Love at First Bite Bundle

by Kimberly Raye

  He eyed the row of pictures before shifting his attention to a small trophy shaped like a typewriter. “Did you win this?”

  “A long, long time ago. I wrote a short story about a beauty pageant queen who stumbles onto the dead body of one of the judges.”

  “Based on an actual experience?”

  “I’m afraid not. The closest I’ve ever gotten to a crime scene is watching CSI.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Not really. Fiction is always a hundred times better than real life and I’ve got stacks of journals to prove it.”

  “These journals?” One minute he stood in front of the mantel and the next, he was reaching for one of her spirals.

  “How did you do that—” she started, but then he flipped open one of the journals and she blurted, “Don’t read that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” Because there was just something about seeing him holding the spiral and reading something she’d written that seemed so intimate. Too intimate considering she wasn’t the least bit interested in him and he wasn’t the least bit interested in her.

  Her heart gave a double thump and she shook away the strange feeling. “Read it,” she blurted. “What do I care?” She didn’t. Not about him or her writing.

  “So you like to write,” he said after a few silent moments.

  “I used to.” Shay started straightening sofa cushions, determined to ignore the strange expectancy sitting in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t really have time for it anymore.”

  “You’re good,” he stated after reading a few more pages. “What made you change career paths?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you ditch the writing for facials and mineral waxes?”

  She wasn’t sure why she answered him. There was just something about the intent way that he looked at her that made her think that he actually cared what she had to say. That he cared about her.

  She shrugged. “Writing was a hobby. It’s not like I could actually pay the bills with it.”

  “Why not?”

  Yeah, why not? The question struck, niggling at her the way it had so many years ago when she’d been dividing her time between her writing and the pageant circuit.

  “Play to your strengths,” her mother had told her time and time again. “You’re too beautiful to waste yourself on something that may or may not pay off. Go for the sure thing, dear.”

  She’d done just that. She’d entered pageant after pageant until she’d had enough money to open her own business.

  A business that was now failing.

  She ignored the last thought and fluffed a seat cushion. “How many working writers do you know?”

  “None.”

  “My point exactly. I needed something practical.”

  “And writing for a living isn’t nearly as practical as spreading peanut butter on someone’s feet.” At the mention of her latest menu offering, she couldn’t help but grin.

  “That’s crunchy peanut butter. It sloughs off the dead cells and leaves the skin silky smooth. I know it seems unconventional, but it works.”

  “If you say so.” His gaze zeroed in on the journal page and silence stretched around them for several long moments. “This is what works,” he finally said. “It’s good, Shay. Really good.”

  A tiny thrill went through her. A crazy reaction considering she didn’t care about Matt or his opinion. She stiffened. “I really think we should pick up where we left off with the hair growth techniques?”

  He closed the journal and slid it back onto the shelf. “Full body massage?”

  She had a quick image of herself stretched out on the bed, his strong hands roaming her body. “After that,” she blurted. “You just tell me what comes next and I’ll write everything down.”

  Disappointment flashed in his gaze before he seemed to remember something. His mouth settled into a serious line and he nodded. “Sounds good.” He settled himself on the sofa and Shay sank down next to him.

  A bad move, she realized, over the next half hour as she wrote down several more recipes rumored to stimulate hair growth—everything from a castor oil hair mask to a milk and honey bath—and did her best to ignore the man who sat just inches away. So close she could cuddle up next to him if she scooted just a tad to the right.

  Cuddle? She didn’t want to cuddle with Matt. Even if he did like her writing.

  Because he liked her writing.

  It would be too easy to fall for him, to start hoping and dreaming and—No.

  He wasn’t her type. And she wasn’t his. That much was obvious by the way he held his body so stiff. As if he wanted to be anywhere but sitting next to her.

  That truth echoed home when they finished and he all but jumped up and ran out the door.

  “Thanks,” she called after him as she watched him head for his Jeep.

  He gave her a husky “Don’t mention it,” climbed behind the wheel and then he was gone.

  No, he didn’t like her and she didn’t like him.

  And if you believe that, I’ve got some really nice beachfront property just a few miles outside of town…

  Shay forced aside the notion, turned on her heel and headed for her kitchen. Time to stop thinking about Matt and start growing some hair.

  The sooner, the better.

  8

  MATT HEADED BACK TO HIS CABIN and straight into an ice cold shower. The freezing spray pelted him but it did little to cool his burning skin or his throbbing cock.

  He’d drunk himself into a blood stupor over the past few days, but it hadn’t been enough to satisfy the hunger. He wanted sex. He needed it. It was all he’d been able to think about since that night with Shay. That, and the morning after.

  He’d liked cooking bacon for her and talking to her. Being with her. He’d liked it way too much. That’s why he’d raced over when she’d called.

  He’d wanted to see her so badly. To smell her. To feel her. It had almost killed him not to press her down onto the sofa, settle himself between her luscious thighs and feel her wet heat close around him.

  He’d wanted her desperately.

  Correction, he’d wanted a woman desperately. Any woman.

  It wasn’t Shay. Sure, she was more determined than any woman he’d ever met—her coming after him like a bulldog for his hair growth secret was proof. And she was courageous. She’d been frightened on his doorstep that night, but she hadn’t backed down. She’d faced off with him, propositioned him, and for that, he admired her.

  But none of that made him want to kiss her senseless. Or sink into her sweet, delectable body. Or pull her close when it was over and never let go.

  The hunger.

  He sure as hell didn’t want a future with Shay Briggs. His future mate was out there waiting for him, and he had every intention of finding her.

  But first he had to satisfy the need clawing at his gut.

  He killed the water, climbed from the shower and reached for a towel. He dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of worn boots. The Jeep squealed as he backed it up and swung around. In a matter of minutes, he cleared the trees and hit one of the farm roads that led to the interstate.

  He drove several miles and ended up at a small honky tonk on the outskirts of the next town.

  Cooter’s Dance Hall had once been an ancient barn. The outside still sported a rusted red tin roof. Heavy wooden doors stood open and colored lights pushed out into the gravel parking lot. A rowdy Gretchen Wilson tune made the walls vibrate.

  Matt killed the engine of his Jeep and climbed out. The steady crunch of his boots echoed in his head as he made his way toward the entrance. He paused in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the bright glow of neon that sliced through the dim interior. Smoke fogged the air and the steady clack of pool balls echoed off the tin walls. Small round tables surrounded the perimeter of an old wooden dance floor sprinkled with sawdust and hay. A dozen couples slid this way and that, keeping time to the fast two-st
ep.

  He drank in the assortment of women, from the tall redhead in the far corner to a cluster of twenty-something blondes near the pool table, to a long-haired brunette standing by the bar. It was a smorgasbord—just what he needed to sate the damned hunger clawing at his gut.

  Fixing his gaze on the brunette, he headed for the bar. Her name was Jeanine and she was a waitress in one of the nearby towns. She’d had a rough day, several asshole customers, not nearly enough tips and she was desperate to blow off some steam.

  As the thoughts registered, he shook his head. He wasn’t sure if he would ever get used to reading people’s minds. At the same time, it definitely came in handy—he didn’t have to talk to her to know that she wanted only sex.

  She had enough complications in her life with her job, two kids and a deadbeat ex she fought with constantly.

  She wanted a little fun, and Matt was just the man to give it to her.

  The truth blazed in her eyes as he stepped up beside her and signaled the bartender for a beer.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.” Her soft words slid into his ears, but oddly enough it didn’t stir the expected zing of excitement. “I’m from Carson Pass just a few miles up the road. My place isn’t far.” Her eyes twinkled. “I could give you a tour.” And a helluva lot more.

  She wanted to strip naked and ride him all night. The image was there in her head. The two of them naked and hot and sweaty. He’d clasp her hips and work her body while she writhed and moaned and exploded around him.

  Her heartbeat kicked up a notch, echoing in his ears and drowning out the sound of an old Brooks & Dunn song that had just started up. She licked her lips and her chest heaved as she drew an extra breath.

  Watching the luscious lift of her breasts beneath the ultra tight tank top, he braced himself for the sudden tightening in his gut as desire sliced through him so sharp and sweet and demanding. The way it had with Shay the moment she’d opened the door to him that evening.

  Instead, he felt only the slightest twinge.

  Because he didn’t want this woman. Or the blonde standing near the juke box. Or the redhead who sashayed up to him and rubbed her breast against his arm as she leaned over the bar to order a drink. She leaned just so and he caught a glimpse of her nipple and…

  Nothing.

  His mouth didn’t water for a taste and his hands didn’t itch to touch and his damned cock…It was still hard, but it wasn’t budging.

  What the hell’s wrong with you? They’re all beautiful. Willing. Ready.

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t want them.

  The realization hit him and he downed his beer in several gulps. He dropped a twenty on the bar, turned and walked out. Outside, he climbed into his Jeep, gunned the engine and sped out of the parking lot.

  The cool wind rushed through the open top and windows, but it did little to cool his raging body temperature. Only one thing could do that.

  One woman.

  Shay.

  He knew that now. He hadn’t wanted to face the truth before—that he was a helluva lot more attracted to Shay Briggs than he wanted to think. That he felt more for her than just lust. That he actually liked her.

  She isn’t The One. She’s human.

  He knew that. He also knew there was a female werewolf out there somewhere, waiting for him, wanting him. She would be his perfect match. His future.

  But suddenly Matt wasn’t half as concerned about settling down with another werewolf as he was with seeing Shay Briggs again.

  And letting her see him.

  She’ll never accept you, buddy. Never.

  Maybe. Maybe not. There was only one way to find out.

  Matt floored the gas and headed for Skull Creek.

  9

  SHAY TURNED THE FLAME DOWN on the small stock pot. Her nose wrinkled and she waved a hand to dispel the fumes. Ugh. She knew castor oil didn’t taste all that great, but she’d never realized that it smelled just as bad. At least, it did when warmed with cabbage and several other key ingredients per Matt Keller’s recipe.

  She stirred the mixture one final time before heading for the nearest window. Gripping the edge, she shoved the glass up and drank in a huge draft of fresh air.

  Closing her eyes, she relished the faint breeze on her face. The slight wind slithered over her skin and tickled the edge of her T-shirt. Awareness rippled through her and she felt the purposeful sweep of Matt’s hand up and down her back.

  Her eyes snapped open to see him standing in front of her house. He leaned against his Jeep, his arms folded, his gaze fixed on her. A dozen explicit images rushed through her head, along with a fierce jolt of desire.

  Get a grip. So what if he’s here? It doesn’t mean that he wants you as much as you want him.

  She blinked, but he didn’t disappear. Rather, he pushed away from the Jeep and started for her front door.

  She watched his swift strides, his jeans pushing and pulling in all the right places until he disappeared onto her front porch. Her mouth went dry and excitement rippled through her.

  She set the bubbling mixture aside, wiped her hands on a nearby dish towel and yanked off her apron. A quick glimpse at her reflection in the refrigerator and she stalled. She looked terrible. Her hair was wet—fresh from the shower and ready for another hair treatment—and she wore an old Miss Corn Queen 2000 T-shirt and raggedy sweats. No girdle. No body firming cream. No wrinkle-reducer foundation and blush. Nothing but eau de castor oil.

  So? It’s not like you’re trying to impress him. Sure, he might be knocking on your front door. And maybe, just maybe, he might even want sex. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to give it to him. He’s all wrong for you. You’re keeping your head and your distance, remember?

  Another whiff and her nose wrinkled.

  With the way she smelled, he would surely turn right around and head for the Quick Pick and a can of Lysol.

  Another knock sounded. She drew a deep breath, gathered her courage and hauled open the front door. “Yes?”

  “I need to show you something.”

  “If it’s another hair treatment, forget it. I’ve got enough to keep me busy for the time being. If they all fail, I’ll let you know and we can start over.”

  “It’s not a hair treatment…” His words faded as he sniffed. “You doing the castor oil?”

  “I was about to, which means the smell is going to get much worse once I have it all over my head. You might want to bail while you’ve got the chance.”

  “Can I come in?” A wealth of meaning fueled his words and awareness zipped up and down her spine.

  “I—I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Particularly since she didn’t trust herself. He was too close. Too handsome. Too wild.

  She started to close the door, but his hand reached out, his fingers closing around the jamb. “I really don’t have time—”

  “Five minutes,” he cut in. “Just give me five minutes.”

  The sudden desperation in his voice touched something inside of her. She stepped back and motioned him inside.

  “So what is it that you need to show me?” she asked after a long, silent moment. “I can’t imagine it could be any more impressive than the half dozen treatments I’ve already written down.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he murmured and his eyes seemed to grow hotter, brighter. Unearthly.

  She blinked, but the color didn’t fade. Instead, it intensified, glittering and shimmering and changing—

  Wait a second. Wait just a motherfriggin’ second.

  She blinked. But the color intensified, shifting from green to a brilliant, blazing purple?

  “What the—?” Her words died in her throat as he pulled his lips back and she saw the sharp ends of his incisors.

  Fangs?

  She clamped her eyes shut as her heart started to pound.

  A dream. It had to be a dream. A weird twisted version of the fantasy she’d been having where Matt showed up a
t her front door and they had hot, wild sex in her entryway. And then her living room. And then the bedroom.

  “And then the bathroom,” his raw, guttural voice pushed past the pounding in her ears and finished her train of erotic thought.

  Her eyes popped open to see him, his eyes glowing and his fangs still gleaming for several fast, furious heartbeats.

  “I can hear your thoughts in my head,” he murmured, as if the admission bothered him as much as it did her. “I didn’t believe it myself when you showed up on my doorstep, but it was there. I could read you so clearly. I know all about you, Shay. I know your favorite color is red and your favorite ice cream flavor is Chunky Monkey. I know that you had the chicken pox when you were six and you still have a tiny little scar on your ear which is why you don’t wear earrings. I know about your mother and her rotten taste in men.”

  “Because I told you,” she managed to argue, more to convince herself than him.

  “Her first husband left her on their wedding night,” he added. “Just walked out and stuck her with a hefty hotel bill. She had to call your grandma to loan her the money.”

  “I didn’t tell you that. I’ve never told anyone that.”

  “I know about marriage number two. She brought you a bunch of those little bottles of shampoo from the hotel in Austin. That one lasted about six months and then he ran off with a clerk from the feed store.”

  “Darlene,” she whispered, the past rushing through her mind. She saw her mother standing on the corner at Main and Center, her face streaked with tears as she watched Dwayne’s 4x4 motor toward the interstate, Darlene in the passenger seat.

  “Darlene Monroe,” Matt added. “Marriage number three was basically a repeat of number two. That’s when you started to think that maybe it wasn’t the men, but your mother. That there was something wrong with her that made her gravitate toward losers. That there’s something wrong with you—”

  “Stop. Just stop.” Shay pressed her hands to her ears, not wanting to believe what was right in front of her. She shook her head. “This is just a hallucination.” She latched on to the only excuse she could think of.