“I got the rest,” he grumbles, but I wave him off.
“I’m almost done.Least I can do.”
He stalks off, toward the set of new tires, muttering under his breath about overly helpful werewolves.
His complaining always makes me grin.
When I’m not on one of Uncle Mason’s build sites, I’m usually working on a bike-refurbishing project.Since I live in an apartment, I needed a workspace.Harvey agreed to let me house my projects in his garage and use his tools for a completely reasonable rent, plus lending a hand every so often.But that’s hard to do when the man loathes asking for help.Normally, I have to force my help on him or take a sneak-attack approach.
Kind of reminds me of Zoey.
Of course, she’s much more enjoyable to be around than the gray-haired mechanic, but she also seems hell-bent on doing everything herself if she can.The few times I’ve been able to help are little victories.
Thoughts of Pine Falls’ newest arrival threaten to distract me as I finish the tires on Mrs.Applewood’s BMW, and I’m still thinking about Zoey Gunner when I’m perched on the low box I use as a seat next to my current refurb project.
A 1980 Ducati Pantah 500 SL.
A few weeks in, and the machine is starting to look presentable.
When it’s done, the thing’ll be beautiful.Lighter and sleeker than what I prefer to ride, but it’ll make me a nice chunk of change when I resell it.
Or I could give it as a gift.
Tanya and Isaac’s eighteenth birthday is coming up in a few months.Tanya loves vintage things, and I could see my little sister riding this.
Well, if she gets her license back soon.
Maybe I should avoid gifts with motors.Plus, I’d have to figure out a present just as huge for Isaac.I know he wants a bike, but he’s been working at a local farm to earn enough to buy his own.I wouldn’t want to take away the excitement and pride of that first big purchase from him.
Selling the Ducati it is.
While I work on replacing the worn brake pads, an image drifts into my mind of another woman driving the bike.
Zoey would look gorgeous straddling this classic ride, honey-brown hair streaming out behind her—from underneath her helmet, of course—cruising down an empty two-lane beside me.
Only problem is, I’d have to forgo the glory that is having her on the back of my own bike.
Still, it’s something to think about.
Whoa.Slow down.You can’t show up at her place with a bike.She’ll get spooked.
But, damn, the urge to claim her is a steady thrum in the back of my brain, like a constant growl from my wolf.
She has the mating scent.
I talked to Roderick about the lore, figuring our Alpha would know best.He confirmed multiple pack members had experienced the phenomenon.
All werewolves know, in a theoretical sense, about the mating scent.The idea that optimal partners will smell particularly appealing to our wolves.But there’s nothing binding about the special pheromone.The fragrance is different for all of us, and a wolf can have more than one person with mating potential.We can also take a mate without the alluring scent.
And someone who smells like the perfect mate is plenty capable of rejecting us.
I clench my jaw and try to shrug off the discomfort from the idea that Zoey might not be okay with mating a small-town werewolf.
Already, I’m doubting my chances after breaking down and watching the video of her ex getting mocked by a barbershop quartet.Wasn’t hard to find online, and I spent a good five minutes dying of laughter at the horrified expression on the dick’s face.
But then I took a closer look at the asshole.
The guy’s hair was styled with gel, his button-up shirt free of wrinkles and neatly tucked into slacks.There was a sparkle of a thick watch on his wrist, and the humiliating serenade took place inside of an office with huge windows overlooking Denver.
