Hot Girls Date Werewolves (Hot Girls Date #1)
Prologue Rand
The Thirsty Dog is packed.
Not unusual for a Friday night in Maccon City.
Tourists are crawling through town for the summer. Locals are blowing off steam after work. The jukebox is playing classic rock, somebody's cheering at the baseball game on the TVs, and somewhere behind me a woman just laughed loud enough to make half the male population turn their heads.
My Wolf is annoyed.
Not because of the crowd.
Crowds don't bother me.
Hell, I've been living in Maccon City long enough to know half the people in this bar.
No, that’s not it.
The Beast inside me is just… itchy.
Restless.
Like he forgot something important.
Which is ridiculous.
I'm forty-two years old.
I've survived two Pack Alphas, countless full moons, and more blind dates arranged by well-meaning relatives than any man should legally be subjected to.
At this point, I'd accepted that fate apparently forgot I existed.
Not bitter.
Just realistic.
Besides, I have my work.
I own Jameson Customs, where I restore motorcycles and fabricate custom parts for riders from Jersey to Pennsylvania.
Keeps my hands busy and my Wolf occupied.
Usually.
Tonight I'd stopped by The Thirsty Dog to deliver a custom gas tank emblem to Mike, the owner.
The man was restoring a Harley older than I was and wanted everything period correct.
Two months of work and the damn thing had come out beautiful.
Mike had practically cried.
Which, considering the man was built like a linebacker and covered in ink and barroom sawdust, had been strangely touching.
“You're a damn artist, Rand,” he'd said.
“Tell my accountant that.”
Mike had laughed and shoved a beer into my hand.
So here I am.
Alone.
Enjoying my drink.
Ignoring my Wolf.
At least I was.
Until the couple behind me sat down.
Normally, I mind my own business.
Really.
I do.
But the woman has apparently reached the end of her patience.
“You seriously opened the evening with your crypto portfolio?” she asks.
I nearly choke on my beer.
The guy chuckles nervously.
“Women like ambition.”
“Actually, women like personality.”
I hide my grin.
Oh, she's got claws.
Interesting.
The guy tries again.
“I drive a Tesla.”
“Congratulations?”
“And I own three investment properties.”
“Do any of them have a sense of humor?”
My shoulders shake.
Poor bastard.
He's dying back there.
And somehow still doesn't know it.
I take another sip.
And I try to ignore the rest of their conversation.
I even recite multiplication tables.
Then I hear her sigh.
Not annoyed.
Defeated.
The sound punches me right in the chest.
Strange.
I shift slightly on the stool.
And that's when I finally see her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
Holy. Fuck.
She is curvy—really curvy.
She looks real.
Thick. Full.
Not at all like social media or Hollywood tells you a woman should look.
She’s got these long, blonde waves spilling over one shoulder, and I can see some gray threaded in the strands at her temples.
She’s not timid or shy about her age or body.
She is bold, and she doesn’t hide.
That alone is sexy as fuck.
Nothing says hot girl like a confident woman.
My gaze travels over her and I stop at her whiskey-colored eyes because—holy fucking shit—that’s a fine ass vintage right there.
She’s got full lips, currently pressed together in obvious irritation.
And sass.
Sweet Mother Moon, the woman practically radiates sass.
Too bad for this guy.
He’s not in her class.
Not even close.
Because she is hot as hell.
I inhale a deep breath and freeze—something sweet and spicy infiltrates my senses.
And I mean, it hits me hard.
My Wolf sits upright immediately.
Mine.
I nearly spit out my beer.
Absolutely not.
“No,” I mutter under my breath.
The Beast disagrees.
Mine.
“I don't poach.”
Mine.
“She's on a date.”
Bad date, my Wolf points out.
Which, to be honest, is a fair fucking point.
Still—I don't poach.
Then the guy reaches across the table, trying to touch her.
She leans back.
Subtle.
Polite.
Not interested.
He doesn't take the hint.
“Come on, Baby. I got you dinner already,” he says.
“We had pizza slices, and I paid for mine.”
“Look, you accepted this date, so you know what I want,” he tries again.
My Wolf growls.
Easy.
The guy grabs her hand.
She tries to pull away.
My fingers tighten around my bottle.
Then he actually tries to yank her across the table for a kiss.
That does it.
I move before I think.
One second I'm on my stool.
The next I'm standing beside their booth.
The guy blinks up at me.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Nope.”
I punch him square in the jaw.
The entire bar goes silent.
The idiot tumbles sideways out of the booth.
Mike signals the DJ, and he pumps up the volume on the music.
Someone whistles.
The woman stares at me with her wide whiskey colored eyes.
And for the first time—I catch her scent up close.
Everything stops.
Moonlight.
Sugar.
Summer rain.
Cayenne.
Holy. Fuck.
Mate.
Shit.
But yeah—I sniff again.
After forty-two years.
After decades of waiting.
After convincing myself it would never happen.
My Wolf throws himself against my ribs with enough force to hurt.
MINE.
I stare.
She stares.
The whole damn bar disappears.
And then my mate says the last thing I expect.
“Well.”
She glances down at the unconscious idiot.
Then back up at me.
“You certainly know how to make an entrance.”
My Wolf falls instantly in love.
Which is awkward.
Because I think I just assaulted some asshole in front of my fated mate.