When Rusty came back inside with an armful of wood, which he laid in the box next to the fireplace, Sherry was sitting in the living room again, freshly clean and a little distracting in his clothes. She’d somehow managed to find some popcorn he didn’t remember having. She pointed to the television, but when they turned it on, hoping to watch a movie, only snow greeted them. He thought that was rather ironic—snow outside and snow inside. Not to be disappointed, Sherry suggested they play a game. He couldn’t find anything that appealed to her.

Sighing, Sherry collapsed back into the chair, her disappointment and boredom evident in the droop of her shoulders.

Rusty couldn’t stop staring at her. She was fascinating. From the way her hands moved, so delicate, like they were conducting the very air around her, to the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, and he could smell them as if they were flowers. His house was full of so many interesting textures, butuntil she’d arrived, he’d never known he was missing out on any of it. No other woman had ever excited or awakened his senses like she did.

Her dark hair, a rich brown with golden highlights, drew his eyes to her every time she turned her head. The way her hair fanned out gently, like angel wings resting on her shoulders, made him want to reach out and touch the ends to feel how soft they were.

He wanted to explore every one of the hollows at the base of her neck. He wanted to bury his face in her skin, taste the magic that was her. He pulled his eyes away from her before he revealed his desire. He’d only just met her, and her first impression of him had been fear that he was going to harm her. He couldn’t make that fear come true.

His eyes fell on his guitar, and he said, “How about some music?”

He wasn’t’ sure what drew him to do this, as he rarely played in front of friends, let alone a woman he was desperate to impress, but without her permission, he walked over, picked up his guitar, and brought it back to his seat.

“So, I’m not a professional,” he said with a nervous chuckle, “but I will give it my best shot. Any requests?”

Sherry pulled her legs up under her and rested her elbows on her knees as she set her chin in her hands.

“Surprise me,” was all she said.

He ran through his repertoire and tossed out a couple of the rowdier songs Joshua Breem, the local mechanic, and he liked to play together. Those were best left to days filled with beer and touch-football games. He tuned the guitar while he considered the options remaining to him.

Finally, he thought of the song he’d written a few years ago when, in a fit of loneliness, he’d first sent his wish up to the moon goddess. Strumming a few chords, he found the key and began.

“Here’s one I wrote a little while ago,” he said. “It’s called, ‘Before I Ever Met You.’”

Before I ever met you, the sky wasn’t blue

The grass wasn’t green, and my heart wasn’t true

Before I ever met you, the oceans didn’t come to shore

The waves crashed unheard, and the gulls cried no more

Before I ever met you, the night was dreary and dark

The day held no sun, my world was cold and stark

I was waiting for the possibility

Against all improbability

That you would find me

Your love would set me free

Before I ever met you, I cried myself to sleep

Prayers unanswered, dreams a wish my heart could keep

Before I ever met you, I was haunted by desires

Secrets unrealized, wishes tossed upon a funeral pyre

Before I ever met you, I waited for life to wake me

Then I met you and all doubts deserted me

As he strummed the last chord, Rusty looked over, curious to see what Sherry thought of it. He was surprised to see her wiping tears from her eyes on the sleeves of the sweater.

“Sorry,” she said in a voice thick with emotion. “That was beautiful.”

“Thanks,” he said. He continued strumming the strings, grateful for the distraction from his own emotions. He realized, casting another sidelong glance in her direction, that he wanted her to like that song. He needed her to like that song.

“Whom did you write it for?” she asked. She leaned forward, and the sweater, two sizes too big, fell open slightly at the neck, revealing her collarbone and the top swell of her breasts. He wanted to reach out and touch the smoothness of her skin right where it throbbed at the base of her throat and let his hand travel further down.

It took all his willpower to look away from her. Getting up from his chair abruptly, he set the guitar back in its stand, giving himself time to think how to answer that simple question. Whom did he write it for? He wrote it for a love he had never known. He wrote it for a love he was waiting for. He wrote it for . . . her.

And he realized that was true. She was the answer to his entreaty to the moon. But how would she take it if he told her that their meeting had been arranged by the supernatural, and not by a fall down a hill?

How would she feel about being chosen as his mate? If she would even have him, that was.

There was always the fear that mingling human and supernatural blood might cause problems in the future. There were people on both sides who were strongly against such unions and would not allow it, or at the very least would make their marriage difficult, but the fact remained that he was given very little choice in the matter. His wolf blood had chosen her, and he was bound as securely as a golden ring to her.

Surely the moon goddess had sent her to him. Why else would he be there at the exact moment she needed him most? Why else would she be here now, in his cabin, in the middle of a snow squall no one had expected or predicted? Surely this was fate, the answer to his prayer? But how could he tell her this? She was a human after all, and not one who likely knew of the existence of supernatural beings. She wouldn’t understand. She would hate him. She would be repulsed by what he was. He couldn’t put her through that. He couldn’t put himself through that. No, no secrets would be revealed tonight. If she was to know his secret, he would have to move cautiously, bring her around to their fate slowly and with finesse.

Whom did he write this song for, after all? He wrote it for the one who would complete his life. He wrote it for the one who was to share his world.

She was the desire of his heart. She was his mate.

So how did he answer her question?

She stared at him with the calmest of expressions, as if she was innocent in all of this. And she was. She was very innocent. And yet, she was totally captivating and alluring.

So he said the only thing he could think of to say.

“I wrote it for someone I haven’t met yet.”

The disappointment in her face almost made him change his mind.

Almost.