“Have they really been so bad that you would agree to something like this?” She looks at me with one raised brow as she opens the lid of her soup container, so I add, “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Awful,” she says. “I’m talking real bottom of the barrel stuff here. My last date? He asked me if it was true that shifters had a halfway form.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Like”—she grimaces, remembering—“he wanted to know if I could keep the ears and tail if we were to . . . you know . . .”
It only takes me a second. “Gross.”
She laughs, taking a careful slurp from her spoon before humming in content. “Beef and barley. Yum.”
I’m still curious as to what her story might be, but I get the sense she doesn’t want to elaborate, since . . . Well, she doesn’t.
“So,” she says instead. “What do I need to know about you? Give me your top five most important Noah facts.”
“Top five?”
“I’m sure you have at least five.”
I frown at the table. “I’ve been an interventional cardiologist for the last three years.”
“No kidding?” She gasps softly, but even I can tell she’s being facetious. “Not doctor stuff, dummy. Give me some actual facts. Stuff a mate would know.”
I have to think about that. Are there actually any noteworthy facts that one might deem intimate? “Um . . . I completed my specialization residency here. Under the former department head, Dr. Ackard. He’s the one who recommended me to take his place. We’re still friends, actually.”
“This is still doctor stuff, Noah,” she laughs. “Although, you having an actual friend is definitely top secret information.”
I give her a helpless look. She must sense my struggle, because she tosses me a bone.
“What about your parents?” She licks a bit of broth from her spoon, and my eyes catch the movement of her tongue, distracting me for a second. “They live here?”
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.”