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barbecue joint with a spinning pig butt on the roof that said Jum own in , and she was dressed in a short, black floral sundress and wedge heels that tied prettily up her calf. And she was freezing her ever-lovin’ teats off. October in the mountains above Saratoga was no joke. A stiff, frosty wind lifted the hem of her dress, and as much as she wished she emulated Marilyn Monroe over an air vent, she likely looked more like a clumsy circus bear in a tutu. She wrestled the fabric back over her treasure chest. Her purse flung forward and swung like an irritating pendulum as she bunched her dress around her thighs and gave a mental curse at the pervy wind.
    She stumbled on her wedges this way and that over the uneven parking lot until she was in the shadow of Moosey’s, debating which of the three garage doors to enter. She’d never seen a restaurant look like a mechanic shop, but okay. At least it smelled divine.
    She picked the middle, gave a nodded greeting to a man just outside who was working away by a giant smoke-cooker, and then she glided in as gracefully as she could while preventing her damned dress from playing peekaboo-hooha.
    It was lunchtime, and the joint was surprisingly busy with almost every one of the long picnic tables filled with hungry patrons digging into brisket sandwiches and links of fragrant sausage. Against the back wall was her prey, though, in the form of one sexy as hell, confusing as all get out, Clinton Fuller.
    He sat at a booth alone, next to a long table filled with laughing, chatting Boarlanders. Alyssa hesitated and frowned at how lonely he looked. Clinton was leaned against the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest, one leg stretched out so his dusty work boot hung off the edge of the bench seat. He was taking a long swig of a beer, his Adam’s apple dipping into his muscular neck with every swallow. She almost forgot from the other day how massive and muscular he was. The tattoos down his arm made him look tough and intimidating. Scary even. His short beard hid his jaw, but his hair had been gelled and spiked up in a messy, sexy style that had her swallowing hard and rethinking her plan to come here. He was about a dozen leagues above her, and mean as sin on top of it.
    But her dream…
    Shouldering her purse, she wound her way through the womper-jawed tables and approached him slowly. She’d read she was supposed to do that around predator shifters.
    Clinton’s eyes narrowed to angry silver slits as he leveled her with a dangerous look. “What the fuck are you still doing here?”
    “Clinton!” the woman he was with the other day called from the other table. She was sitting on a dark-haired behemoth’s lap next to a little boy. “Manners.”
    Clinton growled—an actual and terrifying growl! With a put-upon sigh, he gave Alyssa an empty smile that showed way too many sharp teeth and said, “What the hell are you still doing here?”
    “Better,” the woman murmured.
    Confused, Alyssa gestured to the woman. “I thought you were together. Or…” She scrunched up her nose. “Okay, I’ve never talked to shifters before you, and admittedly I don’t know much about your culture. I’ll probably say a dozen things wrong before I figure this all out, but do you and that man…share her?”
    Clinton’s face went slack. “Ew. No. I don’t share nothin’ or no one. Especially not Beck, and especially not with that pig.”
    “Boar,” the dark-haired man ground out.
    “Okay.” Phew, because there was no competing with someone as pretty as her. “Um, I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day.” She held out her hand for a shake. “I’m Alyssa.”
    “Hi, Alyssa,” the Boarlanders said in unison from behind her.
    The giggle died from her throat when she looked back at Clinton, who was glaring at her hand like she was offering him a piece of dried turd-jerky. He stood gracefully to his full height and crossed his arms over his chest as he narrowed his eyes.