The Mating Game by Lana Ferguson - 3

“Well, the good news is…you’re not dying.”

I gape at the pretty, smiling ER physician—Dr. Carter, she said her name was—who is regarding me carefully, having looked up at me from her clipboard, which I assume has the results of all the blood tests we did earlier.

“Do you know what’s wrong with me?” I wring my hands together. “Is it some sort of weird twenty-four-hour bug?”

This seems unlikely to me, given the severity of the symptoms I’ve been experiencing the last several hours, but I suppose it’s still a possibility.

Dr. Carter glances down at her clipboard again, flipping a page and reading something there. “I wanted to ask a few follow-up questions if that’s okay?”

“Sure,” I answer tightly, wishing she would just give me some clue as to what’s wrong with me. “That’s fine.”

“Your parents…You listed them both as betas?”

I nod. “That’s right.”

“And your siblings?”

“Also betas. We all are.”

She presses her lips together briefly. “Do you have any family history of crossbreeding with shifters?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry.” She gives me another polite smile. “It’s relevant.”

I think hard, trying to mentally tick through my family tree for as far back as I can recall. “I think…” I frown, trying to remember. “I think my great-grandmother was a shifter, actually. I never met her though. She died before I was born.”

“Hmm.”

I watch as she scans through her notes again, every passing second making my anxiety climb higher. Twenty-four hours ago, I was perfectly healthy and packing for my trip to Denver, excited about a new job. Travel is nothing new to me; my contracting business, Rustic Renovations, takes me all over the country, but this is the first time I’ve had to get off a plane and take an Uber straight to the nearest emergency room.

It started with cramps—terrible, terrible cramps—followed by a fever, cold sweats, and lots of nausea, and by the time the plane landed, it was clear all the other people on my flight were worried I was carrying some sort of plague, given my awful appearance. Even now I can feel my chestnut bangs clinging to my forehead with sweat, and it’s only the IV in my arm feeding me occasional doses of high-powered nausea meds that’s keeping me from hurling all over the speckled white tile of the little room I’m in.

“Well,” Dr. Carter starts carefully. “Your blood tests yielded an abnormal spike in your hormone levels. Your progesterone, estrogen, and cortisol levels are all three times the amounts they should be. Your endocrine system is having a hard time processing the influx. That’s what’s causing all the unfortunate symptoms you’re experiencing.”

“I don’t understand. Why would my hormones be out of whack all of a sudden? Is it like menopause? I’m only twenty-eight!”

“Nothing like that. It’s…Well.” She sighs, pulling the clipboard to her stomach and holding it against her white coat as she offers me a sympathetic look. “This might come as a shock, Ms. Covington, but…”

I lean in, my ass scooting to the edge of the hospital bed, which has me instinctively reach behind to make sure my panties aren’t flashing anyone from the gap in the back of my paper gown. “What? What is it?”

“What you’re experiencing isn’t entirely out of the ordinary. In fact, it’s something most shifters experience at the end of puberty.”

I blink. “But…I’m a beta. Betas can’t shift.”

“Yes, well. It’s not entirely unheard-of for a recessive gene to present itself later in life.”

“That’s…” I run my fingers through my hair, no doubt making my bangs stick straight up, but I can’t focus on that right now. “That’s impossible.”

“Not impossible, I’m afraid,” Dr. Carter says gently. “Just unlikely.”

I try to process what she’s saying, but it sounds faraway, like she’s speaking to someone else. There’s no way I could suddenly be—

I force a swallow. “So, what? Am I going to suddenly sprout ears and a tail?”

“No, no,” Dr. Carter assures me with a laugh as she reaches to tuck one honeyed tendril of her hair behind her ear. “Nothing so sudden as that. You will, however, feel the urge to shift in the near future. I have all sorts of pamphlets I can give you that are chock-full of information about what your body is going through. Although, I’ve never seen a case with such a late presentation as yours…so I can’t guarantee your experiences will be exactly the same.”

“I just…don’t see how this could happen.”

“It’s basically a little hiccup in your genes,” she says with a shrug. “It will be an adjustment, but I can promise you your life won’t be turned upside down entirely.”

Easy for her to say.

“Any other surprises I have to look forward to?” I know I sound petulant, but I think it’s allowed after the day I’ve had. “Am I going to start craving more red meat and sniffing strangers?”

Her smile is a little tighter, and I realize I’m being slightly offensive.

“Sorry,” I amend quietly. “This is just a lot.”

“I get it,” she says. “It’s funny, my mate eats his steaks practically rare. I’m always teasing him about it. I can tell you I’ve never had any special feelings about red meat, and as for sniffing strangers…you will start to experience a sharpened sense of smell. Every shifter has a particular scent, and unless they elect to use suppressants—which is usually only the case in certain professions or environments—you are going to pick up on those. It might cause headaches at first, but with time you will become more acclimated to the sensation.”

“Great,” I mumble dejectedly. “Just great.”

“If I’m being candid,” Dr. Carter goes on, “I have other suspicions about your lab results.”

I stifle a groan. What else could possibly be going on with my body? “What?”

“It’s only…” She holds out her chart, indicating a sloping graph that makes no sense to me. “Your particular levels of these hormones are indicative of a secondary designation.”

“A secondary designation?”

“It’s rare—incredibly rare, even—but then again, so is your situation as a whole. So it wouldn’t be all that surprising at this point.”

“I’m not following.”

“I think you might be an omega, Ms. Covington.”

I’m blinking dumbly again. “What?”

“Like I said, it’s very rare, and in this day and age…it really isn’t all that different from being a shifter.”

“I know what an omega is,” I say absently. “I have a friend who—” I swallow thickly. “How can you be so sure?”

“Well,” she laughs. “I am one, for starters.”

Fuck. Foot in mouth. Again. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I am not usually this much of an asshole.”

“It’s fine. Really. I can’t imagine what it must be like to face this so suddenly.”

“If you’re an omega as well, can you tell me what I can expect? If that’s the case?”

I could always ask my friend Ada, but I haven’t even figured out how I’m going to tell her, or anyone else for that matter.

“Like I said, it really isn’t all that different in most cases. If you start googling, you’re likely to go down some undesirable Reddit rabbit holes that are mostly nonsense, but you can just ignore those. All it means is that your heats might be a little more frequent. Possibly more intense as well.”

“My heats ?”

Oh God. That absolutely hadn’t crossed my mind yet.

“Yes,” Dr. Carter explains calmly. “Usually, a shifter going through puberty will experience less intense heats—we call them ‘juvenile heats,’ to be exact—meaning they won’t last the full ovulation cycle and won’t have the same level of, ah, need.”

“Need?”

“Need to, um…copulate.”

“Oh fuck,” I groan.

Dr. Carter gives me a small smile. “Precisely.”

I might laugh if my entire world weren’t tilting on its axis.

“So…what do I do in the meantime?”

She considers this for a moment. “I’m going to prescribe you some hormone regulators, but the dose will be very mild. Just enough to alleviate some of your symptoms. We don’t want to interrupt your body’s cycle of change, after all. I can also get you something for the nausea and cramps. Other than that…I would strongly suggest that you spend the next few weeks or so at home if at all possible. I can’t predict exactly what other symptoms you might experience while your body adjusts to the new hormone levels, and being around other shifters might make things more uncomfortable. Shifting isn’t permitted inside city limits, but I can get you a doctor’s note explaining your condition in case there are any unplanned incidents. Otherwise, there are several nice heat clinics on the edge of the city, where you would be able to shift comfortably. Normally, you would need to schedule weeks in advance, but again, I can get you a doctor’s note explaining your special circumstances.”

My mind whirls. Unplanned shifting? Heat clinics?

“I can’t hole up for weeks,” I argue. “I’m here for a job.”

“Any chance you could work remotely?”

“I’m a contractor. I do renovation for cabins and lodges and such.”

“Ah. That’s a pickle.”

“It is,” I remark dryly.

“Well, I obviously can’t force you either way,” Dr. Carter says. “I can only suggest. But I would keep a close eye on your body. You don’t want to overexert yourself.”

“But the meds should help, right?”

“A little,” she says. “As I said, we don’t want to medicate you so much that your body can’t process the change it’s going through. This is a natural thing. For the most part, we just have to let it run its course.”

Perfect , I think. Just perfect.

“Okay,” I say with a nod. “Okay. This is fine. I guess…if you could get me those prescriptions you mentioned, I can deal with the rest.”

“If you have any more trouble, don’t hesitate to come back in, okay?”

“Sure,” I answer, knowing that’s unlikely. The jobsite is almost two hours away. I won’t have time to pack up and head out every time I get a cramp. “Of course.”

“Right. I’ll get you those prescriptions before I release you.” She starts to turn toward the door but pauses, giving me one last concerned look. “Oh. One more thing. It’s very unlikely, but I should mention that you should steer clear of alphas.”

“Alphas?”

“Another secondary designation,” she tells me. “Their pheromones, like yours and mine, are stronger than your average shifter’s. Being around one might wreak havoc on your system—could even possibly trigger a juvenile heat if you’re compatible enough.” She shrugs. “It’s probably a nonissue. They are also incredibly rare.” A small, strange smile touches her lips. “But then again…you never know.”

I watch her go, still stuck on pheromones . Nothing about any of this feels like real life.

I check my phone when she leaves and see that my brothers have responded to the group text, asking if I landed okay. It takes all I have not to laugh at that. I am definitely not ready to have this discussion with my family. I don’t even know what I’m going to say to my brothers when they drive in to join me on the job at the end of the week.

The job.

I groan. I’m still expected to show up at the small ski lodge this evening—a little place just up the mountain, near the town of Pleasant Hill. The woman I’ve been speaking to, Jeannie, seems nice enough, and I can only hope she won’t notice if I have to escape to the bathroom to deal with an influx of cramps or sweating or God knows what else during the next few weeks while I oversee the renovation.

I laugh dryly.

At least things can’t get any worse.

“Made it to Nowheresville yet?”

In hindsight, I probably should have let Ada’s call go to voicemail. It’s only been a couple of hours since the nice doctor at the ER informed me my entire life was changing, but since my best friend is like a shark smelling blood in the water when it comes to sussing out my moods, I doubt I can keep any of this from her for long.

“Almost,” I tell her, slowing for a stop sign. “It’s really off the beaten path.”

“Never a good sign. That’s how you get axe-murdered.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not going to get axe-murdered.”

“That’s what every person who gets axe-murdered thinks. No one wakes up thinking, ‘Oh, today I’m going to get axe-murdered,’ but then, before you know it, you’re human firewood.”

“I am officially putting you in time-out from those true crime podcasts.”

“You’ll change your tune when I keep you from becoming human firewood.”

“How about we stop using the term ‘human firewood’ when I’m this close to a secluded ski lodge that I’ll be staying at by myself until my brothers fly in?”

Ada snorts on the other end of the line. “Thomas and Chase are in more danger than you are. They’re pretty, but they don’t have the same hardware upstairs as you. Kyle might stand a chance.”

“Hey, now,” I laugh. “That’s not very nice.”

“I’m kidding,” she says. “You know I love those big lugs. But still, there’s a reason you’re the brains of the operation and they’re the muscle.”

“And cameraman,” I correct, thinking of Kyle.

“And cameraman,” she agrees.

“How cold is it there?”

“Somewhere between frozen toes and cracked lips.”

I can practically hear her shudder. “No thanks.”

“Definitely a far cry from Newport.”

“I’ll think of you while I’m on the beach later,” she says with sympathy.

“That makes everything better.”

“Obviously. How are you feeling? Did you end up going to get checked out?”

I bite my lip, considering. Ada would understand. I’ve never asked for the ins and outs of what she is, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t picked up bits and pieces over the years. I’m…not ready to tell anyone yet. Not when I haven’t figured out my own feelings about it. I’m already half panicking enough as it is without her hysterics added to the mix.

“I feel better,” I tell her. It’s not a complete lie. I do feel better after taking the meds Dr. Carter gave me. “Not dying, at least.”

“Just make sure you get checked out if you start feeling shitty again. It sounded like you were really suffering when I talked to you last.”

“Maybe I ate something bad,” I offer, knowing that’s not the case. It could be a possibility though, in an easier turn of events.

“Have you heard anything back from HGTV?”

“Not yet,” I sigh. “They said it could be a couple of weeks.”

“Yeah, well, they’d be stupid not to green-light the show. You haven’t had a TikTok fall under a million views in months.”

“My brothers are optimistic, but…”

“You’re the worrywart.”

“That’s me,” I laugh. “It just comes down to the fine print. I don’t want to jump into anything that’s going to make our job not fun anymore, you know? I don’t want to totally be beholden to their whims.”

“I get that,” she says. “What does your dad think?”

My hands tighten on the steering wheel, my jaw clenching. With everything happening today, my problems back home are the last thing I want to discuss.

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “I haven’t told him about it yet.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“No, and I told my brothers not to tell him either.”

“But why?”

“Because…” I frown, thinking of the awful year he’s had. That we’ve all had. “I don’t want to get my parents’ hopes up if it doesn’t come through. I’ll tell them when I have good news.”

“Babe, that’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”

“I know,” I sigh. “But what choice do I have?”

I can practically see the sympathy in her eyes even from so far away, my chest constricting when I think about everything riding on this deal. Of the good it could do when it comes to dad’s medical issues.

“This is all contingent on whether or not HGTV passes,” I grumble.

“Shut up,” she tuts. “If they do, then they’re walnuts.”

“Walnuts?”

“Felt appropriate,” she replies. “If they do pass on it, they suck, and I will boycott their channel.”

“You and I both know the day you give up Property Brothers is the day you’re six feet under.”

“They’re hot twins with hammers. I won’t be judged for this. Just a sec.” I hear her shuffling on the other end for a moment before her voice returns. “Can I call you back? That’s Perry’s school on the other line.”

“Absolutely. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Sure. Call you later.”

She disconnects the call, and I’m suddenly even more glad I decided not to tell her yet about everything happening with me. It’s not that I don’t trust Ada enough to tell her what’s going on, it’s just that I know how much she worries—it’s the mom in her—and if I tell her about everything that’s happening, there’s a good chance she’ll be packing up herself and her son, Perry, and hopping on the first flight out. She has enough going on with the whole single mother thing; she definitely doesn’t need any of my drama stressing her out even more. I’ll give myself a few days to wrap my head around it first.

It isn’t long after I hang up with Ada that I see the end of the driveway. A faded wooden sign that reads The Bear Essentials Wilderness Lodge leans at a not-so-straight angle to signal that I’m at the right place. I can just make out the lodge nestled in the pristine white of the surrounding snow as I drive up, the log siding stark amid the wintery scenery. A deck wraps around the front to lead down to a set of stairs, and on either side of the heavy wooden door is a series of wide windows that go all the way up to the roof. The sky behind it is now painted in a rich array of pinks and purples as the sun begins to sink below the horizon, giving the entire thing more of that postcard feel—save for the wear and tear.

It’s still…pretty, mostly. But it’s definitely seen some hard years. There are broken rails on the stairs that I notice as I get closer, a few missing shingles on the roof—even the sign above the door is faded and chipped, as if long overdue for a touch-up. I’m already making a mental note of all the people in Denver I’m going to have to call to contract some work out to.

It’s less picturesque than the one (literally one ) photo I saw on the very basic website, and I’m gathering now that it was most likely dated. I doubt they’ve updated the lodge since it was built.

“Kind of a funny name for a lodge,” I mutter to myself as I shift my rental car into park.

I sit in the car for a minute so I can shoot a text to my brothers, following that up with one to my dad to let him know I arrived at the jobsite. I stare down at my phone as I watch the little dots pop up with his impending response, a small smile touching my mouth when he replies, You be careful out there, kiddo.

It feels weird keeping all that’s happened today from him, considering I tell him everything, but with what he’s going through…I don’t want to add to his stress. In fact, it’s imperative that I don’t, what with the state of his heart.

I step out of the car, letting the door shut behind me, to get a better look at the place. There’s an old Bronco parked just outside, the forest-green paint still shiny despite the vehicle being at least thirty years old by my best guess, and it somehow looks like it’s in better shape than the lodge itself. I eye the broken railing that seems to have cracks and rotting wood as far as the eye can see; I really have my work cut out with this one.

I’m staring at the railing so intensely that I almost miss it when the front door opens and someone steps outside, but I catch a large, dark shape out of the corner of my eye, stark against the light flakes of the gently falling snow—and it’s hard to focus on much else when the person finally comes into view. He’s heading right for me, and I can feel my mouth part as I take in the hulking size of the man walking down the rickety stairs.

Tall is an understatement; this man looks more than a foot taller than I am, and I’m five foot four. But more than that, he is wide . Shoulders that seem to go on for miles in the thick red plaid of his coat, a broad chest that stretches the black-knit thermal beneath—it’s like he stepped right out of Lumberjack Weekly , with his trimmed beard and gray beanie with dark curls poking out of it that are just a shade or two darker than his eyes. I most likely spend a second too long studying the soft-looking mouth that peeks out from his scruff, but honestly, given that this stranger might be one of the most attractive people I have ever seen—and I have seen a lot of people—I think it’s probably excusable. He comes to a stop right in front of me, and my gaze goes up and up and up , to the point that I’m forced to crane my neck as I gape at this giant of a man.

“You Esther?”

I blink, the abruptness of his question catching me off guard. “Tess.”

“Jeannie said an Esther was coming.”

“Yeah,” I answer. “I go by Tess.”

He shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“Sorry.” I stick out one gloved hand. “I’m the contractor Jeannie hired for the renovations. Do you work here?”

His eyes flick to my outstretched hand, but he doesn’t take it. “Looks that way.”

Jeez. Talk about frosty.

He’s still frowning at my hand, so I draw it back slowly, my eyes lingering on the way his mouth turns down at the corners. The expression only makes him look more rugged, and I think to myself that he really does give off a lumberjack vibe, albeit a very terse one. I’m pretty sure there’s a Harlequin romance on my shelf at home that he was the cover model for at some point in his life. All that’s missing is an axe, really.

I can’t help but laugh at that, recalling Ada’s and my conversation about being murdered out here. The guy arches a brow at the giggle that escapes me.

“Something funny?”

I wave my hand in front of my face. “Not unless you think murder is funny.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not, like, actual murder,” I correct, sort of. “I mean, well, okay, I guess kind of actual murder. My friend made this joke when I was on my way that I was going to get murdered out here, and I was thinking you totally give me lumberjack vibes, and that got me thinking about axes, which got me thinking about the murder again, and—”

I notice he’s staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

“This is probably one of those things that should have stayed in my head.”

He continues to frown at me for exactly four more seconds, then: “I’m not gonna argue with you there.”

“Right. Um.” I clear my throat. “Is Jeannie around? I would love to introduce myself in person after all the emails we’ve exchanged.”

“Jeannie’s down the mountain. Had something come up at her place.”

“Oh. When will she be back?”

“Tomorrow, I figure.”

“Oh.”

I don’t really know what else to say to that. This is all going very different from how I pictured, but I guess that’s par for the course, considering how this entire trip has been.

The bear of a man nods toward my car. “You got luggage?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Sorry. I can—”

He sort of grunts in response but says nothing. It surprises me when he steps toward the car to open the back door and grab my bag—so much so that I reach out to try to stop him, which earns me a puzzled look.

“You don’t have to,” I tell him, a little distracted by how dark his eyes look up close. “I can get my things.”

There’s a scent tickling my nose—one that reminds me of rain and sunshine—and I think to myself that it seems terribly out of place here in the snow. Maybe it’s his cologne? It’s really…nice, actually.

He looks from me to the bag and back again—finally shrugging before he releases it to turn and stomp up the steps onto the main deck. He taps his boots against the last stair, and I’m left to my own devices. I remember myself after only a few seconds, grabbing my bag and hurrying after him. He leaves the front door open when he slips inside, disappearing into the warm glow of the lights beyond.

“Sorry,” I offer again as I step in after him. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Didn’t give it,” he tosses over his shoulder as he shrugs out of his flannel coat.

“Totally something a murderer would say,” I tease with a cluck of my tongue.

He turns to look at me strangely even as I try for what I hope is a friendly smile. “Hunter,” he concedes. “Hunter Barrett.”

Hunter.

I almost laugh at the utter appropriateness of his name. He definitely looks like a Hunter.

I close the door behind me and let my eyes sweep the room. There’s a giant elk head mounted behind the front desk—its horns decked in dusty old Santa hats despite it being October. An old brass chandelier that has seen better days hangs above us in the wide entryway; thick cobwebs dangling between the fixtures make me grimace as I stare up into them. The walls are a rich stained wood that feels warm even covered in dust, and I think to myself that with a little TLC, they could shine up nicely.

All that’s missing is a bearskin rug.

Honestly, I’m not convinced I won’t find one with further exploration.

I notice Hunter rounding the front counter, which is built of treated cedar, reaching up to pull off the beanie he’s wearing. The hair beneath is a thick heap of dark curls that frame his face and make him seem wilder somehow—not to mention the way I’m filled with a sudden curiosity as to what it might feel like if I pushed my fingers through them. He climbs up to take a seat on a wooden stool, settling there as he braces his hands on the counter in front of an open ledger.

“So, you do work here, right?”

“Sort of goes with owning the place, yeah,” he tells me with a slight smirk.

I blink dumbly. “You’re the owner?”

“Last time I checked.”

My mouth parts in surprise, and it takes me all of three seconds to realize that I made murder jokes to my new would-be employer of sorts, most likely giving him the impression that I’m completely unhinged.

Perfect.