Claws & Crochet

Part 76

ZOEY

I pull into a parking spot beside the picnic area, making sure to give Warner's bike a wide birth. Driving a stick shift with a broken wrist and a sore ankle is not the easiest thing in the world. Just as I turn off the engine, Warner is at my door, frowning at me through the window.

"Should you be driving?"

I tug on the handle, and he steps back enough to let the rusted door swing open before moving in close again.

"Not sure. Didn't break any traffic laws on the way here, though. Wanna help me down?" I extend my good hand, but Warner leans in to scoop me up in a damsel-in-distress carry. Arguing seems useless, but I do grab onto the armrest before he can walk us away. "Wait! There's burritos!"

He chuckles, tilting me back into the cab of the truck so I can grab the paper bag.

"Good to go?" He asks.

"Yep!"

Warner uses his booted foot to kick the door closed then walks with me toward a picnic table. Normally, I don't like being babied, but my ankle hurts even after two days of icing and elevation. Plus, this way I get to wrap my arm around Warner's shoulders and fiddle with the strands of hair that curl over his ears. They hang lower today, pressed flat no doubt by the hardhat he's had on all morning. A light layer of dirt coats his skin, broken only by trails where sweat traced down his face and neck.

"You're dirty." I use my pointer finger to draw a twirl in the dust on his collar bone.

He swallows, his normally smiling mouth pulling into a grimace. That's when I remember how sensitive he was about his grime at the mechanic's shop.

I didn't mean to insult him. I was only making an observation.

Just as we reach the table, I stop him from putting me down by gripping his chin and capturing his mouth with mine. He groans, deep in his chest, his lips parting enough to allow me entry. My affectionate assault continues for a good minute or so before I end with quick kisses to the corners of his mouth and the tip of his nose.

"Do you know what I think about when I see you covered in dirt?"

He shakes his head, brow dipped warily.

I let all the heat in my thoughts shine from my eyes. "I imagine what you'll look like later. When you get home. And step in the shower." The image is clear in my mind. The water cascading over his broad shoulders, coursing down his bare skin. "How I wouldn't mind an invite when it comes time to get you clean."

"Fuck, Zoey." Warner moans, sitting down on the bench with me in his lap. He buries his head in my neck, partially muffling his next words. "You can't be saying things like that when I have to go back to work. I'm going to be sporting a partial for the rest of the day."

Laughter bursts from my chest, and I pat his head as if he needs consoling. "Poor werewolf. I'm sorry. I promise to pretend like I don't want to soap you up."

He makes some adorable grumbling noises before giving me a gentle bite and pulling back.

"Besides, I'll make for a poor shower companion with my arm wrapped in plastic." I hold up my cast but regret the joke the moment I take in Warner's face.

Like my brothers, he seems to think my fall is somehow his fault. Which is ridiculous. I'm the one who kept climbing up in the decades-old treehouse.

But I remind myself that if any of them were injured in a freak accident, I'd also be upset, knowing they were in pain. So, I forgive their hovering.

For now.

"Burrito time. And don't worry. Even though it broke my vegetarian heart, I got you one with beef."

He smiles with a playful curve to his lips, joy pouring from his eyes.

I guess Warner loves burritos.

Sliding off his lap, I place the bag on the table and start pulling out all the sides.

"You know . . ." Warner trails off, hesitating.

"How will I be sure if I know unless you finish your sentence?" My shoulder bumps his, and he chuckles, nuzzling his nose into my hair in the animalistic way he has.

"What I was saying, is, well . . . this isn't the first time you've given me food."

"So?" I unwrap my burrito and take a bite, chewing for a moment as I consider his comment. Then I balk in horror, swallowing dramatically. "You're not trying to give me those meat jars back, are you? Because that's a done deal."

Warner grins, and the sight eases a tight ball in my chest that formed when he hesitated.

"No. Those meat jars are mine. Don't worry." He bites into his burrito, chewing slowly and amping up my curiosity. Finally, he swallows. Not looking at me, he finishes his thought. "Exchanging food is part of the mating ceremony werewolves perform. So, gifting it indicates . . . that you want to mate."

"You mean have sex?" I'm confused. "Like, we wouldn't have done it if I hadn't given you the meat jars?"

"No!" Warner chokes on a laugh, but he calms down quickly, gazing down at me. There's a hopeful glint in his eyes, and for some reason the sight has me tensing up.

"A mate is a partner. Mating is like our version of marriage. But it's stronger. There's an element of magic to it. We're bound to our mate."

We stare at each other, him searching, me baffled.

Mating? Marriage?

"Wait"—I set down my food and clutch my head in my hands, trying to get my thoughts to stop their swirling—"the meat jars were like an engagement ring? Did I propose to you?"

"No, Zoey. No. It's not like that. Especially because you didn't know."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm not—" he cuts himself off, then firms his mouth. "I am. I am saying something." Warner's focus on me intensifies. "I want you to be my mate. I want to be your mate."