Page 5 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

“The book is trash.”

A small smile breaks across her face. My chest goes tight.

“Okay,” she says, pulling out her notebook. “Show me what I missed.”

We work for an hour. She picks it up fast—smart, sharp, asking blunt questions until she understands the exact mechanics. Every time she gets frustrated, she bites down on the end of her pen, and I have to force myself to look at the paper instead of her mouth.

Then her stomach growls. Loud.

She freezes.

“When did you eat?” I ask.

“Don’t.”

“Maisie. When?”

“Breakfast.”

I check my phone. It’s past six. “You haven’t eaten in ten hours?”

“I was busy.”

I stand up.

“Where are you going?”

“Getting food downstairs.”

“Boone, sit down. I don’t need you buying me dinner.”

“Turkey sandwich okay?”

She glares at me, then sighs. “Turkey is fine. And chips.”

“Drink?”

She fights a smile. “Hot chocolate.”

I head downstairs, grab the food, and come back. The second I set the sandwich in front of her, the frantic edge in my chest settles.

Fed. Safe.

She takes a bite, watches me, and shakes her head. “You’re weird.”

“You were starving.”

“Most tutors wouldn’t care.”

“I’m not most tutors.”

We finish another forty minutes of notes until she completely rewrites her failed section. When we pack up, she stands and puts on a thin canvas jacket that won’t do shit against the night wind.

“That’s your jacket?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“It’s fifty degrees out.”