A Lion After My Own Heart: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (Honeycomb Falls Book 5)

by Cassie Wright

  Contents

  A Lion After My Own Heart

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Mailing List

  Copyright

  A Lion After My Own Heart

  Honeycomb Falls Series, Book 5

  By Cassie Wright

  Chapter 1

  It's Friday night and I've got a super hot date planned. Well, let's be honest. It's actually a super cold, even frigid date. I open the glass door and reach into the supermarket freezer. Tonight I'm going to get ridiculously intimate with Mr. Rocky Road, a demure pint that won't last but half an hour. But that, from what I hear, is about twenty-five minutes longer than most men, and my date is guaranteed to be sweet from start to finish. What's not to love?

  I control myself and stride with military discipline past the cookie aisle. I don't even peer into the aisle that's festively arrayed with chocolate bars. Oh, no, that way lies real trouble. Instead, I get right in line like a good little girl, one pint of ice cream in my basket, and last until I'm just one person from the cashier.

  Then my will breaks, and with a quiet excuse me to the hunky guy behind me, I hurry back to the chocolate aisle and grab a bar of gourmet milk chocolate with almonds and sea salt. I mean, come on. Friday night might last well past when my date with Mr. Rocky Road ends. What's a girl to do when she hits episode five of her latest Netflix series, with nary a bite of something tasty in sight?

  I'm lucky: the gentleman who was standing behind me in line lets me cut back in. He's tall, dark and good-looking, with iron gray stubble and penetrating green eyes. I get a shiver from the tips of my ears to my private parts, and for a moment I imagine him leaning in to ask my name, his breath warming the curves of my ear, smelling good, maybe a British accent. Hmm. And maybe he'd want my number, and then he'd ask in a deep and gorgeous voice, oh so polite, how best to navigate the hidden wonders of my pussy.

  I wait, ready to melt into his arms, but of course he doesn't say a thing, completely blowing a chance at wild sex and free ice cream, so with a sigh I pay for my items and step up to the door. I have to brace myself to step out into the Boston night. Winter winds here are murderous. I don't use that word lightly. Sometimes the wind will come howling down the dark streets like a massive knife and just stab right through your clothing, no matter how many layers you've got on, and send a shaft of icy cold right into the marrow of your bones.

  So I take a deep breath, pull my coat tight around myself, tuck my chin to my chest, and run out into the night, leaving tall, dark, and annoyingly silent behind me to dart across the road and up the steps to the amazingly wonderful apartment my dad had left me in a beautiful brownstone - fully paid for - when he passed away two years ago.

  My hands are already numb as I dig out my keys and unlock the front door. Shivering and shaking, rethinking the wisdom of ice cream when the whole word is about to shatter from cold, I let myself in and slam the door closed behind me.

  Home. Sometimes I think I'm ridiculously lucky to have a little shopping mart that's so well-stocked right across the street. Then again, whenever that convenience convinces me to pop over to buy more decadent goodies, I sometimes wish it was a few blocks further away.

  Pulling off my knitted hat with the big pompom(I knitted it myself, and wear it regardless of the looks it gets me from the public at large), I climb the two flights of stairs to my apartment door and let myself in. I turn on the lights and sigh with relief as I struggle out of my gloves, coat, sweater, scarf and boots. (Doing so makes me feel sympathy for what astronauts have to go through every time they come back into their shuttles.)

  Home. Well, my dad's home. I still have trouble thinking of it as mine. There's no way in heck that I'd be able to pay for something so wonderful on my meager reporter's salary. Two bedrooms, a huge living room, an open kitchen, and a bathroom that comes with my favorite thing in the world: an ivory porcelain tub big enough for two.

  I dump my purchases on the kitchen counter and grab my phone. I haven't checked my social media or my favorite news blogs in over thirty minutes, and who knows what could have happened since then? Another revolution in the Middle East, a new gaffe in the local mayoral elections, a celebrity sex-suicide-marriage, or some political scandal out of DC. That's another thing I hate about the cold: it keeps me from checking my phone. Who's going to scroll their screen with icicle fingers?

  I sink into my dad's armchair and spend half an hour scrolling through Twitter, writing responses and retweeting, and then pop over to Facebook. After that, a quick check of my RSS Feed shows that three new articles have appeared on my favorite blogs, but I decide to save them for later. I may be a complete and utter news addict, but there's Rocky Road waiting on the counter, and honey, that's just about the only thing that trumps my addiction.

  I set down my phone at last and look around my dad's dark apartment. Suddenly a wave of sadness washes over me. It's so silent. I should turn on all the lamps. Put on music. Make a little effort to cheer myself up. I know that I'll feel good once I've started watching that Netflix series and cracked open my oeey-gooey ice cream dinner, but right now, suddenly and unexpectedly, I just feel down. Alone.

  It's moments like this when I feel the pressing urge to own a cat, but it's an urge I've fought thus far. I know the minute I get one, I'll end up with six, and then I'll be an official cat lady like old Miss Harble downstairs, and I'll never have a chance at a hot and heavy romance all of my own. Or so I tell myself. I adore cats. I know I'll get one soon. Just not... yet.

  I can hear laughter from people walking by the house. The sound only makes me feel more lonely. I stand up and move to the window, and watch the group of five people heading to some bar or other public space. They seem so happy and carefree. My sadness deepens. Where have all my friends gone? Derek moved to DC. Susan hasn't talked to me since she stole my feature story and I called her on it. Leah just had her first kid, and now is in full-blown mommy mode. Julie can't do anything without her new boyfriend, Marcus, whose politics make me want to scream.

  But to be honest, I just haven't done much to keep my friendships going. I live for work. I'm the first to arrive at the Globe's office, and the last to leave. I sometimes go in on weekends. I just love the office. I love my job. I love the smell of coffee at six in the morning as I turn on my computer and prepare for another day covering Boston's politics. Even Mercia, my killer queen boss, has told me to take it a little easy.

  I sigh again, and suddenly my phone pings. An email! Curious, harboring a crazy hope that the tall dark stranger in the convenience store has sent me an invitation to go out, I open the email and see that it's a message from Mercia. Work. Hmm. Almost as good.

  Hi Myra, I hope you're not at the office. If you are, go home! Either way, I've got a new assignment for you. I just heard from a friend that Alexander Adams is entering the mayoral race. Total dark horse candidate from left field. Could really shake things up. I want you to write a profile on him for us to run on Monday. Short notice, but I know I can count on you to get this done. Thanks. Now go home!

  "I am h
ome," I say to my phone, sticking out my tongue. But it's not too far a stretch for Mercia to make that assumption. Alexander Adams? The name sounds vaguely familiar. I quickly Google him, and his face pops up on my phone.

  Oh. My. But wait. Maybe it's just a good photograph. I jump to another image, than a third. Nope. They're all good shots. Scratch that. Amazing shots. Alexander Adams suffers from a particularly vicious case of hunka-wowza-ridiculously hot. I mean, Adonis, panty-wetting hot. Short golden hair, with smoldering blue eyes and a confident smile that makes me want to purr. Broad shoulders, a trim body - basically the whole package. No way. Politicians are never this hot.

  Who is this guy? I read up on him, and get a quick mental picture: he replaced Patrick O'Brien last year as a commissioner, and has done an amazing amount of work in just six short months. His popularity rating is through the roof, and to everyone's amazement he's received enough local support to actually make a bid for mayor.

  I want to laugh at his boldness: he's up against old political players with big money. And yet. His eyes. Those soulful blue eyes. They stare out at me with such sincerity and confidence that somehow I can't quite laugh. That smile of his, that quirking of the corner of those generous lips. Oh, yes. This Alexander guy is definitely bold. I can tell just from looking at him that what he wants, he gets.

  I wiggle in my seat, feeling a tingle down there as I scroll through more pictures of him. Are there any of him in a bathing suit? No such luck. But in this one his shirt sleeves are rolled up, and hmm, he's got nice strong forearms, with large, capable hands. And in this pic his shirt is tight across his shoulders and chest, hinting at the incredible muscles just out of view beneath the fabric.

  Alexander Adams: officially yummy, and while I don't know his platform, he's already got my vote.

  Then it hits me - my deadline is Monday? That gives me two days to score an interview. I can't publish anything worth a damn without at least a quote. Either Mercia thinks I'm truly capable of moving heaven and earth, or she's looking to screw me.

  I stand up and begin pacing. Run my hands through my black hair, shaking it out of my scrunchie and rubbing my scalp with my fingertips. How can I score an interview? I open my laptop on the kitchen counter, not even glancing at Mr. Rocky Road, and quickly scroll through a number of different news sites and blogs.

  There we go! Tomorrow night Alexander will be at a private fundraiser at the Deerfield Estate. $1000 a plate. I gulp. There's no way Mercia would spring for that. I grab my phone and scroll through my contact list. Who could help me?

  No, no, no. Not him, or her, or - maybe? I stop at a name. Erin Brokley? She's a political fixer in Alexander's party, and better yet, she owes me big for a tip I gave her last year. It's almost nine on a Friday night, but I call her anyway.

  "Hello?" I can hear the sound of conversations and music in the background. She must be out at dinner.

  "Erin! It's Myra. How are you?"

  "Myra! One sec." The sound remains muffled, and then suddenly grows distant. "There. I've stepped outside so I can hear you. How are you?"

  "Outside? No! Abandon ship! Go back inside, you'll freeze!"

  Erin laughs. "I won't, but please be quick! I'm eating sushi with Michael Rasbone. If I blink, somebody will be in my seat in a flash."

  Rasbone is a big player in Boston, a big political donor. Erin's taking my call is a huge indication of how much she owes me. "OK, I'll be quick. The Deerfield fundraiser tomorrow. Are you going?"

  "Of course. Are you?"

  "No, but I really, really, really need to. It's for a story. Can you help?"

  Silence. I can practically hear the wheels spinning in Erin's mind. "Sure. Yes. I can get you in."

  "Are you sure? I don't want to -"

  "Myra." Erin cuts me off decisively. "You saved my job and my reputation last year. Trust me, I can get you in. Can you be at the front door tomorrow at eight?"

  "Eight? Sure!"

  "It's black tie. Be sure to dress up."

  "Black tie? Oh, pssht. That's no problem. I'm in black tie right now." I smile to hide my complete and sudden panic.

  "I'll bet! Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to run. Can't wait to see you tomorrow. Bye!"

  "Thanks, Erin!" The line clicks and I set my phone down. Black tie? Oh, no. Somehow I've managed to avoid having to wear anything fancy in over a year, and during that time I may have put on a pound. Or two. I don't even want to pull out my old dresses. That's a guaranteed trip down disaster alley. I'll have to buy something new.

  And I know that most of the dresses the women will be wearing tomorrow will be vastly more expensive than the $1000 plate fee. How am I going to avoid looking like a frump? Or some crazy hobo-reporter, running around ambushing mayoral candidates before she gets thrown out?

  Disconsolate, I do what I always do - turn to the internet. I search 'black tie for women' and scan some articles. Then sigh. A floor-length gown, apparently, is required. A third article, however, tells me that 'in this day and age, exceptions can be made'. There! All the permission I need to avoid a ball gown. I'll print this article and show it to anybody who complains.

  I read on: a cocktail dress can suffice, but keep the colors rich. Black, jewel tones, chic metallics, etc. But what about the murderous weather? I scan down, and read more advice: invest in a faux-fur coat, or a classic overcoat. A chic shawl is good, and a cashmere wrap is even better.

  I sigh. My poor, poor checking account. Reaching over, I grab my date. "C'mere, Mr. Road. You've got some sweet consoling to do."

  I dig a spoon in deep, and then look at my phone, where Mr. Alexander Adams smiles his smoldering smile up at me. Ah, well. At least it's for a good cause. And who knows? Maybe he'll fall wildly and irrevocably in love with me, and we'll ride off into the sunset on a white stallion.

  Yeah, right. I snort, grab the remote control, and head over to the sofa and the TV.

  Chapter 2

  I step out of the cab feeling like a total impostor. Who is this glamorous girl staring back at me from the hotel window? My hair is done up to the nines in this French twist with curls, arranged by the fabulous Miss Curie from the Paris Salon downtown. I'm wearing an amazing overcoat that makes me feel like Ingrid Bergman from Casablanca, tied off at the waist, which I am going to definitely return for a full refund first thing tomorrow morning. My pumps gleam, black as sin, but my legs are already nearly frozen from the biting, Arctic-like cold.

  I stare at my reflection, ignoring the crowds, the music coming from the hotel's double doors, everything, and have to give myself a grudging nod. I clean up pretty good. If you get me off the couch, replace my ice cream with a clutch, and spend $120 on hair and make-up, I don't look too shabby.

  I give myself a saucy wink, then dig my phone out of my purse. 8:01 p.m. Look at that. I'm right on time, too. Feeling buoyed by a nervous confidence, I stride right to the front door of the Hotel Chevalier, where the Deering Estate is hosting the event. Amidst the small crowd gathered outside (everybody looking fabulous and wealthy) I spot Erin, her brown hair cut like Jennifer Aniston's, looking athletic and panther-like in a burgundy wrap that reveals her shoulders.

  "Myra!" She steps forward and kisses me in that delicately precise way that women do when they're both wearing fabulous make-up. "You look - wow." She takes a step back so as to get a really good look at me. "You look ravishing."

  "Thanks!" I feel like doing a little spin to show off, but somehow control myself. "You look great too! Run any marathons lately?" Erin's a huge fitness buff, and when she's not canoodling with Boston's political heavyweights, she's lifting heavy weights and running ridiculous distances for no good reason. The only way you'd get me to run a marathon is if you chased me with a very sharp knife.

  "I've got a triathlon next month." She takes me by the arm and leads me inside, into the marble-floored lobby where voices echo and light gleams off crystal chandeliers and expensive jewelry.

  "You are not going to go swimming in February."
I stare at her. "I forbid it."

  Erin grins. "It's not so bad. Just a quick dip."

  "Erin. You'll -" I try to imagine the absolute worst thing that could happen. "Your ovaries will freeze!"

  "My ovaries? Myra!" Erin lets out a bark of surprised laughter. "You're a riot. Now come on. I've managed to snag you a table in the corner. It's the best I could do. You didn't even tell me why it was so imperative you attend. I'm guessing it's got something to do with the sinfully attractive Mr. Adams?"

  "I - why - yes." I smile at her. "I may or may not be doing a story on him. Are you two friends?"

  We stop at the coat check, and I pocket my ticket as I hand over my overcoat. Suddenly nervous, I smooth down my bronze cocktail dress, one shoulder bared to the world. Erin gives me an approving nod, and together we enter the ballroom where we're immediately greeted by a waiter with a tray of champagne flutes. I snag one expertly, as does Erin, who steers me by the elbow to one side.

  "There. Do you see him? The center of attention, of course, close to the stage. To the left of the microphone stand."

  I rise onto my tiptoes to peer over the crowd, and there is Alexander Adams in the flesh. Be still, my wildly palpitating heart. He looks like he just stepped out of The Great Gatsby, wearing a tux like he was born in one, fresh and crisp and just perfect on his body. His smile melts my journalistic integrity away, and his golden hair is a little darker than the photographs represented - I can imagine him with perfect yellow hair as a child that has darkened just a little as he's aged.

  Erin shakes her head slowly. "The things I could do to that man."

  I gulp. "You're telling me. He's not single. He's married, isn't he? With six kids. And a beautiful wife. A model. Who's also an international human rights lawyer or something."

  "Nope. He's criminally single. But not for long, I'm sure. He's got about five thousand women throwing themselves at him like waves at the base of a cliff."