Page 17 of My Big Fat Shifter Wedding

“Down, girl,” I muttered to myself. I’d have to cool it with the whole talking-to-myself thing if I didn’t want someone to overhear me being so desperate. I was beginning to embarrass even my own subconscious.

Not that that was particularly hard to do.

The man was pretty much the opposite of everything I had been raised to find appealing. He wasn’t Italian. He was pale as could be, hulking, and if I hadn’t mentioned it before, fucking human!

No Gym, Tan, and Laundry for him. No running, hunting, and shifting either. We were from two different worlds, which meant I needed to calm down and get my head on straight.

Granted, the supermodel woman next to me did say he was single…

And it doesn’t matter that he is!

Round and round I went like that in my mind until those warm, hazel eyes of his landed on me while his form dominated one side of my workstation. Holy shit, he was even bigger up close, which seemed impossible.

Am I sure he’s not a bear shifter?

No, I wasn’t. He smelled human, but he could be wearing some heavy-duty suppressants. I wasn’t very familiar with bear shifters, but I was familiar with suppressants since that was a big part of my family’s business. He was missing the sterile, engineered nothingness that always came along with them.

Actually, do I even know his name?

I’d been so aflutter at the beginning of his little introduction that I’d missed the first part. Closing my eyes, I tried to recall the welcome packet I’d downloaded and printed out that had the instructor’s general information on it. After all, the doll-like woman beside me had used it to stalk the guy on social media and find out he was single.

Which was something I really shouldn’t be concentrating on.

“Do you have any idea what you’d like to start on for your first project, or would you like me to walk you through some things?”

Now, I liked to think of myself as a respectable she-wolf, but the words on the tip of my tongue weren’t anywhere in the same ballpark as respectable.

What is wrong with me?

I didn’t answer myself. I swallowed hard so I could attempt a normal, non-sexually harassing conversation.

“I think I’d like to try the mug,” I said, the more ravenous part of me, the wild part, settling so my more civil side could come to the forefront.

“Solid choice.” He leaned on his elbows after he set his box of gloves to the side, and his scent filled my nostrils like the best candle I’d never been lucky enough to purchase. Pine and cedar, fresh earth and morning dew. A slight bit of musk and that same rich honey as his voice.

Was he, like, a siren or something? There was no way a human man could be so attractive, right?

“What about it is calling to you?”

“Calling to me?” I repeated more as a buffer for my brain than anything else.

“Yes. Out of all the projects in the binder, what made you choose the mug?”

I stared at him for a hair longer than normal and wondered if there was a wrong way to answer the question. But I supposed I would never know unless I tried, so I did exactly that.

“I like the simplicity of it, the clean lines,” I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about before I realized that duh, I was a beginner in his class. He wasn’t expecting a seasoned monologue from me. He just wanted to get to know me as his student and how I thought.

Well, if he wanted to know me, the best thing was the truth, wasn’t it?

“The directions are easy enough that I think I can handle it as a complete newcomer to woodworking, but I also have an uncle who brews his own beer and makes his own wine, and he’d be delighted to get a custom tankard.” I licked my lips. “I figured the mug only needs to be made another inch taller to be… uh, that.”

He nodded along, his smile soft, but it still made his cheeks round merrily. “A tankard? I can see it. I’m excited to see what you do. Normally, a drill press would be used to bore out the bulk material, but we’re not getting to anything like that until our second week. For now, I want you to use your chisel, gouges, and mallets to do it by hand. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be all yours, all right?”

I nodded fervently. “All mine, got it.”

“One of a kind.” He looked under the table, then plopped a rough rectangle of wood in front of me. “Here you are, yellow birch. I think that’ll suit you.”

I didn’t know what possessed me, but suddenly my mouth was spouting off right on its own. “What’d you call me?”