The Fake Mate(15)

I nod dumbly. “Yes. They live uptown.”

“Fancy,” she notes. “Are they as grumpy as you? Or are you some sort of anomaly?”

“They’re . . . normal. I guess. Quiet. They like golf and brunch. Not much to tell there. Yours?”

“Don’t have them,” she says casually. “My gran and grandpa raised me. Since I was about twelve.”

“Why?”

Her brow knits. “It’s not going to come up on a test or anything.”

“I’m curious.”

And I am, strangely.

She looks wary of telling me, but after a minute and another bite of her soup, she shrugs, relenting. “My mom died when I was little. Car accident. My dad was never okay after that. They were mates, you know? Like, one of those fairy-tale romances. The whole nine yards.” She looks away from me then, her eyes distant. “When she was gone . . . he just sort of fell apart.”

“Did something happen to him?”

She pauses, her spoon resting against her bowl as her lips tug down. “I think I reminded him of her. I think it got too hard to look at me. Probably why he took off.”

I’m not sure how to process this, feeling a sharp tug of sympathy in my chest but not knowing what to do with it or how to even begin to express it. “I’m . . . very sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She waves me off, returning her attention to her food. “It’s ancient history.”

“Still. It had to have been a hard thing to experience as a kid.”

Mackenzie shrugs. “I barely remember them now. Just goes to show you that mating is overrated. I’ll stick to being an aficionado of all things pretend mate.”

“You did say you were an old pro,” I remind her flatly.

“Exactly,” she says with a grin. She waves her spoon at me again. “Seriously. It’s not a big thing. My grandparents are great. Well, except for the whole blind date nonsense. But that’s all Gran. She thinks I need to ‘settle down’ to be happy or something.” She cleans her spoon again with her mouth, eyes studying my face, and again I can’t pretend to miss the motion of her tongue against the plastic. “She’s going to be over the moon about you.”

“Sounds like a lot of pressure,” I mutter.

“Nah. You’re a doctor. You’re a shifter. She’s already planning our wedding, and she’s never even met you.”

“Again, a lot of pressure.”

“Don’t worry,” she laughs. “When you run off to Albuquerque, I’ll make sure to talk proper shit about you.”

“Fair.”

She polishes off her soup, making a satisfied sound before she drops the plastic spoon into the bowl and pushes it away. “That was great. Thanks.”

“Soup seems like a pretty cheap payment for the favor you’re doing me.”

“It’s a down payment,” she says seriously. “Expect much bigger requests going forward.”

My mouth quirks. “Of course.”

“Oh my God, did you almost smile just now?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, good. I was afraid you might hurt yourself.”

“Is your coat the same color as your hair?”

Mackenzie looks as surprised by the question as I am to have suddenly asked it. I’m not even sure why I did, it’s just that I’ve been curious ever since she walked in here.

She blinks. “What?”

“Sorry. I just . . . that’s something I would know, right?”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess.” She nods airily. “It is. Same color. Was that your way of asking if this is my natural hair color?”

“I . . . No? I was just curious. It’s a nice color.”

It is, really. With the sun streaming in from the wide windows of the café, the wheat-like shade of her hair seems to catch the light in a way that makes it appear almost golden. Even as I think these things, I find myself wondering where the train of thought is coming from.

She pulls out her phone, distracting me from this line of thought, concentrating on the screen as she ignores me to tap something out there. “Sorry,” she says. “I wanted to make a note of your first compliment. Who knows when you’ll give me another?”

“You’re determined not to make this easy, aren’t you?”

She shrugs, smiling as she puts her phone away. “Where would the fun in that be?”

“Mhm.”

“So you didn’t finish telling me your five facts.”

“I’m still trying to think of them, to be honest.”

“What’s your favorite food?”

I have to think about it. “Steak?”

“How do you eat it?”

“Medium rare.”

Another nose wrinkle for my trouble. “Ew. Do you have to go so wolfy with it?”

“It tastes better.” I cross my arms against my chest. “What’s yours?”

“Soup,” she informs me without any hesitation.

“Any particular one?”

“Nope.” She shrugs. “If it’s in soup form, I’ll eat it.”

“That’s . . . interesting.”

She looks at me curiously. “Is your coat the same color as your hair?”