At her slight nod, I know she gets it. Normal therapists aren’t equipped to deal with a werewolf discussion.

My eyes trace over the table, and I wonder how many of the women here know.

An idea forms.

“Are there any therapists in town?”

Courtney smiles and tilts her chin toward the leader of the club. “Amy has a practice.”

“And she”—I keep my voice low—“serves all populations?”

After another subtle nod, the woman leans in close, and I discover Courtney does know how to whisper properly.

“Her partner is pack.”

Something small and happy flares in my chest. A little glow. Something like hope.

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.