LANA FERGUSON is a sex-positive nerd whose works never shy from spice or sass. A faded Fabio cover found its way into her hands at fifteen, and she’s never been the same since. When she isn’t writing, you can find her randomly singing show tunes, arguing over which Batman is superior, and subjecting her friends to the extended editions of The Lord of the Rings. Lana lives mostly in her own head but can sometimes be found chasing her corgi through the coppice of the great American outdoors.

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Also by Lana Ferguson

The Nanny

The Fake Mate

PIATKUS

First published in the US in 2023 by Berkley Romance,
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
Published in Great Britain in 2023 by Piatkus

Copyright © 2023 by Lana Ferguson

Excerpt from Overruled copyright © 2023 by Lana Ferguson

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-349-43964-8

Piatkus

An imprint of

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.littlebrown.co.uk

To my oldest friend, who at the time of publication of this book most likely still hasn’t finished it because of the “weird wolfy shit.” I love you, asshole. You don’t know what you’re missing.

Contents

1 Mackenzie

2 Noah

3 Mackenzie

4 Noah

5 Mackenzie

6 Noah

7 Mackenzie

8 Noah

9 Mackenzie

10 Noah

11 Mackenzie

12 Noah

13 Mackenzie

14 Noah

15 Mackenzie

16 Noah

17 Mackenzie

18 Noah

19 Mackenzie

20 Noah

21 Mackenzie

22 Noah

23 Mackenzie

24 Noah

25 Mackenzie

26 Noah

27 Mackenzie

Epilogue Noah

Acknowledgments

Mackenzie

“I’M SEEING SOMEONE.”

In retrospect, the lie comes much easier than I thought it would. It feels icky, lying to the woman who’s raised me since I was twelve, but in the face of my seventh bad date (or has it been eight now? I’ve honestly lost count) in three months—it also feels necessary.

My grandmother, Moira, has a reaction as immediate as it is expected. “What? Who? Someone from work? Is it someone I know?”

I know if I don’t shut down this line of questioning quickly, it will spiral into a full-blown interrogation.

“No,” I say quickly. “You don’t know him.”

I think that this part at least isn’t so much of a lie, since I don’t know him either. Since he doesn’t exist.

My grandmother means well, she does, but her taste in men— be they human or shifter—is downright terrible. I have caught movies with shifter model train experts who wanted to scent me on the first date, I have gotten coffee with human data analysts who asked if I could somehow keep my tail in human form (I don’t even want to explore the thought process there); every bad date has only solidified the idea that I am better off focusing on my job rather than my grandmother’s wishful thinking that I will find a nice man to settle down with and give her a litter of grandchildren. As if I don’t have enough to deal with. Sometimes I think Gran is no better than the dates she sends me off with when it comes to my omega status.

It’s rare, what I am—but it doesn’t make me all that different from any other shifter. Maybe once it did, back when shifters were still living in secret underground hierarchy systems unbeknownst to everyone else—but now it just means that I have an annoying stigma following me around that I’m somehow better in bed than other shifters. I swear, anyone I’ve ever told has expected me to spontaneously go into heat at a whim. Hence, I mostly keep it to myself nowadays.

“How long have you been seeing him? How old is he? Is he a shifter? I know how busy you are, dear, but I’m not getting any younger, and it would be so nice to hear the pitter-patter of—”

“Gran, it is way too soon to be thinking that far ahead.” I shudder at the thought of crying babies. “It hasn’t been that long. It’s still new. Like, very new. Practically still has the plastic wrap on it.”

“Oh, Mackenzie, why didn’t you tell me? Are you trying to break my heart?”

“You know work has been insane. We’ve had four bar fights in the last month—not to mention the pileups from all the black ice we’ve been getting . . . It’s been an utter nightmare in the ER. I think I’m getting carpal tunnel from all the stitches I’ve given lately.”

“You work too hard, dear, couldn’t they transfer you somewhere not so . . . fast-paced?”

It’s a question she asks often, but she knows my answer already. I love working in the ER. Even on the most harrowing of days, I still go to bed at night knowing that I’m saving lives.

“Gran . . .”

“Right, right. So tell me about your mystery man. At least give me a species, dear.”

I know the most obvious choice to keep her appeased.

“He’s a shifter,” I say, still feeling icky for lying. “You’d love him.” I make a quick decision based solely on knowing that Gran will see right through me if I try to say I met my mystery man anywhere else, since I don’t really go anywhere else. “I met him at work.”

I can practically hear her clicking her heels together. She’s probably doing a little dance in her kitchen as we speak, thinking that her granddaughter is finally going to settle down with a nice wolf who will give her and my grandpa grandchildren. It makes me feel that much more guilty. Thinking about the model trains date strengthens my resolve though.

“I have to meet him. When can I meet him? You could bring him to dinner . . . You haven’t been to visit in too long, honey. It would be so nice to see you and your new friend.”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “I told you, it’s new. We’re taking things slow. I don’t want to jinx it, you know? It could . . . make things awkward at work.”

“At least give me a name, will you?”

I panic, unable to think of a single name. There are dozens of eligible fake boyfriends working on my floor at this exact moment, and I can’t recall any of them. Is this punishment for lying to Gran? Is the universe cursing me for being a bad granddaughter? I can feel my hippocampus practically melting into a puddle of goo in my head, blanking on even one syllable that might wrap up my poorly planned lie in a neat little bow.

“Oh, well . . .” I can feel my mouth going dry as I scramble for something, anything. “His name? His name is—”

Now, I can count on one hand the number of hospital staff at Denver General who I don’t vibe with. One of the benefits of being, at twenty-nine, one of the youngest ER doctors is that everyone treats you like the baby on staff, and while it can get annoying sometimes, it means that I have made very few enemies while working here the last year. In fact, I would even go so far as to say that most people I’ve come to meet while working here like me. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t exceptions. I mean, I’m likable, I think. As long as the other party in question isn’t trying to sniff my neck.

However, that isn’t to say that every one of my work relationships is all sunshine and roses. And of course it’s with this thought that the break room door opens, revealing thick, midnight hair that nearly scrapes across the top of the doorframe, attached to the massive frame of one of the few physicians who fall into the “don’t vibe with” category. His permanent frown set in a wide pink mouth turns my way, settled below piercing blue eyes that regard me in the same way they always have in the time I’ve known him—a stern look that says he’s unhappy to have another living, breathing person in the same room he’s entered. And of course because the universe seems to be punishing me for my white lies before I can even finish getting them out— it is his name, unfortunately, that is the first one that my brain seems to be able to formulate.

“Noah,” I tell Gran in a hushed tone, so that he can’t hear me. “His name is Noah Taylor.”

Gran is gushing, her voice fading as I watch the surliest shifter I’ve ever met give me his back to crowd the coffeepot, gears of the worst kind turning in my head. It’s not the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, I think. I mean, it’s certainly not the best, but there are worse options. Probably. And besides, it’s not like he would actually have to meet her or anything. Maybe he snaps a picture with me and cracks a smile for the first time in his entire life. That could give me at least a few weeks’ reprieve, right? What could be the harm in an innocent little picture? Surely even Noah Taylor takes selfies.

Actually, I wouldn’t put money on that, now that I think about it.

“Gran, I need to get back to work,” I say, cutting off her incessant line of questioning that I can’t hear anymore. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“All right, but I want more details when you do. Don’t think this is the last of this conversation.”

“Right,” I tell her, absolutely knowing it isn’t. “Sure thing.”

I’m still staring at Noah’s back as he pours coffee into his mug, watching his massive shoulders rise and fall with a sigh after what must have been a long night. Noah is an interventional cardiologist on staff at the hospital, not to mention the head of his department, and he comes in pretty high demand. Anyone who walks through our doors with a bad ticker gets an instant referral, and from what I can tell, the guy might actually sleep here. I’m not convinced he hasn’t made a den of some sort in the basement. He’s been working here far longer than I have, years even—but it took me only one meeting to recognize how much of an ass he is. Especially since in our first meeting he said that I “barely looked old enough to tie a suture.” Let’s just say he’s not one to rub elbows with his fellow shifters for camaraderie’s sake alone.

He catches me staring when he finally turns to take a sip from his cup, one perfect brow raising in question as he notices me. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe,” I say honestly. “What sort of night have you had?”

He looks uncertain as to why I would ask the question, or why I would even care in the first place, pausing for a moment before he huffs out a breath.

“Horrible, if you must know,” he tells me. “Two heart attacks back to back. I’ve placed seven stents in the last five hours. And if that isn’t enough, now I have to deal with the damn board and their ignorant—” He narrows his eyes, seeming to realize he’s actually holding a conversation with a fellow employee that doesn’t involve glowering. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, because . . . professional courtesy? You looked . . . tired. Sounds like you had one hell of a night.”

Noah looks unimpressed by my attempt at friendly conversation. I think idly it’s probably the first time anyone has ever attempted it with him. “Exactly. So forgive me if I’m not up to chat.”

I roll my eyes. “As if that’s anything new.”

“Right,” he says flatly, holding up his mug. “I think I’ll take this in my office.”

“No, wait!”

Noah turns, that perplexed expression still etched into his features as he’s probably realizing that this is the longest conversation he and I have had in at least the last six months; I can’t actually remember the last time he returned my polite hello when I pass him in the corridor, now that I think about it. Not that anyone would blame me. I think the last time we spoke, he told me my shoe was untied without even slowing his pace. I’m not sure that even counts as conversation.

He’s looking at me with annoyance now, like I’m wasting his precious time. “Yes?”

I can’t believe I’m considering asking the Abominable Ass of Colorado to help me. It might be the worst idea I’ve ever had, but I’m in it now.

“I was wondering”—I know I’m going to regret this—“if you would take a picture with me.”

Noah looks utterly confused. “Pardon?”

“A picture. Maybe you could smile in it too? I’m willing to pay. In better coffee, or snacks—” He looks like he doesn’t know the definition of the word, and honestly, that tracks. “Okay, so no snacks. Whatever you want. I just need a picture.”

“Explain to me a situation where taking a picture with me helps you somehow.”

“Well, you see, that’s complicated.” Noah blinks at me for about three seconds before he turns to leave, seemingly done with the conversation, and I call after him again. “Okay, okay,” I sigh. “Look. I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but I need to use you.”

His eyebrows nearly shoot into his hair. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not a big deal, it’s just, I needed someone from work, and I kind of blanked when she asked, and your name sort of spilled out since you were right there, and all I need is a picture, really. I think that would buy me some time at least to—”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

I take a deep breath, regretting this already. “I need you to be my fake boyfriend.”

He lingers in the doorway for a good number of seconds, ones where I can feel my stomach churn in embarrassment. I know that I should have given Gran a random name. I know that I could have told her I was fucking a random colleague on the side and properly silenced her with a blush—but I didn’t do any of those things, and if I can’t buy myself some time, I’m looking at a fun-filled Friday night with some egghead explaining cryptocurrency to me. (Did I mention that I have been on some really bad dates?)

Noah takes a sip from his mug, swallows it, then closes the break room door. He crosses the space to pass the other little wooden tables that fill the room, his considerable bulk settling into one of the padded chairs on the opposite side of the one I’m occupying. For a moment he says nothing, studying me with a mercurial look as the old wall clock to my right ticks the seconds away, but then he takes another sip from his mug, swallowing it with a bob of his Adam’s apple before he sets it down on the table.

“Explain.”

“SO.” NOAH’S CUP is almost empty, his expression hardly any different than it had been ten minutes ago when I began to explain my horrible dating history and my aversion to experiencing even one more bad date—all leading up to my lie. “You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend . . . so that you don’t have to get a boyfriend?”

“You don’t even have to do anything.”

“I fail to see the need for me at all then.”

I’m pretty sure I’ve never been this close to Noah. At least not for this long a time. I can sense a sharp tinge of suppressants rolling off him, which I find odd; most male shifters choose to forgo them, too hung up on their ego to miss out on clouding a room with their scent in the hopes that a female shifter will come running. Maybe it’s a professional decision? His scent might not be pleasant. Although, I think I can discredit that theory, given that, strangely, I can faintly make it out even under the chemical tang of his suppressants, making me think he needs a stronger dose. Not that I’m complaining, since I think it might be a nice scent. It’s woodsy. Like pine needles and crisp air. It reminds me of running in the snow on all fours.

But this isn’t what I should be focusing on.

“Well, a picture, maybe. So I can prove you’re real. That will hold her off for a few weeks, at least, with my schedule. Surely you know how to smile, right? You can think of something you enjoy, like glaring at small children or criticizing baristas at Starbucks.”

“I don’t do either of those things,” he snorts. “Thank you very much.”

I shrug. “It was a guess. Come on, it will cost you nothing, and you’d be helping me out.”

“Helping you out.” Noah looks pensive as he stares down into his mug, raising it to his mouth to drink the last of his coffee down. “And tell me again why I would do that?”

I scowl. It’s honestly so annoying that he might be one of the most good-looking men I’ve ever come into contact with—shifter or otherwise. His features are angular, and his blue eyes are sharp in contrast with his smooth, fair skin, as if he sees more than you want him to, and I won’t pretend that his aquiline nose doesn’t rustle up ideas about what he might be able to do with it . . . If only his personality weren’t so sour.

“Intraspecies camaraderie?” Noah looks unmoved, and I groan. “Seriously, would it kill you to do something nice for once? This is based on the assumption that you recognize what doing something nice looks like and know how to properly execute the task.”

Noah is studying me again, eyes moving over my sandy blond hair and my amber eyes and even my mouth that is currently pressed into a pout, almost like he’s considering. What, I can’t be sure. I can’t tell if he’s thinking about helping me out, or if he’s trying to find the most satisfying way to tell me I’m screwed.

“I have never been much for intraspecies camaraderie,” he says finally, and I feel my stomach sink, knowing this was the worst idea I’ve ever had. “But . . .”

I perk up. “But?”

“I think we can reach an agreement that is more mutually beneficial.”

Now it’s my turn to look confused. I can’t think of a single thing that Noah Taylor would need from me, or anyone else for that matter, given that I’ve never seen him speak to anyone for even a fraction of the time he’s been speaking to me without barking orders at some point.

“And what could I possibly do for you?”

Honestly, I’m preparing for the worst. He’s probably going to ask me to pass the buck on his consults to one of the other cardiologists, which would be a total pain in the ass, given that he knows he’s the most highly requested one. Maybe he’ll ask me to clean his office for the pure enjoyment of watching me do it. That feels like the sadistic torture Noah might be into. I can’t even imagine what his office looks like. I bet it doesn’t even need cleaning. He probably has plastic covers on all the chairs and surfaces. I could offer to put in admission orders for him for some agreed-on span of time. That would be annoying, but doable, at least. Definitely worth staving off a few more horrible dates, since I am apparently too spineless to simply say no to my Gran’s puppy-dog eyes.

Oh God. What if he asks me for sex? I’ve pegged him as some celibate sourpuss who gets by with angry masturbation on the weekends, but what if Noah is like every other horndog I’ve come across? That is absolutely the one thing that is completely off the table, and I will kick him in his stupidly large shins if he is dumb enough to suggest it. It’s not like he knows I’m an omega—there’s no way he could—so surely it isn’t going to be anything kinky he’s after.

I tense when Noah leans forward in his chair, his fingers lacing together as his hands rest on the table, and his piercing eyes meet mine with that blazing intensity that they never seem to lose when I am unlucky enough to cross paths with him. They don’t look like the eyes of someone who is about to ask me for sex, at least. Or maybe they do, given the context. I don’t know. It’s hard to think with him staring at me like he is. But as it turns out, Noah has no intention of asking me for any kind of sordid favors. What Noah proposes is much worse, and the craziest part is the way his expression absolutely doesn’t change, not even a tiny bit, when he says:

“I need a mate.”

Now it’s my turn to blink at him. Stupidly, if I had to guess. “You need . . . a mate?”

Noah nods, like it’s a perfectly reasonable thing he’s said. Like he didn’t just propose the shifter equivalent of marriage and the last thing I’m interested in to a veritable stranger who I don’t think he even likes (I’m not taking it personally or anything, he doesn’t seem to like anyone) over bad hospital-lounge coffee.

“And fast,” he adds.

Out of the fire, into the frying pan, I guess.

Noah

THIS IS A terrible idea.

Even as I suggest it, I am expecting to regret it, but given that the proverbial answer to my problems has miraculously fallen into my lap, I am inclined to take the lifeline being offered. I’m aware of Dr. Carter—young, opinionated, a little too chatty for my tastes— not my first pick for a pretend mate, but with a disciplinary meeting with the board happening in barely an hour over some choice omissions on my part, I see few other options.

“You need . . . a mate?”

I can see the confusion etched in the set of her soft-looking mouth and her delicate brow, furrowed in thought above her bright amber eyes. I’m aware it’s not a simple request, what I’m asking her, but I am desperate and perhaps crazy enough to ask it, anyway. Especially given that there seems to be something in it for her as well.

“And fast,” I tell her, and am met with more puzzlement.

Dr. Carter places her hands on the edge of the break room table, her slim fingers tapping along the edge while I give her a second to try and compute what I’m saying. Time is not something I have the luxury of, but I’ve been told (repeatedly) throughout my life that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and if there was ever a time to test that theory, it would be now.

“Mate is . . . a pretty big upgrade from me asking you for a selfie.”

I nod. “Yes, but . . . think about it. A picture buys you, what? A week? Two, at most? My cooperation could buy you much longer than that. Months, even, if it suits you.”

“But I’m trying to snag a fake boyfriend to avoid mating,” she says with distaste. “Not exactly looking to saddle myself with the real-life personification of Oscar the Grouch to avoid more bad dates.” She has the good grace to look slightly apologetic. “Sorry. No offense.”

“None taken,” I tell her truthfully. “Trust me, I’m not interested in biting you.”

Her nose wrinkles as if she’s offended, which seems to contradict her earlier objection, or perhaps it is some general offense. I can’t be sure. “Well, me either,” she huffs. “From you or anyone else.”

“Then I think we stand to benefit each other well,” I tell her. “I don’t need to bite you to pull this off.” She still looks unsure, and I scrub a hand down my face, sighing. “There is . . . something about me that I have put a great deal of effort into keeping hidden. Something that would threaten my position here, and I find myself suddenly . . . exposed.”

“What, did you maul a hiker or something in a rut?”

I press my lips together in a frown. “Hardly. I am the picture of control.”

“Clearly,” she deadpans.

I think she might be poking fun at my expense, but I overlook it, given that her refusal could cost me my job. “There are . . . hindrances, for people like me. Ridiculous archaic notions that might have kept me from advancing to the position I hold now, and because of that . . . I might have failed to inform the board of my status when I was hired on.”

“What status? A shifter? There are plenty of shifters working here, me included.”

My nostrils flare, the idea of my carefully guarded secret crumbling to pieces making me all the more irritated. “Not like me.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m . . . an alpha.”

She narrows her eyes at me as if I might be teasing her, but then I see the suspicion fade as she seems to study me, no doubt looking for signs of the fabled Big Bad Wolf behavior that is so often associated with my designation. Alphas are rare, to be sure, and perhaps that is why there are so many outlandish notions associated with the status. In another time, it would mean that I was destined to lead a pack, to carry on a clan . . . but in our more modernized society, it simply means that I am a little stronger, a little faster, a little . . . more than the average shifter.

Which might be why there are so many stigmas tied to the label.

She’s still regarding me carefully, but she doesn’t look at all put off by the idea of what I am. There is even something in her expression almost . . . curious? It’s very different from how I expected her to react. In the past I have been met with wariness and sidelong glances when people discovered what I am, which is why I decided in college it would serve me to do my very best to keep anyone from finding out. And yet here I am, spilling my guts to a coworker I barely know in hopes that she might be the answer I’m looking for.

“You don’t . . . Hm.” Her nose wrinkles again—it seems to be a habit of hers—like she’s thinking. “Actually, you know what? I could see that. Now that you mention it. It explains your sparkling personality.”

I narrow my eyes. “Most of the rumors surrounding alphas are grossly overexaggerated.”

“I heard you made a CNA cry once.”

“Also grossly overexaggerated.”

“I don’t know, my friend Priya in Anesthesiology swears people saw the poor girl running out of the room with—”

“Listen, I’m actually pressed for time. The point is, I have managed to successfully do my job here for years now without going into any fits of uncontrollable rage or without biting orderlies or whatever other stories people tell one another to keep people like me from entering high-pressure professions—and a damned anonymous tip shouldn’t be the thing that takes it all away from me.”

Her eyes widen. “Someone turned you in?”

“It would appear so.”

I still have the slight urge to rip something in half when I think about it, but I assume that wouldn’t help my case in the slightest.

“So what does having a mate have to do with it?”

“It is a widely accepted theory that mated alpha shifters are considerably more . . . docile than those that are unmated. Ridiculously, it’s believed to be a free pass in our line of work. An unmated alpha might only be destined to be someone’s hired security or prized fighting champion— but a mated one isn’t looked at twice.”

“I wonder why.”

“Some silly notion about fated pairs and filling what the other lacks, or something like that.”

“So biting me is supposed to be your Xanax, basically.”

“For lack of better verbiage, yes.”

“Yuck,” she says, looking genuinely put off by the idea. “Sounds like the board has been talking to my gran.”

“I can’t tell if you’re leaning any particular way on this, Dr. Carter.”

She crosses her arms then, leaning back in her chair and giving me a sly smile that tells me she’s likely about to be intolerable. “So, the Big Bad Wolf of Cardiology needs my help.” She nods idly to herself, looking away from me as if considering it. “This is kind of cool, actually. Have you ever asked anyone for help before? Am I robbing you of your rigid virtues right now?”

I frown. “Hysterical.”

“I’m sorry,” she laughs. “It’s not funny, I know. You’re totally right that you shouldn’t even be worrying about this in the first place, given that you’re, like, amazing at your job—” I feel my eyebrows raise at the compliment, as well as her agreement about how ignorant this entire situation is, but she holds out a hand to keep me from commenting. “Don’t get excited, you’re still kind of a dick, mostly. No offense.”

My lips press into a line. I guess I should have anticipated that. “None taken, I guess.”

“But still. It’s a bullshit stigma.” Her expression softens. “I get why you’re so upset. Are they threatening to let you go over it?”

I’m not sure that she can actually grasp how upsetting this is, but I can appreciate her commiseration. I raise my shoulders high enough to be called a shrug, grinding my teeth. “I’m not sure. I was only told that I would need to meet with the board to discuss my status as an unmated alpha. The tone of the memo did not instill confidence. It’s not something I’m willing to leave to chance, given all the time I’ve put in here.”

“Hm.”

The seconds tick by on the nearby wall clock, and I know each one brings me closer to the meeting that could rob me of everything I’ve worked for, and now it seems by some strange twist of fate— everything boils down to this tiny blond physician who might actually be enjoying my suffering. I’m not sure what to even make of it.

“So,” she says finally. “Tell me what this would look like. How do we convince people that we’re mated”—she makes a face as she says the word, like it’s hard for her to get out—“when we never speak to each other, and you smell like cheap suppressants?”

I rear back in surprise. “Excuse me? Cheap?”

“My bad,” she says in apology. “I wasn’t trying to be a jerk, I just meant, since I can still smell you . . . ?”

This takes me by surprise. “You can?”

“Yeah? Am I not supposed to? I figured you needed a stronger dose. I assumed you were taking them so none of the nurses tried to ask you out or something.”

“I’m . . .” It’s been quite a while since something has stunned me, but the idea that Dr. Carter can scent me, even now, definitely does it. There shouldn’t be a nose on this Earth that should be able to smell anything on me but the medical tang of my suppressants. I pay good money every month to make sure of that. “I am on the highest dose deemed safe for my weight of the best suppressants money can buy,” I tell her dazedly. “There is absolutely no way you can still scent me.”

She shrugs. “Smells a bit like pine needles.” She must notice my mouth gaping open, because she adds, “It doesn’t smell bad or anything? Anyway, so how would we pull this off?”

I think some part of me hadn’t expected her to actually consider this; I mean, it’s ludicrous after all, so that could be why I am thrown for a moment as to how to answer her question. I simply hadn’t thought this far ahead when the preposterous idea popped into my head after hearing her plight.

“Right. Convince them. Yes.” I cross my arms, staring at the table as I think it over. “We could . . . tell them we’ve been keeping our relationship a secret.”

“And why would we be doing that?”

“You’re a new physician here,” I say, still thinking. “You’ve been here, what, six months?”

Her eyes narrow. “Over a year now.”

“Right. Sorry. Regardless, it would be a perfectly reasonable line of thought that you might not want to be romantically associated with someone with my position and level of seniority starting out; I assume you wouldn’t want to gain some perceived advantage based on the achievements of your mate. Surely you would want to carve your own way without being tied to a big name. This would be a more than adequate reason to keep our pairing quiet.”

She looks a bit thrown by my assessment of her character, but doesn’t comment.

“And the suppressants? I mean, in theory . . . how would we have been having sex all this time if you’re dosed up?”

I can’t help but frown at her again. “I assure you that the suppressants don’t hinder me in that way at all.”

“Wow, really? Didn’t strike you as the dating type.”

“I’m not.”

“You definitely don’t strike me as the ‘hit it and quit it’ kind of—”

“I don’t think this line of questioning is prudent.”

“Fine, fine.” She’s nodding at the air again, her nose doing that thing once more that definitely must be a habit. I can’t decide if it is annoying or endearing. “So, this whole thing still seems more to your benefit than mine. I mean, I want to get a break from the dating scene, not land a whole-ass fake mate.”

“My scent would keep every shifter within a ten-mile radius from even considering approaching you romantically.”

I watch her eyes widen, the soft pink of her mouth parting in quiet surprise at the certainty in my tone. “How can you be sure?”

“Because no one who scented me on you would dare touch you.”

She looks surprised again, that same part to her mouth, but there’s something else there now. Something that blends with her surprise and looks oddly like curiosity again. I think I can safely assume I am the first alpha she’s ever come across. Not a far-fetched idea, given that I only know one other than myself. I watch the slim line of her throat bob with a swallow, her lips pressing together as she averts her eyes.

“Interesting,” she counters quietly.

I can see the thoughts practically racing in her head, her expression calculating as she appears to consider every possible angle of what I’m offering, or rather, requesting.

“So, what, we just . . . spend our lives in mutually beneficial fake love?”

Now it’s my turn to wrinkle my nose. “Hardly. I just need to buy myself some time to figure things out.”

“Makes sense,” she answers offhandedly, still appearing deep in thought. “So, like, a couple of weeks? A month?”

“I’m not sure,” I tell her honestly. I still don’t know if it’s a good idea to be laying all my cards out for this woman I’ve hardly ever spoken to before today, but at this point, I’m in it now. “I have a job offer in Albuquerque that I am considering. They’ve been headhunting me for a while, and they’ve offered me a chief of staff position. Their opinions on my alpha status are not as dated as those of the board here, and given my perfect record here . . .”

“But if they found out you’ve been lying—”

“I wouldn’t call it a lie,” I argue.

“—that you’ve been purposely omitting your alpha status the entire time you’ve been working here . . .”

I nod solemnly, not ashamed of my omission, since it’s a ridiculous stigma to begin with, finding it a necessary evil. It’s not as if they specifically ask for this clarification during an interview, given that doing so could potentially draw in accusations of discrimination, and it’s this minor detail that has helped ease any guilt I might have had for not mentioning it. “It could potentially paint an unflattering picture of me. Also something I’d rather not leave to chance.”

“So we’re mates till this blows over, and then you disappear, and we fake break up?” She looks contemplative. “Can mated pairs even break up?”

“With difficulty,” I inform her. “It’s an option, to be sure. Or you can continue to use my name to get you out of dates, if you prefer. It doesn’t matter to me. You can spin whatever story you like when I’m gone.”

“How romantic,” she laughs.

“I assure you, this is a business transaction, Dr. Carter. Romance won’t be a part of it.”

She smiles wide then, all perfect white teeth and little dimples in her cheeks that my eyes linger on for a second too long, seeming to be finding this entire conversation mildly amusing. “Right,” she says. “That sounds perfect.”

I feel the knot in my stomach begin to unwind, but only slightly. “It does?”

“I mean, I get to be free of the dating scene and have a leg up on the Boogeyman of Denver General?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t worry, they don’t actually call you that.” At my frown, she adds, “Well, most of them don’t.”

“Does this mean . . .” I can actually feel nerves fluttering in my chest, the possibility of all my hard work slipping through my fingertips because of something as silly as my genetic makeup being utterly unacceptable. “Does this mean that you’ll do it?”

“Hm.” She taps her chin with her finger, looking more pleased with herself than I’d like. “I mean, it does sound kind of fun.”

“Dr. Carter, we don’t have time for—”

“It’s Mack,” she interrupts. “Everyone calls me Mack. I think we’re past ‘Dr. Carter,’ given that you’re asking me to allow everyone to think I let you sleep with me on a regular basis.”

I feel my throat go dry, her crassness doing something entirely different than what it should. Something hot flares in my chest at the brief flash of images that crop up from her crude joke that I absolutely don’t have time or need for, and I quickly shove them down as I keep my expression blank.

“Mack? Your name is Mack?”

“Eh . . . I mean, technically it’s Mackenzie, but no one calls me that except my gran.”

“I think I prefer Mackenzie.”

“Somehow this doesn’t surprise me,” she chuckles. “Fine. Whatever. I don’t care what you call me.”

“So . . . is that a yes?”

“You have to meet my gran at some point. If I do this, you’re going to really sell it on my end. I’m talking about family dinner, anecdotes—the whole nine yards. I don’t want my gran pulling out her little black book for a good while.”

I’m sure my displeasure toward the idea is written all over my face, but I see little other choice. “Fine. I can . . . do dinner.”

I wait as she stares back at me, every second settling heavily on my skin like a weighted blanket. Finally, she takes in one long breath before she blows it out, her expression telling me that she might be as surprised by her answer as I am.

“Yeah,” she says, sounding only half-sure. “I’ll do it.”

I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath until the air rushes past my lips in relief. I nod slowly, checking the time on the wall as I prepare to lay down my plan that can hardly be called anything other than “on the fly,” and praying that it will be enough to buy me the time I need to sort out this mess. Maybe even find the bastard who sold me out and make them regret it. I think to myself that I might have misjudged Dr. Cart—or rather, Mackenzie—finding her to be far more reasonable than I had previously thought. This could even be a fairly pain-free process.

“So,” she says with more amusement than I think is necessary. “What’s the plan, hubby?”

I have to stifle a groan.

On second thought . . .