The Wolf in the Apron

Diana

Storms in Germany were like those in New York, except I lived in the city and the streets were usually cleared the next morning. Life must go on in the Big Apple; here, not so much.

A couple of days passed and cabin fever started kicking in. Each day Michael came in and checked on me, making sure I had everything I needed, which I did. I asked if he wanted his room back, but he said he had another; of course right, why would he not?

He didn't say I couldn't leave the room, but I found the house to be huge, and though I was not usually shy, I didn't want to wander into rooms I had no business being in, so I stayed mainly to my room... er, his room.

And truth be told, I really didn't need to leave it. There was a master bathroom, a sitting area with a pile of random books, and even a little TV, but it had an antenna and with the storm, not many channels were coming through.

My phone was still missing and I knew my mother and grandmother would be losing their minds with worry. I was one of those people with the contact list from heaven to hell, so I couldn't recall one number. I sighed.

I needed to return, but I was almost not ready to go. I couldn't explain it. I found myself eager for Michael to come into the room. Each day, his features imprinted more in my memory and I could easily recall his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and his strong jawline.

His scent, fresh air, and evergreen had become a comfort to me. Not only was the scent coming from him, but his sheets smelled of him as well. There was another scent I couldn't name, but it had me sighing with pleasure each morning. I had never felt this kind of attraction before; usually, I needed to know a guy before allowing my thoughts to wander, but they were going off the deep end this time.

"Ok, just do it, Diana," I said to myself. The only way to move past the haze of lust and desire was that I needed to face it head-on and see what was underneath it. I left my room, closing the door gently behind me. I knew the direction of the stairs and headed for them.

I got halfway down when my growling stomach led me toward the kitchen. It would be better to have something in me before I threw myself into an awkward conversation with my savior. I pulled the doors open and came up short when Michael turned, an apron covering what looked like a business suit, his hands holding a potato and a peeler.

"Sorry, I was... wait, are you cooking? I mean obviously, I just figured you'd have someone do that for you," I stammered, awkwardly judgmental.

He didn't seem offended though and returned to peeling the potato. "I do on occasion. It relaxes me," he said, finishing the potato and grabbing another.

"What are you making?" I asked, already enjoying the smells of cooked onions and garlic.

"Potato soup," he answered.

"That's a popular dish around huh? My grandmother made some my first night," I said.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asked. He placed the potato and started dicing it far better than anyone who 'occasionally' cooked.

"Yeah, it's different, like not chowder but mashed potato soup."

He chuckled and I found it cute to hear such a sound leave his body. He didn't come off as someone who laughed often. There I went again, jumping to conclusions.

"This is a big house," I said, anything to keep the conversation going. "You live alone?" I asked.

"For the most part. I like the quiet. The sky is also bigger out here, unlike in the cities," he said. "How about you?" he asked.

I smiled; guys I talked to don't usually care about mundane topics like these.

"I live in New York City with my mom. I'm just here visiting my grandmother. I wanted to know about my father and my family history," I answered.

Without lifting his head, ice eyes found me. "And werewolves?" he asked.

Oh yeah, he definitely heard me yesterday.

"Yeah, the local kids love talking about it, I guess I must have mixed dreams with reality. Did you ever find out what attacked us?" I asked. I knew he said animal, but each day I remembered more and more of that dream, and what I saw wasn't any animal I had ever seen. He turned his back to me, scooping up a handful of diced potatoes.

"A bear. Maybe a cub got too close to your party," he said, but his refusal to look at me told me a different story.

I wasn't an expert, but since when did bears have yellow eyes and stood a good two or three feet taller than the man in front of me now? And Michael was not short by any means; his legs took up much of his height, his torso a bit shortened by the muscles. I counted these last few days. But even he wouldn't stand a chance against what I thought I saw.

"What is it?" he said, and I jerked, returning to the present and not my hazy memory of that night.

"I don't know. It didn't feel like a bear," I stammered. He wiped his hands and tossed the kitchen towel over his shoulder before leaning back on the counter and crossing his legs.

"So it felt like a werewolf?" he asked, his tone almost mocking. I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself.

"That would be crazy, and I know that, but I still can't shake this feeling that whatever attacked us was not normal and not a bear. Phillip, my cousin's friend, told me bits and pieces of the history here, but I get the sense that he romanticized it for me. Judging by your accent, I'd say you've lived here longer than not. Maybe you'd know more," I said, my way of pulling details without directly asking him. He didn't fall for it though.

"When you return back to town, I'll take you to the hospital. There they can answer all your questions about bear attacks," he said, sucking on his cheeks as if trying to keep himself from telling me the truth.

Figuring I would get nothing out of him and fearing he would try and flee again, as was his custom when things got awkward between us, I changed the subject. I was not quite ready to part from him.

While we talked, dinner finished and we ate as well. I never knew leaning over a counter while blowing on a spoonful of hot soup was so sexy, but my burnt mouth couldn't attest to how distracted I was by that simple act.

Once the meal was done, I returned to my room, took a piping hot shower, and then stared out the windows to the darkening forest. A bear attack--it would fit, it would be logical and check all the boxes of an unforeseen tragic event that claimed the lives of who knew how many people, but that feeling I felt kept nagging at me.

Frustrated, I threw myself back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling wallpaper. It didn't take long before my thoughts turned to Michael. It was a surprise seeing him cooking. There were many traits I would peg on him, but the home chef wasn't one of them, but I now knew to add 'knows how to cook' to the list for my ideal man. Must also be six feet tall at least, have broad shoulders, light icy blue eyes, and hair both raven black and silky, be inquisitive, and be a good listener.

As my eyes drifted closed, his smirk flashed in my head. What was I going to do with this man? If I were smart, I'd let his secrets stay just that, but I also knew that finding them meant I would have more time to figure out what was going on between us.