Everhart The Alpha Chef's Reluctant Mate

A Forced Proximity Werewolf Shifter Romance
1. Auflage 2026
ISBN: 979-8-90446-008-2
Verlag: PublishDrive
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 340 Seiten

Reihe: PublishDrive

I burned my life down on camera. He offered me a second chance in the middle of nowhere.
I came to Pinehaven with $200 and nothing to lose.
The job? Cook at a failing diner run by the grumpiest man I've ever met.
Dominic Callahan barely speaks. Never smiles. And he can't seem to stand within five feet of me without looking like he's in actual pain.
But when his ex shows up demanding he marry her to save some alliance I don't understand, he makes me an offer I can't refuse:
Pretend to be his girlfriend for one year. Get paid more money than I've ever seen. Walk away when it's over.
Simple, right?
Wrong.
Because Dominic isn't just grumpy. He's a werewolf. An Alpha. And apparently, I'm his fated mate.
Oh, and that alliance his ex keeps talking about? It's pack law. Ancient. Binding. The kind that could destroy everything he's built if he doesn't find a real mate in time.
Now I'm fake dating a werewolf who looks at me like I'm the only thing keeping him sane. Whose touch makes my skin catch fire. Who bites his lip every time I get too close, like he's fighting not to claim me.
The plan was simple: one year, then walk away.
But my heart didn't get the memo.
And when his wolf finally breaks free, when those rules we set shatter into pieces, I'll have to choose:
Walk away with my freedom...
Or stay and fight for a love that could cost him everything.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Everhart, Elena

Leseproben

CHAPTER 1: Welcome to Nowhere

chapter-seperator

The GPS had given up forty minutes ago.

Mira’s ancient Honda Civic rattled over another pothole, the suspension groaning in protest. Her knuckles had gone white against the steering wheel three turns back—when the paved road dissolved into gravel, then into something that barely qualified as a path. Pine trees crowded both sides, their branches scraping her windows like skeletal fingers.

She should’ve turned around at the last gas station. The attendant had looked at her like she’d announced plans to hike Everest in flip-flops when she’d asked for directions to Pinehaven.

“You sure you got the right town, miss?”

The memory made her molars grind together. Her jaw ached from the tension she’d been carrying since crossing the Montana state line. Yes, she was sure. No, she didn’t have other options. Her bank account currently held $319 after gas, and her apartment keys sat in her former landlord’s mailbox two thousand miles behind her.

Forward was the only direction left.

The trees finally broke.

Pinehaven materialized like something from a postcard that had been left in the sun too long—faded, small, impossibly remote. One main street. Maybe a dozen buildings total. A general store with a hand-painted sign. A post office that looked abandoned. And at the far end, tucked against the mountain’s shadow, a diner with a crooked neon sign that read Callahan’s Kitchen.

Half the letters were burned out. It flickered: Cal___an’s K__chen.

Mira’s stomach dropped to her knees.

She pulled into the empty gravel parking lot, killed the engine, and sat in the sudden silence. Her heart hammered against her ribs—frantic, insistent, screaming at her to restart the car and drive until she hit civilization again.

This was a mistake.

The building looked like it hadn’t been updated since 1985. Vinyl siding peeled at the corners. The windows were clean but the frames were weathered gray. A wooden ramp led to the entrance, the accessibility rails slightly rusted.

She pressed her palms flat against her thighs, feeling the denim rough beneath her skin. Breathe. She’d come this far. Needed this job. Had quite literally nothing else.

The car door opened with a metallic shriek that echoed across the empty lot.

The diner’s interior smelled like coffee and something else—something rich and savory that made her empty stomach clench with sudden hunger. Mira hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s gas station granola bar. Her fingers instinctively found her abdomen, pressing against the hollow ache.

The space was small. Ten tables, max. Vinyl booths in forest green. A long counter with swivel stools that had definitely seen better decades. But everything was clean. Immaculate, actually. The floors gleamed. The windows caught afternoon light. The chrome on the coffee maker sparkled.

And the food.

Three people sat scattered at different tables, and every single plate held something that looked like it belonged in a restaurant with cloth napkins and a wine list. Perfectly seared salmon with asparagus. A burger that actually looked gourmet—brioche bun, greens that weren’t iceberg, sweet potato fries arranged artfully. Short ribs over creamy polenta with a red wine reduction.

In a diner. In the middle of nowhere Montana.

Mira’s throat went dry.

“You lost?”

The voice came from behind the counter—low, rough, with an edge that scraped against her nerves.

She turned.

And forgot how to breathe.

The man standing in the kitchen doorway was tall—easily six-three, broad-shouldered in a way that made the space feel smaller. Dark hair pushed back from his face like he’d been running his hands through it. Strong jaw covered in two days of stubble. And eyes the color of steel in winter, currently fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

He wasn’t classically handsome. His features were too sharp for that, too severe. His mouth was set in a hard line, brackets of tension framing it. But there was something about him—some raw, magnetic pull that made her fingers curl into fists at her sides just to keep from fidgeting.

“I’m—” Her voice came out thin. She cleared her throat, tried again. “I’m Mira Chen. I’m here about the cook position?”

Something flickered across his face. His nostrils flared slightly, and his posture shifted—shoulders drawing back, spine straightening. The air between them felt suddenly charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

He stared at her for three full seconds that stretched like taffy.

“You’re early.” Not a question. Almost an accusation.

“The email said to start as soon as possible. I can come back tomorrow if—”

“No.” The word came out sharper than seemed necessary. He moved around the counter, and Mira’s body tensed instinctively. He was bigger up close. Took up too much space. Made her hyperaware of how small the diner was, how remote, how completely alone she was with a stranger who looked at her like she was a problem he hadn’t anticipated.

His jaw clenched. She watched the muscle jump beneath his skin.

“You cook?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Culinary school?”

“No. I’m self-taught. But I ran a successful cooking channel for three years, and I—”

“Don’t care about your channel.” He turned toward the kitchen. “You know how to hold a knife without cutting yourself?”

The dismissal stung more than it should have. Mira’s spine straightened, her shoulders pulling back. “Yes.”

“Prep vegetables without turning them into mush?”

“Yes.”

“Follow instructions without improvising?”

Her teeth clicked together. “When necessary.”

He stopped. Turned back to her. His eyes narrowed—studying her with an intensity that made her pulse jump at her wrists. She fought the urge to cross her arms, to hide, to make herself smaller.

“Rules,” he said. “Kitchen opens at six AM. Prep starts at five. You show up on time or don’t show up at all. You follow my recipes exactly. No substitutions, no ‘improvements,’ no creative interpretation. This isn’t a YouTube kitchen. It’s mine. Understand?”

Mira’s nails bit into her palms. “Understood.”

“Uniform is black pants, white shirt, apron. There’s a spare in the back. Your apartment is upstairs—second door on the right. Key’s on the counter. $2,800 a month gets deposited on the first. You get two days off a week, your choice, but you tell me forty-eight hours in advance.”

He grabbed a folded apron from beneath the register and thrust it toward her.

She took it. The fabric was soft from washing, still warm like it had just come out of the dryer. Her fingers registered the heat before her brain did.

“What’s your name?” The question came out before she could stop it.

His expression didn’t change. “Dominic Callahan. I own this place.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Callahan.”

“Dom.” He turned back toward the kitchen. “And let’s see if you can actually cook before we decide if it’s nice.”

The kitchen was small but organized with military precision.

Everything had a place. Knives on magnetic strips, arranged by size. Spices alphabetized. Prep stations clearly demarcated. The stove was industrial-grade, six burners and a flat-top that showed years of use but meticulous care.

Dominic moved through the space like water—fluid, certain, never second-guessing. He pulled ingredients from the walk-in without looking, his hands automatically reaching for what he needed.

Mira tied the apron around her waist, fingers fumbling with the strings.

“Dice these.” He set a cutting board in front of her, along with three onions and a chef’s knife that probably cost more than her car. “Uniform. Small. Fast.”

She picked up the knife. The weight was perfect, the balance exquisite. Her palms had gone slightly damp. She wiped them on the apron and began cutting.

Muscle memory took over. Peel, halve, root end intact, parallel cuts, perpendicular cuts, perfect dice. She’d done this a thousand times on camera, narrating every step. Now she worked in silence, hyperaware of Dominic’s presence three feet away.

He was making something at the stove—she could hear the sizzle, smell butter and garlic and fresh herbs. Could feel his attention on her even though he wasn’t looking directly.

Her shoulders tensed. The knife slipped.

Not enough to cut herself, but enough to send an onion piece skittering across the cutting board.

She held her breath, waiting for criticism.

It didn’t come.

When she finished, the dice was near-perfect. Uniform enough to make any chef proud. She stepped back, wiping her hands on the apron.

Dominic glanced over. His eyes tracked across her work for maybe two...