Page 28

28

WARNER

I’ve been working on this bike for two hours, the practice normally meditative. But I can’t get Zoey out of my mind.

The events of a few nights ago play on a loop in my head, an old black-and-white monster movie, jerky and poorly constructed. Like my decision-making.

She’s gone.

I fucked up my chance with the only woman who’s ever made my wolf as restless as the full moon. For the first time in a long time, the beast and I are in complete agreement.

We want Zoey Gunner.

Then, an image stutters across my mind. The brave, enthusiastic woman of my dreams, staring at me with blank eyes. My teeth grind together at the memory of her complete shift in personality. Zoey shut down, as if she needed to protect herself.

From me.

She thinks I’m a monster .

She’s not wrong. A portion of the town thinks the wolves are terrifying creatures to be placated so we don’t fill the streets with blood.

Not that we ever would.

But we could.

Sometimes, I worry my wolf will wake and demand more control. That the animal in me will overwhelm the logic of my human half. That I’ll do something to deserve fear.

A vibration fills my ears with a rumbling noise. It takes me a moment to realize I’m growling.

Just like a monster would.

I clear my throat, pushing the impulse down. Luckily, Harvey has the radio blaring hard core metal, so he didn’t hear my slip. The guy knows about wolves, likes us even, but there still aren’t many humans comfortable with being reminded.

I was naive to think Zoey would accept my truth as if I were merely showing her an ugly birthmark. A small blessing that she didn’t run away, screaming her head off.

And if I’m being honest with myself, I could’ve kept it from her.

If I had been firmer about her leaving, she might’ve gone.

Or I could’ve stayed in my human form and fought the lion off that way. Would’ve taken longer and been bloodier, but I’m strong, and I heal fast. If I had gone that route, I might be with her now, getting nursed back to health. Zoey would probably be babying me this very moment. Maybe kissing my bruises to make them feel better while scolding me for being stupidly reckless.

Instead, I’m sitting here, alone, covered in grease, mourning the loss of her.

All because I wanted her to know. In that moment, the decision to reveal my secret seemed easy. Certain the connection I could almost see between us must mean something. That she wouldn’t cringe from me, but accept what I was with open arms and her excited smile.

Sometimes, I can be completely dense.

Also, sometimes, I hallucinate. Because there’s no way that Zoey Gunner just walked into Harvey’s shop. Especially not looking like that .

The woman I know wears sweatpants, maybe jeans, and paint-stained T-shirts or possibly a soft sweater.

Zoey Gunner does not wear dresses. Definitely not white ones that hug her waist and have trails of copper buttons down the front. The material sways around her thighs, showing off a set of legs meant to make a man fall to his knees and crawl behind her in the hopes of catching an ounce of her attention.

And so I know, for certain, this cannot be her.

It’s impossible she’d come into this shop with her honeyed hair down, curling softly around her shoulders. One small section is pulled away from her face with a glittery clip.

This can’t be her.

Because that would just be cruel.

But the world is often cruel, which I know for a fact when, over the scent of motor oil, I finally pick up on that lovely tease of earthy maple-ness.

A loud clang reverberates around the shop, and I realize I dropped the wrench I was holding when my hands went slack.

The flesh and bone and temptation incarnate Zoey starts at the sound, her eyes finding mine.

“What the hell is wrong with you, boy?” Harvey rolls out from under the car whose oil he’s been changing. “You throw my tools around, and I’m gonna kick your ass out of my shop.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Zoey steps around the front end of the car, coming into Harvey’s view. “That’s my fault. I think I surprised him.”

With a customer in the mix, the mechanic changes his scowl to a smile real fast.

“Well, hello there. I didn’t hear you come in. How can I help you?” Harvey stands up, all six foot three of him. He’s an intimidating figure, still sporting a good amount of muscle, even in his early sixties.

But Zoey doesn’t step back. She just tilts her head and smiles up at him.

The sight reminds me of that first night, her sitting in The Rabbit Hole, surrounded by bikers, but not showing even the inclination toward fear. I’m just as fascinated with her now as I was then. If she came here to tell me to leave her alone, she’s making the experience good and torturous.

Does she know I’ve been running the perimeter of her property each night?

I needed to know she was safe. And that she hadn’t packed up to leave.

“The fuel gauge in my truck is broken. Would you mind taking a look?”

Of course. She’s not here for me. Zoey was probably just as shocked to find me in this shop as I was to see her walk into it.

“Sure, ma’am. You parked out front?”

“Yes. Thank you.” I expect her to lead him toward the door. Instead, she steps farther into the shop. Closer to me. “But the main reason I came to your garage was to talk to Warner. Would you mind if I took a moment to do so?”

Harvey’s eyes go wide as he glances between the two of us. Luckily, he’s not one to pry. “Sure. Give me your keys, and I’ll see what I can find while you two … talk.”

“That would be perfect.” Zoey rummages in the bag hanging on her shoulder until a clinking of metal sounds out. She hands the keys over, then strolls across the shop toward me.

Harvey gives me a final incredulous stare before heading outside.

Then, we’re alone. And I experience one of the rare moments in my life where words don’t come easy.

I should apologize.

But before I can figure out what words to say, Zoey takes over.

“How are the cuts?” Zoey waves her hand toward my chest.

Because I’m still reeling, my brain decides the best way to answer is to pull up my shirt to show the already completely healed gouges. Zoey leans in close, her eyes tracing over the pink scar tissue, where the mountain lion got in a few good hits.

“Fascinating,” she murmurs.

My skin grows warm under her close gaze. Her scent seeps into my nose, so strong that I taste the sweetness on my tongue. My mind starts to drift into a dreamlike state, where I can float happily along and pretend she’ll never walk away.

When Zoey straightens, she tilts her head to the side, staring down at me. The corner of her lip twitches, and I home in on the movement, the sparkle of her piercing hypnotizing.

“You like taking your shirt off around me, don’t you?”

Is she flirting?

Hope heats my chest as I let my clothing settle back into place.

“Maybe I’m hoping you’ll do something about it one of these days,” I say.

Now, both of the corners of her mouth twitch, but she twists her lips until the movement disappears.

“Do you mind if I …” Zoey glances around the shop, her eyes resting on a stool off to the side. One that’s supporting a box of greasy, used rags. Seeing as how she’s wearing a dress the same white as the tablecloth at a five-star restaurant, I expect her to dismiss the option as a seat, but she moves toward it.

“No, wait!” I jump up from my stool, making as if to grab her and keep her away from the mess, only to realize at the last second that my hands are covered in motor oil. I hold them up, skipping backward so I don’t ruin the glorious image of Zoey in her pristine outfit. “Just … here …” Skirting around her, I reach for the box of rags myself.

But lifting it only reveals dark smears on the metal seat. That won’t work.

“What’s the matter?” Zoey’s voice next to my shoulder has me jumping away again, clutching the container of dirty rags to my chest. “Is that stuff expensive?” She moves closer, her head bent to peer into the box.

“No. This stuff is garbage.”

“Then, why are you hugging it?”

“I’m not.”

Zoey smirks.

She’s right; I am hugging them. I drop the box and kick it under a workbench.

“Can we sit now? Or do you have more garbage to embrace?” Her eyes twinkle, and one of her perfectly clean hands reaches for the stool.

“No, don’t!” Again, I lunge in between the offensive seat and the perfect woman, using my body as a shield and trying to herd her back.

Zoey stops attempting to get at the stool. Instead, she stares resolutely up at me. The glitter is gone from her eyes, leaving behind sadness.

“I thought this might be how it went. And I understand. You don’t want me here. I promise I’ll go, just after?—”

“Not want you here? Are you fucking with me, Zoey?”

She flinches back, and I regret how harsh my words came out. I’m flustered, my wolf is agitated, and the combination is turning me into an ass.

“Of course not,” she says. “But you clearly don’t want me to sit with you.” Her wave takes in me and the stool I’m blocking.

“No. That’s not …” I trail off, a frustrated growl clawing at my chest. But letting the animalistic noise out would only make things worse.

“Just give me a minute to say my piece. I swear I’ll leave you alone after I’m done. You’ll never have to see me again.” She crosses her heart with a finger, as if making a solemn vow.

Zoey leaving is the worst outcome I can think of. I’d rather have her in this room, shouting at me.

“I’m dirty.” My oil-stained hands come to rest on my hips. “This whole shop is dirty. And you’re walking in here, wearing white, like some kind of perfect fever dream. I’m just trying to keep you from ruining your dress.”

Silence stretches between us as Zoey examines my face. She must pick up the sincerity because the upset fades from her gaze.

“Can I see?” she asks, reaching forward, her fingers wrapping around my wrists.

She raises them up, taking a close look at my filthy palms. The nails are crusted with grime, my skin appears dark and uneven under the coat of motor oil. Even now, I can see traces of the black rubbing off on her fingers.

Any second, Zoey will wrinkle her nose, loosen her grip, and ask where a sink with soap is.

At least, that’s what most people would do.

It’s my fault for forgetting that Zoey isn’t most people.

Before I can stop her, she presses both of my palms against her boobs.

“What are you doing?” I choke, snatching my hands back, even as they beg to stay where she put them.

Zoey glances down at her dress, a smile creeping over her lips as she eyes the black prints now marring the pristine white fabric. A snort escapes, and then the next moment, she’s doubled over in laughter.

The happy sound rings through the shop, bouncing off every surface.

I want to laugh with her. I want to moan at the loss of her perfect dress. I want to drag her into my arms and kiss her senseless.

Instead, I hold myself back because I’m still not sure where we stand. Clearly, Zoey isn’t terrified of me, which I take as a good sign. But that doesn’t tell me much. It’s completely possible she convinced herself that night was a dream or a fear-induced hallucination. If that’s the case, I’ll have to decide if the best option is to just let her continue living a normal life, oblivious to what my truth is.

Zoey calms down, shaking her head at me as she walks back to the bike I was working on. I follow, a step behind.

“Sit,” she instructs me, and I drop down on the low crate I was using as a seat.

I expect her to grab the greasy stool, but she ignores it to come stand in front of me. I have to look up at her from this angle, and my eyes are level with the destructive handprints.

“I can’t believe … your dress.” I mourn the loss.

Laundry isn’t one of my skill sets. I’m usually just proud of myself when I separate lights and darks, but I still know that grease and white clothing don’t mix. It’s a shame, no matter how good the shape of my hands look, clasping her chest.

“Don’t worry about it. I got it from a thrift shop, and I think it shrank last time I washed it. Half the buttons are ready to pop off.”

Now that she mentions it, I do notice how the material strains more where it covers her chest.

The sight makes me want to moan for a whole other reason.

“Warner?” A cool finger hooks under my chin, tilting my head up until I meet her warm brown eyes. “Werewolves?”

No selective amnesia then.

I clear my throat. “Yep. Werewolves.”

She grins down at me, the expression sheepish and beautiful enough to make my heart hammer loud in my ears.

“I’m sorry I went robot on you.”

“Robot?” I hesitantly return her grin.

“Yeah. I had some misguided autopilot setting to think stabbing myself was a good idea.”

The reminder of Zoey holding that knife, covered in her own blood, has the happy emotions in my chest fizzling out. My eyes flick to her arm, where the stitches are visible. At least I’m not picking up any scent of infection.

Yeah, werewolves can smell that.

“You were scared.”

“I short-circuited. A robot that lost its batteries. Completely shut down. You were scared, and I’m sorry.”

Her fingers play with the hair that curls on my forehead. The movement is so soothing that I almost lose my train of thought. But I catch hold of it.

“ You’re apologizing to me ?”

How could she think there’s anything she needs to say sorry for? I’m the one who fucked up.

“Yes, and I brought you an apology gift.”

“Zoey, stop. You don’t …”

But just like the night I met her, she ignores me as she rummages through her bag. And once again, she pulls out some kind of crochet creation.

“It’s a scarf.” She leans forward, laying the item around my neck.

As far as scarves go, it’s not the best. The ends barely fall past my shoulders, and one side still has a crochet hook stuck in it.

Not that I care.

“I love it.”

“Liar.” She smiles and goes to take it back, but I lean away from her, wanting to keep the gift. Zoey slaps my chest lightly, laughing as she does. “Stop it. I’m not done with it. I just started this morning when I realized I needed to apologize, but I didn’t think my crochet speed should dictate when I tell you I’m sorry.”

I sit up straight again, letting her remove the half scarf.

“You keep saying you’re sorry, but you don’t need to. How you reacted … that’s reasonable. I should be happy you didn’t try drowning me in holy water.”

Zoey tucks the craft back into her bag before looking at me.

“You’re right. I need to stop saying sorry.” Her fingers land on my lips when I go to speak. “And I need to start saying thank you.”

A gentle growl sneaks out before I can stop it, rumbling against her hand. Her mouth opens with a little gasp, but she swallows and pushes on.

“We were in danger that night, and you protected me.” Zoey bends at the waist, bringing her face close to mine and threatening to overwhelm me with her intoxicating scent. “Thank you, Warner.”

Fingers drop away, only to be replaced by her sweet lips. She brushes a gentle kiss against my mouth at first. A happy hum spills out of me, which seems to give her permission to lean forward and wrap her arms around my neck. To straddle my lap.

To drive me fucking wild.