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ALICE

T he first thing I notice isn’t the trees or the birdsong or the glistening lake I saw in the brochure. It’s the heat.

Not just the summer sun—though that’s definitely a thing, dripping sweat down my spine like it’s got a vendetta—but the kind of heat that makes your brain fog up and your thighs stick together in the worst way.

My floral sundress is too optimistic for this weather.

The tote bag strapped across my chest is slowly carving a dent into my shoulder, and the clipboard in my hand is already damp from my palm.

Perfect. Just perfect.

I stare at the welcome sign, painted in swirling letters and glitter that’s already peeling at the corners: Welcome to Camp Lightring!

Below it, smaller text boasts: Where Every Camper Shines Bright!

I blow out a breath.

“Okay,” I murmur, adjusting the clip in my hair for the fourth time. “New start. No crying about cheating dirtbags. No thinking about Miranda. No regretting everything you’ve ever done.”

The camp director, Julie—bright-eyed and way too peppy for someone in charge of children—had hugged me so hard I nearly lost a lung when I stepped off the shuttle. She handed me a counselor badge, a room assignment, and a map that looks more like a fantasy treasure scroll than anything practical.

I peer at it now, squinting.

“Cabin C... So, over the bridge, left at the toadstool garden, past the canoe racks—wait, what?”

There’s a sharp wolf-whistle to my right.

My stomach sinks. And then, promptly, my heart follows it into some deep, cold abyss.

He’s leaning against a post near the mess hall like he’s posing for a photoshoot that no one asked for. Shirtless. Muscles like he’s carved out of moonlight and ego. Scruffy beard. Wild, shaggy brown hair. A cocky grin stretched wide across his face like a billboard for trouble, party of one.

Werewolf.

Definitely werewolf. The scent is faint but there—the earthy musk of forest, iron, and something vaguely like bonfire smoke. I’ve read about it. My ex-boyfriend dabbled in paranormal theory, back before he dabbled in my best friend.

“Hey there, Barbie.” His voice is pure gravel and sunshine, deep and lazy. “You lost, or just admiring the view?”

I want the earth to open up. Just swallow me whole, please. “I—I’m not lost,” I say, immediately sounding like a preteen girl on her first day of debate club. “I’m looking for Cabin C.”

He grins. “You’re lookin’ at it.”

Of course I am.

I glance down at my clipboard like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Are you... Jason Fenwick?”

He pushes off the post with that animal grace that all shifters seem to have in stories, except this isn’t a story. This is me, real- life, stuck for eight weeks with a half-naked man who thinks he’s God’s gift to children’s programming.

“In the flesh,” he says, tossing an empty granola bar wrapper into a trash can with alarming accuracy. “And you must be Alice Rivers. My co-captain of chaos.”

“I prefer the term counselor,” I say, stiffly.

“Sure. But chaos is what we’re dealing with, sweetheart. Trust me.”

I don’t like the way he says sweetheart . Like it’s a test I didn’t study for. I adjust my tote bag strap again.

He notices.

“Lighten up, Alice. It’s camp. Not a funeral.”

“I take my job seriously,” I say, chin tipping up instinctively.

Jason leans in slightly, arms crossed, and his eyes—dark, unreadable—crinkle with mischief.

“Well, buckle up. The kids arrive in an hour, and we’ve got arts and crafts, dodgeball, and a scavenger hunt all packed into day one. Oh, and by the way... we’re the wild cabin.”

My face must betray the panic flaring in my chest because he laughs—a full, unrestrained belly laugh that echoes off the nearby trees.

I flinch.

“Great,” I say under my breath. “Just what I needed.”

Cabin C looks like it’s been assembled out of dreams and desperation. Pine wood siding. A crooked chimney. A porch swing that squeaks like it’s haunted.

Inside, there are two counselor bunks in the back, six camper bunks lining the walls, and a small kitchenette that smells like bubblegum and mildew. The air is heavy with forgotten sunscreen and the faint tang of werewolf sweat.

“This one’s yours,” Jason says, pointing to the bottom bunk by the window. He flops onto the top bunk like it’s his personal throne.

I gently place my bag down and smooth the blanket. “Thank you.”

He props one arm under his head and watches me with that lazy wolf’s grin. “So, what’s your deal?”

“My...deal?”

“You’ve got that whole ‘runaway from heartbreak’ energy. Did someone cheat on you? Owe you money? Marry your cousin?”

I whip around, scandalized. “That’s none of your business!”

He shrugs. “Fair. But I’m not wrong, am I?”

I grit my teeth. “Look. I didn’t come here to flirt or gossip or... whatever this is.”

“You came here to teach kids how to braid friendship bracelets and not cry yourself to sleep. I get it.” He pauses. “Kinda hot, honestly.”

My cheeks flame. I pretend to rearrange my pillow.

“God, you’re easy to rile up,” he mutters, laughing again. “This is gonna be fun.”

The orientation bell rings outside. Jason’s already halfway out the door before I’ve found my sunscreen.

“We gotta wrangle the crew for the welcome circle,” he calls over his shoulder. “You comin’, Barbie?”

I take a deep breath. One. Two. Three.

“Yes. But stop calling me Barbie.”

He smirks without looking back. “No promises.”

We gather by the lake with a sea of squirming kids who look entirely too caffeinated for 10 a.m. Jason immediately launches into a dramatic introduction involving interpretive dance, a fake wolf howl, and pretending to faint when the kids boo him.

They love him.

I want to scream.

Instead, I clear my throat, stepping forward with my clipboard. “Group C, let’s form a line—alphabetical by last name, please!”

The kids groan.

Jason leans in. “You're gonna have a heart attack before Thursday, counselor.”

I grip my pen like a sword. “And you’re going to give me one.”

He winks. “Can’t wait.”