What's In It For Me?

*Josie*

“Let me get this straight.” Denver takes a slow, unhurried sip from his mug, his face an absolute stone as he boils down the past ten minutes of my frantic ramble about bad setup dates, overly eager suitors, and my catastrophic fake-boyfriend lie.

“You want me to play-act as your partner... solely so you can avoid getting an actual one?”

“You literally wouldn't have to do anything,” I stress, leaning over the table.

“Then I fail to see why you need my involvement at all.”

I’ve never sat this close to Denver before. Certainly, I have never spent this much uninterrupted time in his orbit. What’s bizarre is the sharp, clinical sting of scent suppressants clinging to him—a choice I find strange, considering most male shifters carry far too much ego to mask their natural pheromones.

Usually, they prefer letting their scent flood a room in hopes of intriguing an available female. Maybe it’s just a strict professional boundary for him? Or perhaps his natural scent is simply unappealing?

Though, strangely enough, as I sit here, I can catch a faint trace of it cutting straight through the heavy chemical barrier of his suppressant dose. It’s actually surprisingly grounding—rich, woodsy, like crushed pine needles and sub-zero mountain air.

It instantly brings back memories of running through snow-covered woods on four paws.

Not that I should be wasting mental energy cataloging how the resident hospital jerk smells.

“Look, all I need is one photo,” I push on, bringing my hands together. “Just proof of life. That single picture will buy me at least a month of peace with my current shift schedule. Surely you know how to pull off a convincing smile? Just picture something that brings you joy—like scolding medical residents or filing formal grievances with HR.”

A low hum of amusement escapes him. “I do neither of those things, for the record.”

I roll my eyes. “Educated guess. Come on, Denver. It costs you literally nothing, and it pulls me out of a massive hole.”

“Pulls you out of a hole.” He squints at the dark liquid left in his cup, swirling it gently before draining the final drop. “And tell me again what incentive I have to play along?”

I bite back an annoyed huff. It’s an absolute tragedy of nature that this man happens to be outrageously good-looking.

His jawline looks as if it were carved from granite, and those piercing blue eyes create a ridiculous contrast against his pale skin, tracking every shift in my expression like he’s reading a chart.

And that sharp, aquiline nose… well, I won't pretend it hasn't sparked a few rogue thoughts about what else it might be good for. If only his attitude weren't so perpetually toxic.

“Basic professional courtesy?” He doesn't flinch, so I throw my head back with a groan. “Seriously, is it against your personal religion to do one nice thing? Assuming, of course, you even possess the baseline human capacity to recognize a favor when it’s staring you in the face.”

Denver just sits there, silently assessing me. His gaze sweeps over my messy sandy-blonde hair, tracks down to my amber eyes, and finally lingers on my mouth, which is currently pulled into a frustrated pout.

I can’t read him at all. Is he calculating the easiest way to shut me down, or is he actually debating the logistics?

“I’ve never had much use for professional courtesy,” he says after a long, agonizing silence. My stomach instantly drops into my shoes—I knew this was a mistake.

“However . . .”

My chin snaps up. “However?”

“I believe we could structure an arrangement that offers mutual value.”

I stare at him. Mutual value? I can’t think of a single item, favor, or service Denver Taylor could possibly require from me—or anyone else in this building—given that I’ve never seen him interact with another human being without issuing a blunt command or a cold dismissal.

“And what, exactly, could I offer you?”

I brace myself for something brutal. Maybe he’s going to make me absorb all his weekend trauma consults, which would destroy my sanity given how high his patient load is.

Or maybe he’s the sadistic type who wants me to handle his discharge summaries for a month straight just to watch me drown in paperwork.

I can’t even begin to imagine what his office looks like—probably sterile enough to perform open-heart surgery on the desk, complete with plastic dust covers over the furniture.

I’d gladly input his admission orders for two weeks if it buys me immunity from Gran’s relentless blind dates because clearly, I lack the backbone to just say no to her face.

Then a horrifying thought strikes me: What if he asks for something explicit? Like sex?

I’ve always assumed he was some icy, work-obsessed monk who channels all his urges into anger, but what if he’s just as opportunistic as every other male shifter I’ve run into?

The absolute second he crosses that line, the deal is dead, and I am kicking him squarely in his ridiculously broad shins.

He has no idea I’m an omega—there is zero chance he could know—so it’s not like he’s targeting my status for anything strange. Still, my posture goes rigid as he shifts his weight forward.

Denver rests his forearms on the table, interlacing his long fingers. That laser-focused, icy gaze locks onto mine with an intensity that makes the tiny break room feel half its size.

He doesn't look like a man about to make a crude proposition. He looks dead serious, entirely analytical, and completely composed. Which makes his next words hit like a physical blow.

Without a single shift in his expression, without so much as a flicker of hesitation, he states:

“I need a mate.”

I just sit there, my jaw slackening. “You... what?”

Denver gives a sharp, single nod, as if he’s just asked me to hand him a reflex hammer rather than demanding the shifter equivalent of a life-binding marriage contract—one for a casual workplace acquaintance he barely tolerates, over lukewarm break room coffee.

“And I need one immediately.”