How to Run with a Naked Werewolf

Praise for the Werewolves of Grundy, Alaska

The Art of Seducing a Naked Werewolf

“ Your spirits will automatically be raised if you read a novel by this author. . . .
The Art of Seducing a Naked Werewolf
is comedic entertainment at its best, where the characters are appealing and the plot is intriguingly original.”

—
Single Titles

“Harper’s gift for character building and crafting a smart, exciting story is showcased well.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(4 stars)

“A charming story that straddles several genres.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“Another great girlie read with a paranormal side by Molly Harper.”

—
Rabid Reads

“Once again, Molly Harper has worked her magic and gives readers what they want to read . . . sarcastic yet strong heroines who try to ‘deal’ with amorous heroes with sexy banter thrown in between each other.”

—
Romance Bites

How to Flirt with a Naked Werewolf

RT Book Reviews
TOP PICK!

“A rollicking, sweet novel that made me laugh aloud. . . . Mo’s wise-cracking, hilarious voice makes this novel such a pleasure to read.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Eloisa James

“Harper is simply fantastic. . . . The story is a page-turning delight and the main characters are fraught with sexual tension.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(4
¹
/
₂
stars)

“A light, fun, easy read, perfect for lazy days.”

—
New York Journal of Books

“Riveting suspense, hilarious dialogue, and lusty love scenes make this first of a new series a winner.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“Ms. Harper certainly has an extremely vivid imagination, and her skill at creating off-the-wall incidents has never been better.”

—
Single Titles

Praise for the Nice Girls of Half-Moon Hollow, Kentucky

“Terrific vamp camp. . . . The stellar supporting characters, laugh-out-loud moments, and outrageous plot twists will leave readers absolutely satisfied.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“A perfect combination of smarts and entertainment with a dash of romance. . . . Harper has found a place at the top of my ‘must buy’ list.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(4
¹
/
₂
stars)

“Great beach reading, filled with clever humor, snark, silliness, and endearing protagonists.”

—
Booklist

“A wonderful mix of humor, romance, mystery, and small-town flair.”

—
Bitten by Books

“If you aren’t reading Molly Harper, you should be. The Jane Jameson books are sheer fun and giggle. No, make that chortling, laugh-out-loud till you gasp for breath fun.”

—
Night Owl Reviews

“With its quirky characters and the funny situations they get into, whether they be normal or paranormal,
Nice Girls Don’t Date Dead Men
is an amazing novel.”

—
Romance Reviews Today

“So many funny lines and scenes that I dog-eared my copy just to go back and re-read them.”

—
All About Romance

For Amanda Ronconi.

Thank you for giving my characters your voice.

A great big
thank-you to the readers who contacted me, encouraging me to continue the Naked Werewolf series. And an even bigger thank-you to those same readers, who didn’t get cranky with me for refusing to tell them which of the Grundy, Alaska, characters I was writing about. It was a surprise!

I could not get through the writing process without the saintlike patience of my agent, Stephany Evans. And to my fantastic editor, Abby Zidle, thank you for publishing this work, despite its distinct lack of possums. (Werewolves in Alaska? Sure. But possums in Alaska would be pushing believability.)

Thanks to Yaya and Papa for their endless support and enthusiasm. To my husband, David, thank you for providing the inspiration for my badass, snarky wolf-men. And for my children, who suffer the embarrassment of having book covers featuring shirtless dudes
delivered to the house while their friends are over—and the additional humiliation of having a mother who has the gall to call this “business correspondence”—I’m sure you’ll turn out just fine.

And to the meteorological community at large, every time I write a Naked Werewolf book, there is a huge snowstorm that traps me inside my house with my family for extended periods of time. A heads-up would have been nice.

I’m just saying.

If Gordie Fugate
didn’t hurry the hell up and pick out a cereal, I was going to bludgeon him with a canned ham.

I didn’t mind working at Emerson’s Dry Goods, but I was wrapping up a sixteen-hour shift. My back ached. My stiff green canvas apron was chafing my neck. And one of the Glisson twins had dropped a gallon jar of mayo on my big toe earlier. I hadn’t been this exhausted since doing an emergency rotation during my medical residency. The only nice thing I could say about working at Emerson’s was that the owner hadn’t asked for photo identification when I applied, eliminating an awful lot of worry for my undocumented self. Also, I usually dealt with less blood.

Unless, of course, I did bludgeon Gordie with the ham, which would result in a serious amount of cleanup in aisle five.

I only had a few more weeks of checkout duty before I would be moving on, winding my way toward Anchorage. It was just easier that way. Now that I was living in what I called “the gray zone,” I knew there was a maximum amount of time people could spend around me before they resented unanswered personal questions. Of course, I’d also learned a few other things, like how to make an emergency bra or patch a pair of shoes with duct tape. And now I was trying to learn the zen art of not bashing an indecisive cornflake lover over the head with preserved pork products.

I glanced back to Gordie, who was now considering his oatmeal options.

I swore loudly enough to attract the attention of my peroxide-blond fellow retail service engineer Belinda. Middle-aged, pear-shaped, and possessing a smoker’s voice that put that
Exorcist
kid to shame, Belinda was the assistant manager at Emerson’s, the closest thing to a retail mecca in McClusky, a tiny ditchwater town on the easternmost border of Alaska. Because I was still a probationary employee, I wasn’t allowed to close up on my own. But Belinda was friendly and seemed eager to make me a “lifer” at Emerson’s like herself. I suspected she wasn’t allowed to retire until she found a replacement.

“I’ve known Gordie for almost forty years. He can make a simple decision feel like the end of
Sophie’s Choice
,” she said, putting a companionable arm around me as I slumped against my counter. It was an accomplishment that I was able to give her a little squeeze in return.

“You’re thinking about throwing one of those canned hams at him, aren’t you?”

I sighed. “I guess I’ve made that threat before, huh?”

Belinda snickered at my irritated tone. I glared at her. She assured me, “I’m laughing with you, Anna, not at you.”

I offered her a weak but genuine smile. “Feels the same either way.”

“Why don’t you go on home, hon?” Belinda suggested. “I know you worked a double when that twit Haley called in sick. For the third time this week, I might add. I’ll close up. You go get some food in you. You’re looking all pale and sickly again.”

I sighed again, smiling at her. When I’d first arrived at Emerson’s, Belinda had taken one look at my waxy cheeks and insisted on sending me home with a “signing-bonus box” of high-calorie, high-protein foods. I was sucking down protein shakes and Velveeta for a week. Every time I put a pound on my short, thin frame, she considered it a personal victory. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my pallor wasn’t from malnutrition but from stress and sleep deprivation. I gave her another squeeze. “I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all. Thanks. I owe you.”

“Yeah, you do,” she said as I whipped my green Emerson’s apron over my head and stuffed it into my bag. As I made my way to the employee locker room, I heard her yell, “Damn it, Gordie, it’s just Cream of Wheat. It’s not like you’re pulling somebody’s plug!”

Chuckling, I slipped out the back through the employee exit, waiting for the slap of frigid September
air to steal my breath. I snuggled deeper into my thick winter jacket, grateful for its insulating warmth. Years before, when I’d first arrived in Alaska, I’d brought only the barest essentials. I’d spent most of my cross-state drive shivering so hard I could barely steer. Eager to help me acclimate, my new neighbors had taken great pains to help me select the most sensible jacket, the most reasonably priced all-weather boots. I missed those neighbors with a bone-deep ache that I couldn’t blame on the cold. I missed the people who had become my family. I missed the valley I’d made home. The thought of trying to make a place for myself all over again tipped my exhaustion into full-on despair.

Fumbling with the keys to my powder-blue-and-rust Pinto, I heard someone say, “Just tell Jake I’ll get him the money in a week.”

A gruffer, calmer voice answered, “Marty, relax. Jake didn’t send me. I just stopped in for a burger. I’m not here for you.”

I closed my eyes, hoping to block out the shadowy forms in the far corner of the employee lot that Emerson’s shared with the Wishy-Washy Laundromat and Flapjack’s Saloon. I didn’t want to see any of this. I didn’t want the liability of witnessing some sort of criminal transaction. I just wanted to go home to my motel room and stand in the shower until I no longer felt the pain of sixteen hours and a jumbo jar of mayonnaise on my feet. I turned my back to the voices, struggling to work the sticky lock on my driver’s-side door.

“Don’t feed me that bullshit,” the reedier, slightly whiny voice countered. “He sent you after me when I
owed him ten. You don’t think he’s going to do it again now that I owe him seventeen?”

“I’m telling you, I’m not here for you. But if you don’t put that gun away, I might change my mind.”

Gun?
Did he say “gun”?

Who the hell has a gunfight in the parking lot behind a Laundromat?

I focused on keeping my hands from shaking as I jiggled the key in the lock.
Stupid circa-1980s tumbler technology!
I gave myself another five seconds to open the door before I would just run back to the Emerson’s employee entrance.