“Werewolf romance, specifically. The sexy kind.”
Her eyes went huge, sparkling with genuine delight. “There’s a sexy kind?”
“Oh, honey.” I slid a book toward her. “There’s a wholegenre.”
She grabbed the book and started flipping through it, scanning pages with an intensity that seemed almost academic. “Wolves... mating... claiming...” Her head snapped up. “This reads very authentic to actual wolf culture. How do you know this stuff?”
Weird question. “Research? Imagination? A deeply unhinged Pinterest board?”
Thessa laughed, loud and delighted, the kind of laugh that made people turn and look. “I love you. What’s your favorite chapter?”
We ended up chatting for way longer than I expected, and I found myself genuinely enjoying it. Thessa was a lot. Enthusiastic, weird, asking oddly specific questions no one had ever asked before. But she was charming in an unpolished way, all golden retriever energy and zero filter. Talking to her felt easy in a way that talking to most people didn’t.
“So when the wolf bites her neck,” she asked, completely serious, “is that a permanent thing, or...?”
“Permanent. It’s a claiming mark. Very important in the lore.”
“Fascinating.” She said it the way a scientist would. “And the... heat cycles?”
“Very popular trope, very spicy. You want me to recommend some authors?”
“Yes. All of them. Every single one.”
Damien cleared his throat behind me.
I felt him there, impatience radiating off him. He wanted to leave. Wanted to get me alone and maybe finish what we started in the storage room.
“Closing time,” he announced. “Riley needs to rest.”
Thessa glanced at him, frowned slightly, then turned back to me and ignored him completely. I could have kissed her for that.
“Can I buy a copy?” she asked. “I want you to sign it.”
“Of course.” I reached for a book.
“That’ll be thirty dollars,” Damien cut in.
Thessa didn’t look at him. Just pulled out cash, tossed it on the table, and focused entirely on me. “Can you write a special message about wolves? A cool one?”
I grinned. I loved this girl. “How about ‘May your enemies fear your bite’?”
“Perfect.”
We were laughing together when the bookstore door opened again.
I glanced up out of habit, expecting another late customer or maybe Sloane coming to check on me.
It wasn’t Sloane.
A man stood in the doorway.
He was tall, so tall he had to duck under the frame. Six-foot-seven easy, maybe taller. Broad shoulders, lean build, the kind of body that suggested he did physical things for a living. Fighting bears, climbing mountains, posing for those calendars I definitely didn’t own but absolutely would.
His hair was dark blonde, slightly disheveled. His clothes were expensive and clearly tailored, but there was an energy about him that felt off. Not in a bad way, just different. He didn’t belong in a Lysmont bookstore on a Tuesday afternoon.
But it was his eyes that got me.
Gray. Pale gray, the color of storm clouds right before lightning. They swept the room once, twice, and then locked on me. Everything else in the room ceased to exist.
