HOWL ABOUT LOVE ?

Cleo Marsden was late. Again.

She zipped through the sleepy streets of Willowbend on her battered baby-blue Vespa, a mango smoothie clutched between her knees and her hair whipping like a tangled flag behind her. The moon, obnoxiously full and smug in the sky, cast a silver glow over the town, bathing everything in a spooky light that would have made for a great Instagram story-if she wasn't about to lose her job. Again.

"Come on, Cleo," she muttered to herself, swerving around a pothole and narrowly missing a raccoon that looked far too judgmental for a woodland creature. "Five minutes late is basically early by artistic standards."

The smoothie betrayed her. It slipped from between her thighs, splattering cold fruit goop all over her jeans. She let out a strangled scream of despair and tried to mop it up one-handed, which is why she didn't see the man until she hit him.

More accurately, she collided with him. There was a thump, a yelp (from both of them), and then she was airborne, which was very uncool, followed by not being airborne, which was significantly worse.

She landed in a bush.

Her Vespa landed in the ditch.

And the guy?

Well, the guy got up.

Slowly. With a growl.

Cleo blinked, dazed, smoothie dripping from her hair. The man-if you could call him that-was huge. Not just tall, but broad like he'd been carved out of stone. His shirt was torn open, revealing a chest that should have come with a fan and theme music. He had shaggy dark hair, golden eyes that glinted even in the moonlight, and an expression that suggested he was used to being the scariest thing in a room.

"Are you... okay?" she croaked.

The man turned to her, sniffed the air like a bloodhound, and said, "You hit a werewolf with a scooter."

"Oh no," she breathed. "Not again."

He frowned. "Again?"

"I mean-no. First time. Obviously."

He took a step toward her. She took a step back, tripped over the bush again, and yelped.

"You smell like mango," he growled. "And destiny."

Cleo stared at him. "...Are you having a stroke?"

He reached down and plucked a piece of mango pulp from her hair. "Name?"

"Cleo Marsden. You?"

He hesitated. "Luca."

"Last name?"

"Classified."

"Oh my God, are you in a boy band?"

He actually looked offended. "I'm the heir to the Blackthorn Pack."

"Sounds like a boy band to me."

His golden eyes narrowed. "You smell like fate."

"And you smell like wet dog and attitude. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to call a tow truck for my scooter and probably a therapist."

Cleo turned to walk away, but he grabbed her wrist-gently, but firmly. "You hit me on a full moon."

"Yeah, I noticed the giant flashlight in the sky. What, you need me to pay your medical bills? I'm broke."

"You bonded with me."

Pause.

"Say what now?"

"You hit me with your vehicle on a full moon. That's a magical event. It sealed a bond. You're my fated mate."

Cleo blinked. "Okay. You know what? I've had a very long day, my boss is a raccoon in human skin, and I just lost my only mango smoothie to vehicular manslaughter. I'm not in the mood for jokes."

"I'm not joking."

She stared into those ridiculously intense eyes. He looked dead serious. And also slightly confused, like he couldn't believe it either.

Then he sniffed again. "And now I can smell your fear."

Cleo narrowed her eyes. "Well I can smell your ego."

Another pause.

He smiled. It was annoyingly charming.

"Fine," she said. "I'll believe you're a werewolf if you howl."

"What?"

"You heard me. Howl for me, wolf-boy."

He growled, then-loudly, dramatically-tilted his head and howled at the moon.

Somewhere, a dog barked in response.

Cleo burst out laughing. She couldn't help it. She laughed so hard she fell back into the bush again.

"Oh my God," she gasped. "This is officially the weirdest night of my life."

Luca walked over, leaned down, and extended a hand. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, Cleo Marsden."

She took his hand.

And the moment their fingers touched, the air around them shimmered, golden and electric.

Uh-oh.

Cleo looked up at the man she'd just hit with a Vespa and realized something deeply unfortunate.

She might actually like him.