Prescription For A Mate

*Josie*

“I’m already seeing someone.”

The lie slides off my tongue with terrifying ease. It makes my stomach churn—treason against the woman who raised me since I was eight—but after my eighth (or tenth?) disastrous date in two months, it feels like self-preservation.

Gran Claire’s reaction is instantaneous. “Really? Who? Is he from work? Do I know him?”

“No,” I shoot back. “You don’t know him.”

Technically true. I don’t know him either. He’s pure fiction.

I love Gran, but her romance radar—shifter or human—is completely broken. In the past sixty days, I’ve endured coffee with a financial analyst who asked if I could tuck my tail in and dinner with a grizzly who tried to scent-mark my coat before the appetizers. Every setup has convinced me that my sanity is safer flying solo than enduring her crusade to marry me off and fill her retirement with grand-shifters. Sometimes I swear she sees my omega status as a ticking clock instead of part of who I am.

Being an omega is rare, but it doesn’t make me a fairy-tale creature. Anyone I’ve opened up to expects me to spontaneously go into heat across the dinner table. So I keep it locked down.

“How long have you two been an item? What’s his age? Is he a pack member?” Gran rattles on. “I know your hospital schedule is brutal, but I’m not getting any younger, and I’m dying to hear the pitter-patter of tiny paws—”

“Gran, please, we are nowhere near baby talk. It’s brand new. Still has the factory plastic wrap on it.”

“Oh, Josie, why are you keeping secrets? Trying to give your grandmother a heart attack?”

“The ER’s been a war zone. Four major brawls this month, plus the black-ice pileups. Pure chaos. I’m pretty sure I’m developing carpal tunnel from suturing split eyebrows.”

“You work yourself to the bone. Can’t they transfer you somewhere more civilized?”

Her favorite refrain. She already knows my answer. I love emergency medicine. Even on the bloodiest shifts, I walk out knowing I made a difference.

“Gran…”

“Right, right. But back to your mystery man. At least tell me his species.”

I scramble for the safest answer—something simple that won’t raise flags.

“He’s a wolf shifter. You’d adore him.” I dig the hole deeper. “I met him here at the hospital.”

I can practically hear her victory jig over the landline, already picturing picket fences and grandchildren. The guilt flares, then I remember the Lionel Trains guy, and my resolve hardens.

“I need to meet him, Josie. When are you bringing him for Sunday roast? Bring your new beau.”

“No. Absolutely not. It’s early days. We’re taking it slow. If I parade him around now, I’ll jinx it—or make things awkward on shift.”

“At least give me a name!”

Panic hits. My brain short-circuits. Dozens of eligible people on my floor, and my memory banks wipe clean. Cosmic karma for lying to my elder?

“His name is—”

The break room door swings open.

A tall, broad-shouldered frame ducks through. Midnight-black hair nearly grazes the lintel, attached to the one person who single-handedly populates my tiny “do not vibe with” category. His signature scowl sits beneath piercing glacial-blue eyes that regard me with the same profound grievance he has worn every day since I started—displeasure that another living creature is breathing his air.

Naturally, because the universe loves a cruel punchline, his is the first name my fried brain dredges up.

“Denver,” I whisper into the phone, keeping my voice low. “His name is Denver Taylor.”

Gran’s gushing fades into static as I watch the surliest cardiologist on the eastern seaboard turn his broad back and aggressively crowd the coffee maker. The wheels of a catastrophically bad idea begin grinding. It’s not smart; it might be the dumbest strategy in modern medicine. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and it’s not like he has to actually meet her. One staged photo. If he can manage not to look like he’s chewing a wasp for two seconds, it’ll buy me a month of peace.

Surely, Denver Taylor knows how to take a selfie.

Actually, I wouldn’t bet a dime on that.

“Gran, trauma just rolled in,” I lie, cutting her off. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Fine, but we are not done discussing Denver. Don’t think you’ve escaped.”

“Love you, bye.”

I click off and keep my eyes locked on Denver’s back. He’s pouring black coffee into a heavy mug, his massive shoulders rising and falling with an exhausted sigh. Shift change after a brutal night. Head of interventional cardiology, practically married to his pager. Anyone with a failing ticker gets routed to him; rumor has it he has a camp cot hidden in the cath lab basement. A fixture of the hospital. It took me ten minutes on day one to realize he’s an absolute pain in the ass—primarily because during our introduction he informed me I “barely looked old enough to handle a scalpel.” He doesn’t do pack bonding, small talk, or warmth.

He catches me staring as he turns and takes a slow sip. One dark eyebrow ticks upward. “Can I help you with something, Doctor?”

“Maybe. How was your night?”

He pauses, thrown by the unexpected contact. A flicker of suspicion, then a dry breath.

“Absolute hell. Two successive MIs, seven stents in six hours, and the board scheduled an audit.” He narrows his eyes, realizing he’s having an actual conversation. “Why do you care?”

“Professional courtesy. You look like you’re running on caffeine and spite.”

Denver looks entirely unimpressed. Probably the first time anyone’s asked how he’s doing without a patient flatlining. “Precisely. So you’ll forgive me if I skip the pleasantries and take this back to my office.”

“Wait!”

He halts, fresh annoyance evident. This is easily the longest conversation we’ve had in a year. The last time he spoke to me outside a trauma bay, he told me my shoelace was untied and kept walking.

“Yes?”

I stare at him, questioning every life choice that led me here. I am about to ask the Abominable Snow-Alpha of cardiology to save my social life.

“I was wondering if you’d be willing to take a picture with me.”

He stares as if I’ve grown a second head. “Pardon?”

“A photo. Together. Maybe with a slight upturn of the lips that resembles a smile. I can compensate—better coffee, imported pastries—though I’m guessing you survive on protein shakes and bitterness.” He blinks, confirming my theory. “Okay, no pastries. Whatever you want. I just need one picture.”

“Walk me through the logical sequence where posing for a photograph with me benefits you in any capacity.”

“That’s a multi-layered story—” He blinks three times and turns for the door. “Wait! Don’t walk away!” I scramble up. “I know this sounds insane, but I need a massive favor. I need you to play my fake boyfriend.”

He freezes, hand on the doorframe, and slowly turns his head, his expression dangerously unreadable.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not permanent. My grandmother ambushed me on the phone. I panicked; your name flew out because you were standing right there, and now I need evidence—just a quick photo. It’ll buy me breathing room before she starts planning a destination wedding.”

“Have you entirely lost your mind?”

I drop back into the chair, burying my face. I should have invented a fictional accountant named Greg. I could have faked a casual fling. But I didn’t, and unless I pull this off, Friday night means nodding while an insurance actuary explains cryptocurrency over lukewarm soup.

For a long moment, the only sound is the wall clock.

Then the door clicks shut. Heavy footsteps cross the linoleum. Denver drops into the chair across from me, lifts his mug, takes a deliberate swallow, and sets it down with a soft thud.

His piercing blue eyes lock onto mine—cool and calculating.

“Start talking.”