Page 1 of Fake It ’Til You Mate It

PROLOGUE

Mother died. Again.

But she got better, and I’m glad.

Who else will take care of gus?

— gus

If I had a nickel for every time I played possum and ended up in the morgue, I’d be fifteen cents richer, which might not seem like much, but really? After the second time I scared the shit out of the morgue technician, you’d think they might recognize me before popping me in the morgue drawer.

The way I’m surrounded by steel, refrigerated air pumping in from who-knows-where, my nose numb and my ass just about frozen solid tells me: yeah, not so much.

I’m on my back, arms trapped at my sides. It’s dark, though one of the perks of being any sort of shifter is amazing night vision. I know exactly where I am, and even if this isn’t the third time this has happened to me since I’ve lived in Glenville, the sterile air with notes of industrial cleaner make it obvious.

At least there is some air. Most of these drawers are airtight in case of real dead bodies—even humans can’t mistake the truly nasty stink that comes with decomp—and if I’d stayed ‘dead’ much longer, that state could become way more permanent than I’d like. There’s still some oxygen, so that’s a plus, especially since I don’t plan on staying in here until that happens.

It’s fucking cold in the morgue drawer. If it wasn’t for my inner beast—and my built-in fur coat—I might’ve lost a finger or two already. Last time, I woke up in the body bag before they moved me. The previous ME nearly had a coronary when I cleared my throat and asked them to unzip me which might explain what happened today. He was new, too. After the first whoopsie, the long-time medical examiner shrugged off her lab coat and decided to retire to Hawaii. If my second resurrection affected her successor the same way, I’m probably going to have to figure out how to explain this to the latest hire.

Right. Because in a world where supernaturals—or supes—are a closely guarded secret unless you live in a Fang City or belong to either a sanctuary or a pack town, I can just tell the poor unsuspected mortals that I’m an opossum shifter with a hint of witch on my mother’s side, and I have a tendency to ‘play dead’ when startled.

It’s only playing, though. You’d think an ME would know the difference between a woman in a catatonic-state and one who was, you know, dead dead.

The freezing cold morgue drawer tells me: nah.

I wiggle my big toe, squinting down the length of my prone body.

Yup. My shoes are gone, and there’s a tag on it.

Don’t slam your head against the steel drawer, Honey, I tell myself, since I don’t want to knock out again. It was bad enough that I heard a car backfire when I was crossing over Main and Third, heading to get a croissant sandwich from the deli a block from the grocery store where I work as a cashier. I’ve managed to keep my supe status under wraps since I moved to the human town after graduating high school more than a decade ago. Rare as we are compared to the predators, prey shifters have always been at the bottom of the food chain. At least, living among humans, I didn’t have to deal with shifter politics.

That’s the plus. The downside? Is that, when a car backfires and my opossum instincts take over, I drop and, whoops, now I’m in the morgue.

Again.

Thankfully, I’m still dressed. The first time I dropped in front of a crowd of humans, the EMTs pronounced me dead on scene before shipping me off to the local morgue. The medical examiner didn’t even wait until my family was informed of my ‘heart attack’ before she stripped me down, putting me on ice until she could autopsy me.

That was fun. I’d kicked my way out of the drawer, wrapping the sheet they covered me with around my body, asking meekly for my clothes while Dr. Hamm gaped at me, struggling to accept what she was seeing. No shoes this go-round, but I’m not naked, so that’s one thing in my favor. If luck’s really on my side, it’s lunchtime for the medical examiner’s office and I can sneak out before anyone sees me.

Claws crossed.

Scooting down a little, I brace my arms against the cold steel and rear my knees up as high as I can, then kick. Opossums don’t have the impressive shifter strength like bears or wolves do, but I’m still powerful enough to snap the drawer open on my second try.

The drawer crashes open, the force of my kick sending it yanking outward with a squeaky squeal.

I pop my upper half up, grabbing the sides of the drawer, ready to push the rest of me out.

A startled gasp has my head swiveling to my right.

Crud.

I don’t know if she’s the new medical examiner or a morgue attendant. Based on her youthful face, low ponytail, and the look of horror she’s currently wearing, I’m thinking attendant. She had a tray of tools in her hand that clank against the tile as she drops them before lifting her hand, pointing a shaky finger at me.

I wave.

Her eyes widen.

“You’re…”