Humans don't meet the love of their lives at six o’clock and understand it by six fifteen.
Hell, if someone had told me yesterday I'd be sitting on a moonlit beach beside my fated mate, I'd have laughed them out of my shop.
While she's gathering her thoughts, I look down at the saddlebag I brought with me.
I pull out an old quilt I keep tucked inside for late-night rides.
Spread it over the sand.
Then, I grab a bottle of water.
And finally—my emergency chocolate bar.
The one I'd been hiding from myself all week.
But hey, priorities change.
I glance over my shoulder.
She's watching me with that curious little smile.
“What?”
“You came prepared.”
“I ride a motorcycle.”
“So?”
“So you learn to keep snacks.”
She laughs.
“I like your survival instincts.”
“My Wolf insists.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Her brows knit together.
“Yourwolf?What is that some kind of biker slang?”
I clear my throat.
“Uh, yeah, a figure of speech.”
Smooth, Jameson.
Real smooth.
I make a mental note to stop talking like I’m an actual Werewolf.
Probably good advice.
I walk back and offer her my hand.
“Come on.”
