The Fake Mate
: Chapter 2

this is a terrible idea.

Even as I suggest it, I am expecting to regret it, but given that the proverbial answer to my problems has miraculously fallen into my lap, I am inclined to take the lifeline being offered. I’m aware of Dr. Carter—young, opinionated, a little too chatty for my tastes—not my first pick for a pretend mate, but with a disciplinary meeting with the board happening in barely an hour over some choice omissions on my part, I see few other options.

“You need . . . a mate?”

I can see the confusion etched in the set of her soft-looking mouth and her delicate brow, furrowed in thought above her bright amber eyes. I’m aware it’s not a simple request, what I’m asking her, but I am desperate and perhaps crazy enough to ask it, anyway. Especially given that there seems to be something in it for her as well.

“And fast,” I tell her, and am met with more puzzlement.

Dr. Carter places her hands on the edge of the break room table, her slim fingers tapping along the edge while I give her a second to try and compute what I’m saying. Time is not something I have the luxury of, but I’ve been told (repeatedly) throughout my life that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and if there was ever a time to test that theory, it would be now.

“Mate is . . . a pretty big upgrade from me asking you for a selfie.”

I nod. “Yes, but . . . think about it. A picture buys you, what? A week? Two, at most? My cooperation could buy you much longer than that. Months, even, if it suits you.”

“But I’m trying to snag a fake boyfriend to avoid mating,” she says with distaste. “Not exactly looking to saddle myself with the real-life personification of Oscar the Grouch to avoid more bad dates.” She has the good grace to look slightly apologetic. “Sorry. No offense.” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“None taken,” I tell her truthfully. “Trust me, I’m not interested in biting you.”

Her nose wrinkles as if she’s offended, which seems to contradict her earlier objection, or perhaps it is some general offense. I can’t be sure. “Well, me either,” she huffs. “From you or anyone else.”

“Then I think we stand to benefit each other well,” I tell her. “I don’t need to bite you to pull this off.” She still looks unsure, and I scrub a hand down my face, sighing. “There is . . . something about me that I have put a great deal of effort into keeping hidden. Something that would threaten my position here, and I find myself suddenly . . . exposed.”

“What, did you maul a hiker or something in a rut?”

I press my lips together in a frown. “Hardly. I am the picture of control.”

“Clearly,” she deadpans.

I think she might be poking fun at my expense, but I overlook it, given that her refusal could cost me my job. “There are . . . hindrances, for people like me. Ridiculous archaic notions that might have kept me from advancing to the position I hold now, and because of that . . . I might have failed to inform the board of my status when I was hired on.”

“What status? A shifter? There are plenty of shifters working here, me included.”

My nostrils flare, the idea of my carefully guarded secret crumbling to pieces making me all the more irritated. “Not like me.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m . . . an alpha.”

She narrows her eyes at me as if I might be teasing her, but then I see the suspicion fade as she seems to study me, no doubt looking for signs of the fabled Big Bad Wolf behavior that is so often associated with my designation. Alphas are rare, to be sure, and perhaps that is why there are so many outlandish notions associated with the status. In another time, it would mean that I was destined to lead a pack, to carry on a clan . . . but in our more modernized society, it simply means that I am a little stronger, a little faster, a little . . . more than the average shifter.

Which might be why there are so many stigmas tied to the label.

She’s still regarding me carefully, but she doesn’t look at all put off by the idea of what I am. There is even something in her expression almost . . . curious? It’s very different from how I expected her to react. In the past I have been met with wariness and sidelong glances when people discovered what I am, which is why I decided in college it would serve me to do my very best to keep anyone from finding out. And yet here I am, spilling my guts to a coworker I barely know in hopes that she might be the answer I’m looking for.

“You don’t . . . Hm.” Her nose wrinkles again—it seems to be a habit of hers—like she’s thinking. “Actually, you know what? I could see that. Now that you mention it. It explains your sparkling personality.”

I narrow my eyes. “Most of the rumors surrounding alphas are grossly overexaggerated.”

“I heard you made a CNA cry once.”

“Also grossly overexaggerated.”

“I don’t know, my friend Priya in Anesthesiology swears people saw the poor girl running out of the room with—”

“Listen, I’m actually pressed for time. The point is, I have managed to successfully do my job here for years now without going into any fits of uncontrollable rage or without biting orderlies or whatever other stories people tell one another to keep people like me from entering high-pressure professions—and a damned anonymous tip shouldn’t be the thing that takes it all away from me.”

Her eyes widen. “Someone turned you in?”

“It would appear so.”

I still have the slight urge to rip something in half when I think about it, but I assume that wouldn’t help my case in the slightest.

“So what does having a mate have to do with it?”

“It is a widely accepted theory that mated alpha shifters are considerably more . . . docile than those that are unmated. Ridiculously, it’s believed to be a free pass in our line of work. An unmated alpha might only be destined to be someone’s hired security or prized fighting champion—but a mated one isn’t looked at twice.”

“I wonder why.”

“Some silly notion about fated pairs and filling what the other lacks, or something like that.”

“So biting me is supposed to be your Xanax, basically.”

“For lack of better verbiage, yes.”

“Yuck,” she says, looking genuinely put off by the idea. “Sounds like the board has been talking to my gran.”

“I can’t tell if you’re leaning any particular way on this, Dr. Carter.”

She crosses her arms then, leaning back in her chair and giving me a sly smile that tells me she’s likely about to be intolerable. “So, the Big Bad Wolf of Cardiology needs my help.” She nods idly to herself, looking away from me as if considering it. “This is kind of cool, actually. Have you ever asked anyone for help before? Am I robbing you of your rigid virtues right now?”

I frown. “Hysterical.”

“I’m sorry,” she laughs. “It’s not funny, I know. You’re totally right that you shouldn’t even be worrying about this in the first place, given that you’re, like, amazing at your job—” I feel my eyebrows raise at the compliment, as well as her agreement about how ignorant this entire situation is, but she holds out a hand to keep me from commenting. “Don’t get excited, you’re still kind of a dick, mostly. No offense.”

My lips press into a line. I guess I should have anticipated that. “None taken, I guess.”

“But still. It’s a bullshit stigma.” Her expression softens. “I get why you’re so upset. Are they threatening to let you go over it?”

I’m not sure that she can actually grasp how upsetting this is, but I can appreciate her commiseration. I raise my shoulders high enough to be called a shrug, grinding my teeth. “I’m not sure. I was only told that I would need to meet with the board to discuss my status as an unmated alpha. The tone of the memo did not instill confidence. It’s not something I’m willing to leave to chance, given all the time I’ve put in here.”

“Hm.”

The seconds tick by on the nearby wall clock, and I know each one brings me closer to the meeting that could rob me of everything I’ve worked for, and now it seems by some strange twist of fate—everything boils down to this tiny blond physician who might actually be enjoying my suffering. I’m not sure what to even make of it.

“So,” she says finally. “Tell me what this would look like. How do we convince people that we’re mated”—she makes a face as she says the word, like it’s hard for her to get out—“when we never speak to each other, and you smell like cheap suppressants?”

I rear back in surprise. “Excuse me? Cheap?”

“My bad,” she says in apology. “I wasn’t trying to be a jerk, I just meant, since I can still smell you . . . ?”

This takes me by surprise. “You can?”

“Yeah? Am I not supposed to? I figured you needed a stronger dose. I assumed you were taking them so none of the nurses tried to ask you out or something.”

“I’m . . .” It’s been quite a while since something has stunned me, but the idea that Dr. Carter can scent me, even now, definitely does it. There shouldn’t be a nose on this Earth that should be able to smell anything on me but the medical tang of my suppressants. I pay good money every month to make sure of that. “I am on the highest dose deemed safe for my weight of the best suppressants money can buy,” I tell her dazedly. “There is absolutely no way you can still scent me.”

She shrugs. “Smells a bit like pine needles.” She must notice my mouth gaping open, because she adds, “It doesn’t smell bad or anything? Anyway, so how would we pull this off?”

I think some part of me hadn’t expected her to actually consider this; I mean, it’s ludicrous after all, so that could be why I am thrown for a moment as to how to answer her question. I simply hadn’t thought this far ahead when the preposterous idea popped into my head after hearing her plight.

“Right. Convince them. Yes.” I cross my arms, staring at the table as I think it over. “We could . . . tell them we’ve been keeping our relationship a secret.”

“And why would we be doing that?”

“You’re a new physician here,” I say, still thinking. “You’ve been here, what, six months?”

Her eyes narrow. “Over a year now.”

“Right. Sorry. Regardless, it would be a perfectly reasonable line of thought that you might not want to be romantically associated with someone with my position and level of seniority starting out; I assume you wouldn’t want to gain some perceived advantage based on the achievements of your mate. Surely you would want to carve your own way without being tied to a big name. This would be a more than adequate reason to keep our pairing quiet.”

She looks a bit thrown by my assessment of her character, but doesn’t comment.

“And the suppressants? I mean, in theory . . . how would we have been having sex all this time if you’re dosed up?”

I can’t help but frown at her again. “I assure you that the suppressants don’t hinder me in that way at all.”

“Wow, really? Didn’t strike you as the dating type.”

“I’m not.”

“You definitely don’t strike me as the ‘hit it and quit it’ kind of—”

“I don’t think this line of questioning is prudent.”

“Fine, fine.” She’s nodding at the air again, her nose doing that thing once more that definitely must be a habit. I can’t decide if it is annoying or endearing. “So, this whole thing still seems more to your benefit than mine. I mean, I want to get a break from the dating scene, not land a whole-ass fake mate.”

“My scent would keep every shifter within a ten-mile radius from even considering approaching you romantically.”

I watch her eyes widen, the soft pink of her mouth parting in quiet surprise at the certainty in my tone. “How can you be sure?”

“Because no one who scented me on you would dare touch you.”

She looks surprised again, that same part to her mouth, but there’s something else there now. Something that blends with her surprise and looks oddly like curiosity again. I think I can safely assume I am the first alpha she’s ever come across. Not a far-fetched idea, given that I only know one other than myself. I watch the slim line of her throat bob with a swallow, her lips pressing together as she averts her eyes.

“Interesting,” she counters quietly.

I can see the thoughts practically racing in her head, her expression calculating as she appears to consider every possible angle of what I’m offering, or rather, requesting.

“So, what, we just . . . spend our lives in mutually beneficial fake love?”

Now it’s my turn to wrinkle my nose. “Hardly. I just need to buy myself some time to figure things out.”

“Makes sense,” she answers offhandedly, still appearing deep in thought. “So, like, a couple of weeks? A month?”

“I’m not sure,” I tell her honestly. I still don’t know if it’s a good idea to be laying all my cards out for this woman I’ve hardly ever spoken to before today, but at this point, I’m in it now. “I have a job offer in Albuquerque that I am considering. They’ve been headhunting me for a while, and they’ve offered me a chief of staff position. Their opinions on my alpha status are not as dated as those of the board here, and given my perfect record here . . .”

“But if they found out you’ve been lying—”

“I wouldn’t call it a lie,” I argue.

“—that you’ve been purposely omitting your alpha status the entire time you’ve been working here . . .”

I nod solemnly, not ashamed of my omission, since it’s a ridiculous stigma to begin with, finding it a necessary evil. It’s not as if they specifically ask for this clarification during an interview, given that doing so could potentially draw in accusations of discrimination, and it’s this minor detail that has helped ease any guilt I might have had for not mentioning it. “It could potentially paint an unflattering picture of me. Also something I’d rather not leave to chance.”

“So we’re mates till this blows over, and then you disappear, and we fake break up?” She looks contemplative. “Can mated pairs even break up?”

“With difficulty,” I inform her. “It’s an option, to be sure. Or you can continue to use my name to get you out of dates, if you prefer. It doesn’t matter to me. You can spin whatever story you like when I’m gone.”

“How romantic,” she laughs.

“I assure you, this is a business transaction, Dr. Carter. Romance won’t be a part of it.”

She smiles wide then, all perfect white teeth and little dimples in her cheeks that my eyes linger on for a second too long, seeming to be finding this entire conversation mildly amusing. “Right,” she says. “That sounds perfect.”

I feel the knot in my stomach begin to unwind, but only slightly. “It does?”

“I mean, I get to be free of the dating scene and have a leg up on the Boogeyman of Denver General?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t worry, they don’t actually call you that.” At my frown, she adds, “Well, most of them don’t.”

“Does this mean . . .” I can actually feel nerves fluttering in my chest, the possibility of all my hard work slipping through my fingertips because of something as silly as my genetic makeup being utterly unacceptable. “Does this mean that you’ll do it?”

“Hm.” She taps her chin with her finger, looking more pleased with herself than I’d like. “I mean, it does sound kind of fun.”

“Dr. Carter, we don’t have time for—”

“It’s Mack,” she interrupts. “Everyone calls me Mack. I think we’re past ‘Dr. Carter,’ given that you’re asking me to allow everyone to think I let you sleep with me on a regular basis.”

I feel my throat go dry, her crassness doing something entirely different than what it should. Something hot flares in my chest at the brief flash of images that crop up from her crude joke that I absolutely don’t have time or need for, and I quickly shove them down as I keep my expression blank.

“Mack? Your name is Mack?”

“Eh . . . I mean, technically it’s Mackenzie, but no one calls me that except my gran.”

“I think I prefer Mackenzie.”

“Somehow this doesn’t surprise me,” she chuckles. “Fine. Whatever. I don’t care what you call me.”

“So . . . is that a yes?”

“You have to meet my gran at some point. If I do this, you’re going to really sell it on my end. I’m talking about family dinner, anecdotes—the whole nine yards. I don’t want my gran pulling out her little black book for a good while.”

I’m sure my displeasure toward the idea is written all over my face, but I see little other choice. “Fine. I can . . . do dinner.”

I wait as she stares back at me, every second settling heavily on my skin like a weighted blanket. Finally, she takes in one long breath before she blows it out, her expression telling me that she might be as surprised by her answer as I am.

“Yeah,” she says, sounding only half-sure. “I’ll do it.”

I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath until the air rushes past my lips in relief. I nod slowly, checking the time on the wall as I prepare to lay down my plan that can hardly be called anything other than “on the fly,” and praying that it will be enough to buy me the time I need to sort out this mess. Maybe even find the bastard who sold me out and make them regret it. I think to myself that I might have misjudged Dr. Cart—or rather, Mackenzie—finding her to be far more reasonable than I had previously thought. This could even be a fairly pain-free process.

“So,” she says with more amusement than I think is necessary. “What’s the plan, hubby?”

I have to stifle a groan.

On second thought . .

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