Jasmine Moon by Celia Breslin

Evan tipped his head and eyed the ceiling. Prompt replies, punctual people. Striking deals

and hitting deadlines. These items made his world tick. Not loitering around a miniscule airport

pulling a Waiting for Godot moment on infinite repeat for a no-show, flakey designer from

California.

God grant him patience and balls of steel when he showed up without the designer and

the all-important wedding dress, because his future sister-in- law Darci would certainly be

unhappy. He’d have to beg a favor from his assistant, have her snag a couture dress, and fly it

ASAP to the Rapid City airport. He could afford a gown from some famous designer in Chicago

or New York, something likely superior to whatever his soon-to- be sister-in- law’s no-name

friend had created. Right? Shit, he hoped women’s fashion proved so easy.

He took a deep fortifying breath and froze. Airport smells assailed his senses—the sharp

tang of bleach and lemon-scented cleaners, the floral perfume from Rental Car Girl who eyed

him like a piece of candy. Black coffee, donuts, fried fast food, and under it all, the distinct musk

of wolf.

Female wolf.

She smelled damn good. His wolf perked up, and his legs propelled him toward the

empty baggage claim, where one bright-pink suitcase covered in Hello Kitty stickers sat,

unclaimed, on the unmoving L-shaped conveyor belt. Her scent, stronger here, socked his gut,

and his gaze shot to the corner.

The chaos around the woman stunned him silent. Large, paper coffee cup, half-eaten

banana, and a quarter of a powdered doughnut perched on a brown paper bag next to her.

Crumbs splattered the linoleum and the woman’s long-sleeved blue blouse in a thick layer of

white, sugary dust. On her other side, two pink garment bags lay like corpses, along with a

bubblegum-pink unzipped duffel as long as her outstretched, denim-clad legs. Some of the bag’s

contents—pads of drawing paper and large swaths of fabric—protruded over the opening, the

fabric splaying over her legs in a rainbow-colored blanket. Her feet peeked out of the mess,

encased in sparkling pink UGGs. Good grief, sequins? She smacked her shiny boots together in a

poor imitation of Dorothy and bobbed her head from side to side in time to some music only she

seemed to hear. Her shoulder-length red hair, the color of ripe dark cherries—his favorite

fruit—gleamed under the harsh airport lighting and curtained most her face from his view, save a

pert nose and small chin, both speckled with a generous amount of freckles.

He’d always liked freckles.

Clearing his throat, he stepped closer, but she didn’t flinch in surprise or look up. Her

attention remained on the tablet on her lap, the stylus between her pale, freckled fingers swiping

without hesitation over her screen. Her extreme focus reminded him of his sister Lexi in one of

her artistic frenzies. The resemblance ended there.

While his sister took after the rest of their tall, lean, and tan family, this woman seemed

the polar opposite—pale, petite, curvy, and freckled. His preferred type. A flicker of interest

stirred in his gut. Did she have those cute little spots on the rest of her? Speckled fur when in her

wolf form? His wolf huffed his interest in finding out, but Jasmine the Oblivious Designer didn’t

acknowledge his presence.

His fascination faded, replaced by renewed irritation. She damn well should have scented

and noticed his wolf by now, and she should have waited at their agreed upon rendezvous point.

She should not be sitting on the dirty linoleum of an airport, lost in her work. Didn’t she realize

the dangers of ignoring her surroundings?

He positioned himself right in front of her wiggly, booted feet. “Excuse me, J—”

“Sh.” She raised her arm and flicked her hand in the universal get lost gesture.

He gaped at her. “Excuse me?”

Another wave of her hand while her stylus streaked across her tablet screen with the

other. “Not interested.”

Nice voice. Low and husky. Her attitude, on the other hand…. “But—”

“Go away.” Her velvet voice carried a stubborn edge.

In other circumstances, he would’ve admired her strength. But he’d wasted copious

amounts of time hunting for the clearly inconsiderate and irresponsible female. “Fine. Get your

own damn ride to Los Lobos. Jasmine.”