Page 8 of How I Met My Mate

As he gestures for me to walk with him, I fall into step beside him, telling myself it’s purely to be polite. The late-afternoon breeze carries the scent of roasted coffee, cinnamon, and the subtle woodsy musk that clings to him — warm and grounding and way too tempting.

As I pull out my camera to take a few last pictures, I get distracted and stumble.

His arm shoots out fast—shifter-fast—and his hand closes around my waist before I can even yelp. One second I’m about to faceplant into the sidewalk, and the next, I’m pressed against a wall of solid, immovable muscle. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he squeezes too hard.

“Got you,” he murmurs, voice rough and quiet.

My heart does that traitorous flutter thing. “Thanks,” I manage.

He meets my eyes, and something unreadable flickers there. “I’ll never let you fall,” he says simply, before letting me go.

What does he mean by that?

Why would he say that? Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me. You can’t make a forever promise to someone you just met – can you?

Of course, the shifters believe in fated mates. My best friend Lane just joined with a shifter in a mating ceremony. She’s the one who got permission for me to come out here to do this story. She met Jesse and he instantly knew she was fated to be his, and she came around to his way of thinking within days.

Did I believe it? Well, at the time I was so freaked out that I assumed that she must have been kidnapped and I called the human police and they swarmed into Cedar Run, and I almost re-ignited the human shifter wars.

So, you can say I’m a little skeptical.

But she sounds so over the top happy now that I don’t know what to think. She’s never sounded this happy. Lane, like me, grew up in foster care. My grandparents tracked me down and adopted me in my teens. She never had anyone to rescue her. The way she sounds now…it’s like she’s finally found home.

“Shall we?” Cole asks. “Want a ride?”

“I will follow you in my car,” I tell him. I need to cling to some tiny semblance of independence. And I need to be able to flee as soon as I sense that the temptation is getting to be too much.

There’s a flicker in his gaze, and I sense that he’d rather drive me, but he doesn’t argue.

“I won’t lose you,” he says, suddenly serious, and I feel like it’s another permanent promise that he can’t possibly mean.

I follow his SUV, and we head east out of town, towards the pack lands.

There’s an enormous, intimidating iron gate stretching across the road outside of pack territory, and it swings open as we approach. My stomach does a nervous flutter as we drive through and it shuts behind us.

Cole’s cabin sits nestled at the edge of the forest, where the trees crowd close enough to muffle the sounds of the world beyond the gate. It’s solid, quiet strength in the form of dark timber and stone, with a wide front porch and a swing that creaks lazily in the evening breeze. Warm light spills from the windows, and the scent of pine needles perfumes the air.

When he parks and steps out, I follow, trying not to get caught checking out his butt. The gravel crunches under my boots, and the cool forest air feels charged, humming with that low, wild energy that seems to follow him everywhere.

He unlocks the door and pushes it open, gesturing for me to go first. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking.

I step through the door, heart hammering in my chest, and the warmth hits me immediately—the heat of the fire crackling in the stone hearth, the smell of pot roast and roasted vegetables drifting from the kitchen, and the faint hint of cedar and leather that’s purely him. The place is unexpectedly homey. Cozy, even. There’s a worn leather couch, a massive bookshelf, and a scattering of wood framed family photographs.

“Mom dropped off dinner just a little while ago,” he says, as if the intoxicating smell isn’t already announcing that fact loud and clear. “Said I looked like I was living on protein bars again.” He does not. Could he possibly get even more deliciously muscular? That wouldn’t be fair.

There’s a pot on the stove, steam curling from under the lid.

“Sit. Relax,” he orders me, gesturing at the leather couch in the living room. I sit, but I am far from relaxed. My nerves are twanging like guitar strings.

I watch as he quickly sets the table for two, pulling plates and silverware from a cabinet with easy efficiency.

The glasses are mason jars, and they catch the warm glow from the overhead light, throwing little gold reflections across the table.

It’s as far from a suave bachelor pad as it could be. It doesn’t look like he entertains here often, and somehow I find that comforting. The thought of him bringing another woman here sends a stab of jealousy straight through my heart.

I close my eyes to ground myself, and when I open them I see the handsomest man I’ve ever laid eyes on, moving effortlessly around the kitchen in a scene of cozy domestic harmony that fills me with mingled longing and fear.

Alexis, I scold myself…what have you gotten yourself into?