Bachelor Bear

by Elsa Jade

  Mac hadn’t been there because she hadn’t told him about Aster when she hadn’t believed she wanted or needed a man—or a bear, for that matter. After all, witches didn’t take mates.

  Although they apparently took lovers.

  Ben gulped at his beer as if the cold brew could wash away the sudden heat in his blood. He’d had lovers before. Now, he wanted more. He wanted that end-of-day embrace. After the start-of-day kiss. And a mid-day check-in. Maybe a weekend togetherness project or lazy lounging. Ooh, how about a two-week vacation. And then an old-age retirement home or something.

  Okay, yeah, he wanted it all.

  The Kingdom Guard’s fanatical hatred and then the shifter community’s understandable suspicion had only emphasized just how important it was to have strong ties. Bears might be solitary, but bear shifters needed more, just like he’d told Gin.

  When they finished their beers, Mac headed off to the old Victorian to spend the night with his mate. Ben pulled out some graph paper and wrote up a few words for a flyer. Sunday Landscaping would be willing to sponsor a garden club, he’d bet. With some poking around, surely he’d find a suitable test garden. He’d been thinking about moving up in the Domingo crew anyway now that Mac had smoothed the bears’ relationship with the rest of the shifter community.

  And this would be an excellent excuse to mingle with the ladies of Angels Rest. Maybe not all of them… But Gin Wick was only in town for the summer, so she didn’t count anyway.

  He looked down at the graph paper where he’d been adding some doodles to the margins of the club invitation. Why had he added so many thorns to those roses?

  With a snort, he flipped to the next blank page. He knew what kinds of flowers, herbs, and veggies would grow well in the garden beds of Angels Rest. Now he’d just make a few notes on the kind of mate he needed in his bed.

  Chapter 3

  “So he climbed up the tree to look into your bedroom?” Rita balanced deftly on one of her forearm crutches while she added a sheaf of rainbow chard to her basket.

  Tilting her wide-brimmed black hat that didn’t quite come to a point at the tip to block the sun, Gin trailed after her sister to the other side of the farmers market booth. “No, I told you. He was climbing the tree to check the branches.”

  “But the broken branches were on the ground.”

  “After he fell. They broke after he climbed the tree.”

  “To look in your window.”

  Gin huffed out an annoyed breath. “He wasn’t there for… Are you even listening to me?”

  “Not really,” Rita admitted. “I think you should just sleep with him so you can stop thinking about it.”

  With another breath—a hiss of shock and consternation—Gin glanced around at the other meandering shoppers. “Not so loud.”

  “Oh, if he’s anything like Mac, Ben will be loud too.” Rita rolled her eyes.

  Gin smirked back. “Yeah, I don’t know who Bry thinks she’s fooling with the after-hours sneaking.”

  “At least she lets him through the front door instead of making him climb the tree.”

  “I didn’t make— And anyway, I wasn’t thinking about sleeping with him.”

  Rita rolled her eyes the other direction. “You’re supposed to be shopping for your charm bag, but all you’ve been doing is talking about Auberon Leblanc and his dimples.”

  “That’s not true.” To prove her point, Gin grabbed a bundle of fresh herbs from a short vase, not caring what it was. She’d make something for her charm bag—a basic of witchy wisdom that the circle demanded of all its followers—but her specialty wasn’t like Rita’s, all gentle and nourishing. She scowled at the wispy fronds of green dripping water down her wrist. At least this cheerful little farmers market meant she didn’t have to grow her own.

  She paid for their purchases and caught up with Rita at the next stall, a bakery. Her gaze zeroed in on the tray of small paper cups. “Ooh, samples. I love samples.”

  “These are really good. You should definitely try me.”

  The low drawl with just a hint of Canadian lag time in the vowels froze her hand in place above the paper cups. Something like reluctance—or maybe it was anticipation—made her raise her gaze slooooowly.

  Behind the table with assorted muffins and cookies and cupcakes stood Ben Leblanc. Because of course it was him. He couldn’t content himself with falling out of trees at her feet or showing up in a particularly sweat-drenched dream to remind her that it had been a while since she’d had sex, what with concentrating on her esoteric studies and all. No, of course he’d be standing here with all of the high-fat, high-sugar, highly addictive goodies that she tried to indulge in only very rarely.

  When she didn’t move or answer right away, he flashed that annoying dimple at her. “Go ahead,” he urged. “Take one.”

  Her fingers curled with a craving that didn’t have anything (much) to do with pastries, and she found herself clutching the paper cup. “Why are you working a bakery booth? I thought you were a master arborist.”

  He shrugged, the ridiculously blatant muscles in his wide shoulders rippling under the thin white cotton of his T-shirt and wrinkling the straps of his ruffled apron. “Both actually,” he said with another self-deprecating grin. “This is more a passion project for me right now—haven’t made a lot of money—but people seem to like it.” He nodded down at the sample in her tightly clenched hand. “Especially the vanilla bean scones.”

  The mental image of him in just the ruffled apron was definitely not vanilla at all.

  “I usually prefer something with more bite.” She lifted her chin to give him a dead-eye stare, as if that might put him in his place. A place far away from her piquing libido.

  If anything, that dimple only deepened. “I also have some dark chocolate cayenne brittle that might be more to your taste.” His lashes dropped to half-mast over his sky-blue eyes. “But you have to buy that one.”

  Scowling, she dropped her gaze to focus on his wide chest. Damn, that actually sounded pretty good. The brittle, not his chest. She focused on the words printed across the apron. “Bear Buns Bakery,” she read aloud, eyeing the graphical logo of a fluffy bear walking away, its heart-shaped backside topped with a rounded puff of tail. “Is that really wise?”

  He shrugged again, doing more of that delicious roll of muscle. “Focusing on simple, organic, locally sourced ingredients is a bit of a gamble, but it’s an important part of the Bear Buns ethos, so I think—”

  “I don’t mean your free-range hipster cookie b.s.,” she hissed. “I mean referencing your…heritage.”

  “Not every Canuck needs to love hockey,” he said defensively. “Guys can like hot cross buns as much as hockey pucks.” When she growled under her breath, he added, “And as for the other thing… Well, part of that is the instinct to eat well and heartily before winter comes. You gotta taste what I can do with heavy cream and pure honey.”

  He pitched his voice to a rumble on the last words, and she swallowed hard, her mouth as dry as if she’d choked down a week-old scone in one gulp.

  She couldn’t make a sound, but Rita hummed thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t think you’d be able to grow vanilla here,” she mused. “As hot as it gets in the summer, it’s not sultry enough for an orchid.” She touched the corner of the flyer attached to the pole of the tent covering his table. “But I guess I could learn all about it in your new club.”

  Ben nodded. “The Four Corners region has its own happiest plantings, so we’ll definitely be talking about which flowers are best for our native pollinators and honeybees.”

  “I’d love to join,” Rita said, but before Gin could warn her what a bad idea that would be—werebears falling out of trees, remember?—she sighed. “Unfortunately, watching Aunt Tilda’s shop while she’s out of town is taking up all my free time.” She glanced at Gin. “You should do it.”

  Gin sputtered. “I don’t care about gardening. Or vanilla. Or honey.”

  Rita cleared her t
hroat, louder. “Gin, it wouldn’t hurt for you to have some more one-on-one tutoring about the bugs and the blooms. The circle expects you to have a mastery of all the essential arts, not just your chosen discipline.”

  “Actually”—Ben sidelonged an arch glance at Gin—“becoming a master gardener would take more than a few hours of digging with the club. And really, a garden is never mastered. It’s more an ongoing journey.”

  Rita nodded. “The path of the circle is very much the same. Which my impatient little sister sometimes forgets.”

  Gin glowered at her. “Margarita Wick,” she muttered, “the first rule of witch club is don’t gossip about witch club.”

  Rita tossed her head, making her auburn ponytail dance. “Oh, he knows what we are. Same as we know him.”

  Ben gave her a serious look. “I’m honored to be part of your world, if only on the secret fringes.” He shifted his gaze to Gin. “And of course you’re welcome in our garden club.” His dimple peeped out. “I’m telling everybody about that part.”

  Gin looked down at the already wilting herbs in her basket. The elders of the circle, including Aunt Tilda, would indeed be judging her on the simple charms as well as her keystone spell. If she wanted her ordination, she probably needed to play along a little longer. She kept her gaze on the flyer. The thorny rose pictured in one corner might actually be the sort of thing she could use in her charms. “I guess—”

  A bump to her shoulder made her wrench herself sideways to avoid stumbling into Rita.

  Mincing past her, the lady in a straw hat (its cutely upturned brim barely shading her face) flicked her short skirt aside. “Ben,” she drawled, managing to make his name into three syllables. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re starting a garden club? The chamber of commerce would’ve been so happy to promote you.”

  Ben smiled, though without the dimple this time. “Hey, Marcia. I just came up with the idea a couple days ago, but I was definitely planning to bring a flyer to the chamber office. Spring would be a more natural time, but—”

  “Ooh, it’s so hot and slow here, and we’ve got nothing on the events calendar until the September Rodeo Days. We need a distraction.” She leaned forward and flicked the edge of her neckline idly, revealing the lacy edge of her bra.

  Gin rolled her eyes. She’d noticed that Angels Rest was hard up for eligible males, but this was pitiful. She pivoted on her heel, but before she could stalk away, a copy of the flyer was stuffed into the crook of her elbow. She glanced over to meet Ben’s wide, imploring gaze.

  “So I’ll see you there, right, Gin?” He widened his eyes almost comically.

  She smirked at him. “Well actually no—”

  “Not everybody wants to be sweating in the rose bushes with you, Ben.” Marcia smiled with enough teeth to put a cougar shifter to shame.

  Gin gazed back at her blankly. “Yeah, I’m not a fan of compost.” She stalked away, aware of the disapproving thud of Rita’s crutches on the pavement behind her.

  “You’re just going to let her win?” Rita hissed.

  Gin angled her steps toward a booth featuring a small batch distillery. She could really go for a bottle of something right now. “Win what?”

  “Ben.”

  “I wasn’t playing for him.” Gin shoved the crumpled flyer into her market bag and dumped the contents of the paper cup into her mouth so she didn’t have to say anything else.

  And she moaned in pleasure at the sweetness of the powdered sugar icing balanced by the dark wood smokiness of the Mexican vanilla. Who knew such simple ingredients could come together so satisfyingly?

  Rita edged up beside her when she stopped in front of the bottles of amber-tinted alcohol. “You know the circle is encouraging more community outreach. Even if we can’t yet share what we are, we want to be a part of our neighborhoods.”

  Gin snorted. “You’re saying after-school activities with Ben will get me extra credit points with the circle?” She flicked one dismissive finger at her sister, ending the conversation, and glanced up at the roadhouse bartender who was manning the booth. “Can I get a bottle of your purest distilled beverage, please?”

  Gypsy—who Gin had heard was the third of the name to own the bar on the edge of town—crossed her tattooed arms over her chest. “My best packs a punch,” she said sternly. “Not sure it’s right for you.”

  “Much like your sales technique,” Rita muttered under her breath.

  Gin shot her sister a quelling look. “I’ll take two bottles,” she told Gypsy.

  The bartender grunted. “Cash only.”

  Gin grinned at her. “And make the third bottle one of the dark rums. It’s been that kind of week.”

  The corner of Gypsy’s mouth twitched. “With three bottles you get a free commemorative shot glass.” She thumped a thick-walled tumbler on the table in front of her.

  “Gypsy’s Roadhouse Paint Stripper and Fumigator,” Rita read. She shook her head, setting her ponytail into a disapproving wag.

  Gin shoved the bottles into her market bag, careful to layer the herbs between the glass to prevent breakage.

  Some specialized spells benefited from being rooted in local “flavor” for maximum strength, and she was willing to bet that Gypsy’s Roadhouse brew had flavor and strength. Rita wasn’t wrong about needing to impress the circle if she wanted to complete her ordination. And once she did, maybe she’d finally be done feeling stuck—stuck at the end of the line of three sisters, stuck between the circle’s old ways and her own magic, like some mutant shapeshifter neither one thing nor another.

  She’d finish her shadow spell and prove she’d finally found her place.

  ***

  Which is how she found herself, two days later, at the newly christened Angels Rest Community Garden, sweating in the late-afternoon heat.

  Ben stood at the focal point of the half circle of a dozen women, his hands on his hips and a big smile on his face that didn’t quite engage his dimple. He had on a polyester booney hat that managed to be even more ridiculous than the ruffled apron he’d had at the farmers market. But the gray T-shirt clinging to his broad chest dried up her urge to smirk at him. He’d obviously spent the morning prepping the garden beds since the rich smell of dirt filled the still air. As hot as it was, he must’ve sweated out most of the giant thermos propped in one of the freshly turned raised beds. If she stepped closer to him, would the smell of salt and virile male overwhelm her?

  Shoot, where had that thought come from? She’d never seen the fun in being overwhelmed. If anything, she was always the one who took control. Gin shifted her weight uneasily from foot to foot. It was too hot to wear her favorite combat boots, so she’d borrowed a pair of Brandy’s cute flipflops, and the thin soles were so flimsy she swore every pebble in the garden was poking at her.

  Probably she’d been spending too much time on her keystone spell. All that exacting focus left her wanting to kick loose for a bit. But she had to stay on task. And come to think of it... This could be the perfect place to trial her potion. She needed to show the circle that she could perform the basics of herbal and floral charm bags, but her real effort was so much more. She glanced around the fellow garden club members. All women of a certain age, watching Ben as if he were a tall glass of lemonade. Maybe spiked with some of the booze she’d gotten from Gypsy.

  She frowned. No matter how much their googly eyes annoyed her, testing her potion on an unsuspecting victim wasn’t ethical. She might not be the lily-white witch Rita was, but if she wanted to bring back the traditions of the shadow circle, she needed to prove that the flipside of their innocuous charms weren’t evil.

  She’d spend a few days in Ben’s silly club making the circle’s ridiculous required potpourri sachets, and once she’d completed the ordination, she’d be free to pursue her own studies.

  “Thanks for coming out today,” he said, his soft Canadian drawl on fer coomin oat emphasized by what she thought must be nerves. “Another quick thank you to the chamber of
commerce for donating the plot of land to the garden club this year, and Sunday Landscaping for loaning us tools and plant starts. I think we’ll make something really beautiful together. Even though it’s darn hot out here.”

  “The chamber says thank you,” Marcia piped up, “for making this barren little plot something pretty.” She glanced at the other women in the semi-circle. “Also, I brought frozen daiquiris.”

  “The frozen daiquiri garden club!” The semi-circle cheered. Ben looked bemused, but Gin looked at other woman with new respect.

  While Marcia distributed red Solo cups half-filled from her much larger thermos, Ben continued, “We are gathered here today to highlight all the best and brightest of Angels Rest. So we are going to fill this garden with plants that are local, hearty, practical, and beautiful.”

  “Sounds like what Angel Villalobos was looking for in a wife when he founded Angels Rest a couple hundred years ago,” Marcia said with a laugh, and Gin wondered how many of the daiquiris the chamber lady had already drunk.

  But then she caught a flash of panic crossing Ben’s expressive face. He covered quickly with another one of those non-dimple smiles, but it was too late.

  “Well, Angel Villalobos was a lonely man in the beginning. I suppose he could’ve filled his time with a garden like ours.” Ben turned to the raised bed and started pointing out the donated plant starts, while Gin held back the urge to snicker.

  The buff bachelor bear was hunting for a wife, eh? Brandy and Mac and Aster’s insta-family must’ve inspired him. “Just add water and mix,” she muttered to herself.

  “Everything’s low water in these dry times,” Marcia corrected. “Weren’t you listening?”

  Gin pursed her lips and nodded dutifully. If Ben was planning on unfairly using his dimples to win himself a bride, maybe it was only fair that she employed her spell to give the ladies a fighting chance. She narrowed her eyes as he leaned over the raised bed, showing off the tight butt of his jeans over the even tighter buttocks within.