Little does she know, I don’t have to guess. With my supernatural nose, I can catch traces, even through the unopened lid. I take it from her and breathe deep.

“Apples and spices. Probably pie filling.”

“Seriously? You can tell that?”

I shrug, pretending it’s no big deal. “People jar stuff around here. Guess I just know my preserves.”

“What about this one?”

She hands me another, and soon, I’m the one picking up each jar, making as if I’m examining the contents with my eyes when, really, I’m using my nose. Zoey follows behind with her pen poised to write down whatever I say.

By the end, every jar is labeled, and I’m hungry.

“I’m assuming by your previous shocked reaction that you are not a vegetarian.” Zoey doesn’t look at me as she organizes the jars, so she misses my grimace.

A life without meat? My wolf would stage a revolt.

“Pure carnivore. Or omnivore, I guess. Hope we can still be friends.” The answer starts off as a joke, but then a tinge of panic pricks at the back of my brain.

What if Zoey is looking for a partner who shares her eating habits?

My wolf shifts restlessly under my skin.

Zoey doesn’t seem to notice my unease as she gathers about ten jars together and pushes them toward me.

“On the contrary. An omnivore is exactly what I need. Please accept these jars of meat as a token of my affection.” Zoey grins up at me.

She has no idea what she just did.

“You’re … gifting me food?”

“Well, I’m not about to eat it. And I don’t like the idea of an animal having died and me just throwing them away. You should take them and eat them. Here, I’ll get you a bag.” Zoey leaves the room, which gives me a minute to compose myself.

She doesn’t know, I remind myself and my wolf.

Zoey has no idea that the offering of food is one of the main parts of a mating ritual. That it’s the go-to method for wooing a werewolf.

Doesn’t change the fact that my wolf preens under the offering of an edible gift, meanwhile begging me to take her. Make her my mate. Werewolves aren’t known for subtlety in the world of romance. Once we figure out what we want, we go for it. I’m trying to strike a balance that won’t push her away.

Zoey returns to the kitchen area with a cloth bag and carefully places the jars into the sack, pausing halfway through. “Can you carry this while riding your bike?”

The image pops into my head. Me cruising through town, a shopping bag over my shoulder. If any of my pack mates spot me, I’ll be teased for years.