to get off the retail floor, but then, right there, in the middle of the Saver’s Club employee breakroom, he’d turned into a red wolf.

  That incident had sent him on a downward spiral. He couldn’t write. He didn’t want to leave his house. He no longer knew what the day would bring. Or how to handle what was happening to him.

  Him. Easy Grayle. Decorated former Army Ranger. Onetime candidate for pack alpha. New York Times bestseller. Semifamous author.

  Current hot mess.
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br />   He’d started to question his mental stability.

  Then he’d gotten an anonymous note telling him to visit Shadowvale, that it was a safe place for his kind. Attached to the note had been a full-color pamphlet that included GPS coordinates. It had felt like a lifeline.

  So he’d gone. The place had been a little hard to find, and the gates had looked like they were new a hundred years ago, but they’d opened for him.

  He’d spent a long weekend in town exploring and quickly realized Shadowvale might be the only safe place left for him to live until whatever was going on with him got cured. If it could be cured, which he desperately hoped was the case.

  For one thing, he really, really wanted to attend the premiere of Operation Lone Wolf. For another, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life as a voluntary outcast. Wolves weren’t meant to be alone. They needed packs.

  And mates. But bringing a woman into his life was a nonstarter until his issues were behind him. No one needed to shoulder that burden but him. And no female wolf was going to want a mate in his condition anyway.

  Jobwise, moving was no big deal. He could write from anywhere, and often had, although most of his remote locations were in places like Bali and Berlin, exotic settings that were more research than vacation. Tomahawk Jones traveled a lot on his missions.

  And when he was whole again, he’d move back to the city and resume his life there.

  But in the meantime, Shadowvale would be home. As peculiar as it was. In theory and in practice, this place didn’t even exist. Although he’d been assured by Pam, his realtor, that deliveries to town, like the transport bringing his car, would have no problem getting in or finding his new house.

  They’d just conveniently forget all about the town when they left. Apparently, the town’s magic was a strange and powerful thing.

  In a way, it was ironic that he’d end up in a town like Shadowvale. He was on the cusp of becoming a household name. And yet, here he was, moving into a town that prided itself on being invisible.

  He stuck the key into the lock, and a zap of static electricity snapped at him as his fingers touched the metal. Since the lightning strike, these little electrical glitches happened a lot. So much so that he’d become almost immune to the little zings when he came into contact with metal, or the way the lights sometimes flickered in response to his emotions. All part of his new, cursed existence.

  He unlocked the front door and pushed it open.

  This was home now. And while he might still become a household name, the high life in the city wasn’t going to happen. It was a gut check to realize how much he’d been looking forward to some of that fame and fortune.

  Maybe this was fate’s way of keeping him in check.

  Well, job done.

  With a sigh, he tossed the key onto the kitchen counter, walked back to the moving truck, and started unloading his stuff into the house. Nothing, from the leather sofa to the king-size bed, was too heavy. His shifting might be on the fritz, but his strength was still there. All of his senses were, thankfully.

  That was something good. He tried to focus on that and on all of the good things in his life, which were many.

  Despite that, he couldn’t shake the feeling that moving to Shadowvale was like admitting defeat. Or accepting what had happened to him. He didn’t want to do that. He was a fighter. And he wanted to keep fighting.

  He would, too. He’d gently reach out to the alpha here and see if he was receptive to having a new member who might not actually show up as a wolf.

  And if he wasn’t, which Easy expected, he’d go back to solo runs.

  Another thing he was going to do was get to work on his book. Immediately. With the movie being made, he couldn’t afford to miss out on the momentum the release would create. He had to make his deadline, which was still six months off, but if he didn’t get going, the time would fly by. Getting settled in this house would eat up a chunk of that.

  His editor would probably give him an extension—this movie deal had earned him a lot of leeway—but he didn’t want to push the book back either.

  He was afraid doing it once would mean doing it again. And again. And that wasn’t a road he wanted to go down.

  No, it was time to get everything back on track. His life, his career, and somehow, his wolfiness.

  He hoisted his leather recliner, balancing it on his shoulder, and started for the house.

  There had to be a way.

  Chapter Three

  “This is the last one, Seymour.” Ginny readied the pie like she had all the others, and when Seymour gave an eager nod, she flipped it to him.

  He snatched it midair and gulped it down. A couple seconds later, he burped, sending out a pungent waft of blackberry pie and fish.

  Ginny rocked back and waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh, Seymour, that’s gross. It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

  He panted, tongue out, like a happy dog. A giant seaweed-green dog with spines and flippers and a bewhiskered face that was more seal than sheepdog. He trilled at her, a questioning little sound.

  “Nope, pies are all gone.” She held her hands out to show him, then tipped both shopping bags so he could see into them.

  He exhaled soft clicking noises.

  “I know. Always sad when they’re gone.” She extended a hand. “Want some chin scratches?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay, but no shocking me. Right?”

  He made a little woof and came closer, lifting his head and stretching his neck, an indicator that, yes, he did want chin scratches.

  She obliged him, raking her nails down his slick skin. More trilling, this time slower and more like a purr. Electricity crackled over his skin, a mild buzz against her fingers. She knew he could really throw sparks when he wanted to, but since that first time, which she’d chalked up to him being overly excited, he’d never done more than what he was doing now. They were friends, after all.

  The word brought a knot to her throat. “You know, Seymour, you’re basically my only friend. And I don’t think you have a clue about that, but that’s okay. You don’t need to. I just hope the day doesn’t come when you forget me, too.”

  He bent his head and bumped it against hers, an affectionate gesture he sometimes greeted her with. She preferred it later in the visit, like now, when he wasn’t dripping wet from just surfacing.

  Just because no one would remember didn’t mean she wanted to go home looking like she’d been caught in a rainstorm.

  “All right, you sweet beasty, I’d better go home. I have clients waiting and work to do.” She stood up, brushed herself off, and gathered the shopping bags, stuffing one inside the other with the pie boxes and tins. “I’ll see you again, soon. I promise.”

  Seymour honked at her and bobbed his head from side to side.

  “I don’t want to go either, but I have to.” She waved. “See you later, okay?”

  He reared out of the water to shake one of his front flippers at her, honking again.

  Knowing what came next, she backed away from the splash zone. “Bye.”

  He dived forward, sending a shower of water into the air, and disappeared below the surface.

  She stood there a bit longer, watching the wake from his movements turn into ripples, then those ripples travel away into nothing.

  This moment always filled her with sadness. And a wish that things were different. For her, but for Seymour, too. As far as she knew, he was as alone as she was. There was always the possibility that lake monsters were solitary creatures.

  But no one really wanted to be alone all the time, did they?

  She walked back to her car, glad she had work to dive into when she got home.

  She smiled. Dive into. She threw the bakery bags into the back seat, climbed behind the wheel, and put her seat belt on. She glanced at the lake one more time. “Until next time, Seymour.”

  Then she headed home, happy about the visit, but unable to shake the melancholy that was becomi
ng her constant companion these days.

  It wasn’t a feeling she liked or wanted. Happiness was far preferable. Happiness didn’t send her down dark, introspective thoughts about robbing banks just for the fun of it.

  Sometimes, seeing Aunt Gwen helped, but those days were becoming fewer as her memory issues seemed to give her more bad days than good ones.

  Ginny needed to get a hobby. Besides feeding the Pie of the Day to her favorite lake monster. But something like that. Something that got her out of the house. Maybe she’d start watching the rugby matches on Sunday afternoon again. Ogling hot, sweaty men was always fun. Although she wasn’t sure if that qualified as a hobby, exactly. Aunt Gwen might like it.

  Stuff like that was always more fun to do with someone like an aunt or a girlfriend or two while sipping on wine slushes and pretending to take selfies while actually taking snaps of their favorite players.

  At least that’s how she imagined it could be. But that whole idea might be built around something she’d seen in a chick flick once. There had been a time in her life when that kind of group activity was possible. She’d had lots of friends in college.

  Now…not so much.

  Still, the rugby match might be fun. Or it might just make her more miserable, seeing as how none of those guys was ever going to be hers. Not because they wouldn’t ask her out. She was cute enough to get that far.

  It was just they never remembered that they’d asked her when she showed up for the date. If the guy had somehow remembered even making the date. And there was no attempting to go through with the evening at that point. Trying to explain over and over that you were sitting at a guy’s table because he’d asked you to was no way to spend an evening.

  She could go to more movies. But again, not the most fun thing to do alone. And Aunt Gwen didn’t always have the concentration necessary for something that long. As a result, most of their movie watching was done at Emerald Manor.