A Mate for Lu - Amy Bellows Page 0,11

and begins with the paragraph: “Polar bear shifters don’t mate for life, but they do love deeply and passionately.”

The article is long, and chronicles the romantic relationships of an elder polar bear shifter omega nicknamed “Adam” to protect his identity. As much as I hate to admit it, Sam was compassionate and fair to the omega.

I wasn’t expecting that.

When Sam first approached me about illustrating a children’s book, I read a few articles he had written to make sure I wasn’t wasting my time. But this article was written after we started working together. I pull up Google and search his name. He’s been busy over the last year. There are dozens of new articles. The most shocking thing is the topic. Almost all of them are about polar bear shifters.

He’s written about everything from the history of metal magic to the feud between the Localists and the Globalists. While I was secretly drawing pictures of him in my notebooks, he was not-so-secretly researching my culture.

His words echo in my head. What if I love you?

What if he does? What are we going to do? He can’t see me again. I know how he feels about his commitment to his mate. But his mate is dead and Sam’s still very much alive.

I put my phone away. In the end, it isn’t up to me. I just have to get through the heartache until it mellows with time. Axe will be here next week, and that will help.

Unless I’m pregnant.

It’s unlikely. It took over a year of trying every heat before I got pregnant with Mary. Then her placenta didn’t detach properly and left scarring in my womb. The doctor warned me it would be even more difficult for me to get pregnant again.

I need to forget about Sam and hope for the best. That’s all I can do.

“Do you want to make cookies, Mary?” I ask as I put the butter in the fridge.

She grins at me. “Cookie?”

“Yes, that’s right. Cookie.”

Baking should calm me down enough to stop me from replying to Sam’s email. At least for now.

8

Sam

I should go get my kids. Or at the very least, I should go to the cemetery and apologize to Allen. Instead, I go to Ed’s bowling alley.

Anywhere else in the world, a place called “Fairy Bowling” might have glitter or pictures of tiny winged creatures with pointy ears. But Ed’s a fairy penguin shifter—a small species of penguin from Australia with blue feathers. We used to call them “Little Blues” in the alpha locker rooms back in high school.

“Little Blues” are the only penguin shifters who go into heat. The alphas go into a rut too. This inspired many a tall tale and made the fairies who went to our school seem like creatures from another world. I regret the way I avoided them now.

Fairy Bowling is a grungy fusion of a bowling alley and pizza parlor nestled between the polar bear and penguin shifter part of town. The big blue letters of the sign above the door are cracked, and the “G” is missing its top half. I walk inside to find a full house. On the right side of the alley are the blue-haired fairies who bowl with leather gloves and shoes they didn’t rent from Ed. The other half of the alley is crowded with white-haired polar bear shifters who look huge in comparison.

Fairy Bowling is one of the few establishments I’ve seen with both kinds of shifters as clientele. I guess we’ve alienated the fairies so bad, the polar bear shifters feel an affinity for them.

Ed is at the front counter. Despite being seventy years old, he won’t retire or sell his bowling alley. I once asked him why, and he said, “I don’t see how talkin’ to people I like about bowling, which I also like, is work. Nah, it’s just a bit of fun that pays the bills. That’s all.”

Ed’s hair isn’t blue anymore. In fact, he doesn’t have much hair left at all. But he’s combed over what silver hair is left across the top of his bald head. His bowling uniform swallows his bony frame. On the right side of his chest is a pin that says, Ask me about buying my balls.

“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise?” he says, ducking below the counter and popping back up with a pair of shoes that say “11” on the heel. My size.

“I don’t have time to bowl.”

“That’s a bunch of hogwash if I ever heard