Page 33

33

ZOEY

I don’t spot Warner when I first pull up to the construction site. Based off the men I do see, I can look forward to a sweaty version of the werewolf.

Nothing to complain about there.

I park next to a line of other trucks and check the time. I’m early.

Dust kicks up when I jump down from the cab of my truck. I debate waiting for Warner to come to me, but figure as long as I don’t wander into the actual construction zone, there’s no harm in me getting a peek.

Plus, I want to see where Warner works.

We’ve been holding hands , as Courtney so charmingly put it, for over a week now, and I’m curious about the other aspects of his life.

As I get closer to the skeleton of the house, there’s the sound of power tools and people calling out to each other. A wall is raised from the ground with ropes and muscle. The whole process is fascinating.

I know how to make smaller things, and compared to a lot of people, I’d be considered quite handy. But putting together an entire house? Now, that’s impressive.

This lunch date is starting off nicely, so of course, some asshole has to go and ruin it by letting out a wolf whistle. Briefly, I hope I misheard or that the sound came from Warner. But when I glance toward the perpetrator, I catch a stranger leering at me.

“Hey, sweetheart! Something you need me to help you with?”

A shudder slides down my spine. The guy assigning me a nickname would be annoying on its own, but there’s an extra level of gross because sweetheart is what my mom calls me. I don’t need some strange man yelling the endearment at me.

Trying to ignore the creep, I scan the different hard hat–wearing men, hating that one creep has ruined my joy at watching something being built.

And like all assholes, the guy chooses to double down.

“Gonna play hard to get? Don’t worry. I like the hunt.” The skeevy guy approaches me, wearing a smile with an air of menace lingering at the edges.

Werewolf .

I’m not sure how I know, but I do. There’s something similar in the way the man moves to how I’ve seen Warner walk. Only Warner has never stalked me like prey before.

Fearful fingers clench my gut, encouraging me to retreat to my truck and lock the doors.

But then I would be prey.

The man is only a few feet away, his eyes slipping between blue and black, a triumphant grin curling Cheshire-like across his stubble-covered cheeks. Despite the facial hair, I can see now that he’s young. Probably barely old enough to drink.

Not that it matters. If anything, young men are more dangerous.

“What is a pretty thing like you hanging around here for? Looking for some fun?”

He’s about to step into my space, and my mind flips between fight or flight.

I won’t be prey.

Before he can loom over me, I step forward, staring straight into his eyes.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

“What?” He stutter-steps with hesitation.

“You look really familiar.” I put on my deep, thoughtful face, then snap my fingers as if I just remembered something. “I know! You’re the guy who’s bad in bed!”

He was not expecting that . Horrified shock slackens his face. Exactly what I was hoping for. I came here to meet Warner for lunch, not be accosted by a horny, power-tripping werewolf.

“Yeah. The sad sack in the sack. Mr. Pitiful Fuck. Everyone in town told me about you. Said you harass strangers because no one wants to give you a second go since you can’t find a clit, even with a detailed map.”

There’s a little chunk of my brain that wonders if insulting a werewolf’s sexual prowess is the safest route to take. But if a guy is going to harass me, supernatural or not, I figure it’s better to let them know up front that I won’t go down without tearing into them first.

“What the fu?—”

“Ross.” A man with thick brown hair, streaked through with gray, strides toward us. He’s tall, wiry, and coated in authority. Not visibly, but it spills off him in waves as he approaches.

My aggressor turns to the man, red-faced. “Sir.”

That’s when I see, just behind the man’s shoulder, is Warner. He stares at me with wide eyes and a bobbing mouth, as if he can’t decide whether to grin or not.

Guess he heard my comments to his coworker.

“Is something going on here?” The older man glances between the two of us before his eyes come to rest on me. There’s no accusation in them, just scrutiny.

“No.” Ross is quick to assure the man, who I notice now has a vest with the label of Foreman .

“Correction”—I straighten my spine, glaring all three men down—“the thing that was supposed to be going on here was me picking up my friend for lunch.” I gesture at Warner. “But instead, I have to deal with”—unable to find a descriptor to apply to Ross, I simply let my disgust infuse the next word—“ this .”

“You—” Ross begins.

“Yeah, me ,” I cut him off. “I had your pathetic number the second you walked my way. You ever try hunting me again, and I’ll hit you with a face full of bear mace.”

“ Bitch .” He bares his teeth, stepping forward.

There’s a growl and a sudden powerful presence at my back, but this is my fight, and I can’t back down. Growing up with four brothers made me tough. Or stupid. Jury is still out.

I pull my lips back from my own puny human teeth, getting up in his space yet again. “Try it, wolf . See what happens.”

Ross freezes mid-threatening move, his eyes growing wary.

“Back off.” The command cuts through the air between us, almost a wall. I’ve never heard Warner’s voice so deep and menacing before. His warm arm encircles my shoulders.

For a second, I’m furious, thinking his command is directed at me. But when I glance up, his glare is all for the asshole.

Good. Glad to know he doesn’t automatically side with his pack mates.

Ross opens his mouth, but a sharp throat clearing from the foreman has the young pup snapping his jaw shut.

“Back to work,” the older man says, aiming the words at Ross.

I think the guy might argue with his boss, but after a pause, he shrugs and stalks away.

“You’re Zoey Gunner.”

I meet the man’s intense gaze without flinching, giving him a brief nod.

“And you are …”

“Mason Jameson.”

My eyes flick to Warner, who offers a tight smile. “My uncle.”

“You look like your mother,” Mason offers.

The comment surprises me. In the past, I’ve only ever thought of how my complexion falls closer to my father’s. My mom is blonde-haired, blue-eyed, while Dad and I are brunettes with brown eyes. But I guess the residents of Pine Falls have only ever met one of the people who made me.

“Did you know her?”

Warner’s uncle shrugs, then walks away, his gait unhurried but still containing an air of authority.

The tension of the moment lingers.

Warner is the first to pierce it. “Did you tell Ross he’s a bad fuck?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. If you and your uncle hadn’t shown up, he probably would’ve pulled up a list of references.”

The excitement of the construction site having worn off, I pivot and start back toward my truck. Even though most people would say I won that confrontation, I still feel gross. The leering weight of Ross’s eyes left an invisible residue on my skin.

I need a shower.

“Zoey—” Warner starts, but I whirl on him, unwilling to be scolded for defending myself.

“He talked at me like I was a thing .” My temper rises at the memory, and I glare at Warner, suddenly not feeling too warm and fuzzy toward men in general. “So, I gave him a taste of his own medicine. And I hope he chokes on the bitter taste. He deserved it.”

We stare at each other for a moment before Warner nods. “You’re right.”

“You agree that he deserved it?”

“Yes.” Warner scoops up one of my hands and presses a kiss to my palm before offering me a smirk with burning eyes. “But I was referring to the first night we met.”

I try to remember what exactly he might be referencing. Warner doesn’t let me struggle for long.

“You’re way more than kinda intimidating.”