I rolled my eyes. “Old man, yeah right,” I scoffed. My dad is so handsome that after age twelve every one of my friends got tongue-tied if he even walked in the room. “Whatever, Dad.”

“Cake’s almost ready, Sophie. Go on and get ready. We have a reservation at eight o’clock,” my mom interrupts, looking as beautiful as my dad is handsome.

“Okay, Mom. Where are we going? Do I need to change?” I look down at my jeans and Scooby-Doo t-shirt.

“No, sweetheart, you look pretty.” I run upstairs to check my long, wavy hair for frizz and grab my phone. I have a couple text messages from friends wishing me a happy birthday and asking if I was coming out later. I ignore the messages, intending to respond when I get home.

Twenty minutes later, we pull up to my favorite restaurant. The downtown area of our upper-middle-class neighborhood is quaint. Black streetlights fashioned after antique gas lamps line the relatively busy sidewalk.

There’s even an old-fashioned movie theater that still plays black and white movies that my parents like to watch on date nights and a few trendy boutiques lining the road.

As soon as I step out of the car, I feel funny, butterflies making my tummy feel sour. When we pass a small pub, the feeling intensifies. My dad notices me holding my hand over my belly and asks if I’m okay.

“Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t have had that spoonful of icing. My tummy is just a little off,” I reply, grimacing to myself about how I found my mom and dad sharing a kiss in the kitchen, so I stole the wooden spoon Mom was using to decorate my cake.

Mates! I think with an eye roll. My parents were lucky enough to find each, other not all shifters do. The few that do find their mates live out their lives with the other half, content that they have the other piece of their soul beside them. Unfortunately, the rest make do, hoping that one day it will be their turn.

At dinner, my belly seems to calm. We eat, laugh, and eat some more while the men at the grill sing happy birthday to me. My cheeks light like lamps as every head turns to stare at our table. Looking down, I finish my meal quickly, embarrassed by the attention.

After dinner, we decide to walk up the street and get ice cream. I leave my parents, lost in each other, sitting on a bench sharing a cone and go grab my sweatshirt from the car.

“Hurry back, sweetheart,” Dad says while pulling Mom closer.

Back at the car, my tummy churns again. Agh. “What is wrong with me?”

The door to the pub opens, and the butterflies explode in my stomach, causing me to suck in a gasp. The scent of forest, frost, and leather hits me first. Holy biscuits, that smells good. I won’t shift for two more years, but my body knows what the smell affecting me so profoundly means. Mate. A man rounds the door and stops dead in his tracks.