I’m also a realist.And realists know the game.
Men who look like Sheriff Owen Randall?
With that rough-hewn, broad-shouldered, flannel-and-forearms thing going on?That slow, dangerous smile?Those golden eyes that look like they’ve seen the underworld and decided to stay and build a house?
Yeah.Men like that?
They don’t fall for women like me.
They fuck women like me.
Happily.Eagerly.With the kind of enthusiasm that makes a girl forget her Wi-Fi password for a week.
But then they go off and marry someone appropriate—you know, a quiet little Pilates instructor named Brielle or something, with a perfect middle part and a capsule wardrobe curated by Gwyneth Paltrow’s ghost.
Meanwhile, girls like me?
We’re the cautionary tale.
The lesson.The detour.
Theshe was wild, but I wasn’t readychapter in his goddamn memoir.
So, yeah.I want him.
Desperately.Inconveniently.
My body is one crooked Sheriff’s smirk away from throwing my self-respect out the window like a glitter bomb.
But attraction isn’t enough.
It fizzles.It fades.It lies.
And I’m not about to torch my career—or what’s left of my dignity—for a man who might kiss like sin and look at me like I’m the last piece of chocolate in the goddamn box, but who still sees me as temporary.
Not this time.
I know better.
Even if every molecule in my traitorous body is begging me not to.
So I close the tab, exhale through my nose, and mutter to myself, “Focus, DiNapoli.Save the town first.Then maybe you can daydream about Sheriff Tall-Dark-and-Wolfy.”
Maybe.
Probably.
Shit—I forgot he’s still here.
Chapter9
Owen
My Wolf is driving me insane.
He’s pacing, snarling, panting like a dog in heat, and I swear to every ancient being above and below, if he says “Mount the female” one more time, I’m going to bite myself.
Take her.Now.Claim.Bite.Mate.
