When you’re one second away from a pelt, does a little stubble really matter?

Still, I like the smooth feel of them rubbing together. After working out my apology, I decided to put effort into my appearance.

These past few weeks, a good day was when I showered and wore a clean pair of jeans. Most of the time, I’d just throw on some leggings and a T-shirt because I knew I’d get dirty.

But today, I’m not sorting through my grandmother’s dusty belongings.

Today, I am apologizing to a werewolf.

Just as soon as I find him.

A little bell jingles as I walk into Sawdust and Supplies. There was no answer when I knocked on the side door that leads up to Warner’s apartment, so I’m hoping to find him helping out behind the counter. But the only Jameson around is Rebecca, who’s stocking light bulbs on a front shelf.

“Zoey. You need something?”

“Yes. I’m looking for your son.”

She turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “Warner? Have you lost him?”

“In a way.” I breathe through my guilt.

As more and more time passes and as I walk in the radiant sunshine of the day, the crippling fear from that night seems even more ridiculous.

Well, not the terror from being attacked by a mountain lion. That’s completely reasonable. But the way I let myself become frightened of Warner.

The same guy who had given me a ride to my crochet club the first time I met him. The guy who had lent me some of his power tools so I could refurbish an old dining room table.

He’d hiked through torrential rain to find me in the woods.

He’d fought a mountain lion for me.

The man who’s more likely to smile than scowl.

After the way he held me, the way he kissed me …

And I treated him like a dangerous animal on the verge of an attack.

Somehow, I suppress my grimace of self-disgust and focus back on Rebecca. I wonder if I should explain exactly why I’m looking for him. If Warner was born a werewolf and my mom knows about them, no doubt Rebecca does too.

Last light bulb put in place, the shop owner gets down from her stepladder. But she doesn’t take a few cautious steps down.

She jumps.

The distance can’t be more than two feet, but there’s something about the graceful way she lands, without even a wobble, that sets my mind wondering.

Is Rebecca a werewolf too?

The question almost slips out when I remember Warner’s words. “I can’t name names.”

Would Warner get in trouble if the pack found out he’d revealed himself to me? And where do loyalties lie? Rebecca might not be the best person to tell the events of that night.