Stranger Creatures 2: Bear's Edge

by Christina Lynn Lambert

  “What’s wrong, Shay?”

  How the fuck did Grant know? She was stone-still and wore a pleasant smile. So how? The weight of his hand on her shoulder kept her tethered to the present as bodies from the crowd pressed in against them. She might be fooling everybody else, but she wasn’t fooling him, apparently.

  May as well share, she decided, especially since she’d just talked about how she preferred the truth over bullshit. “I’m not a big fan of crowds. Not since the…” She struggled for the right word. One didn’t speak the words “bomb” or “explosion” in a crowded public place. Memories of being stuck under the weight of dead bodies sometimes came back to screw with her in the push and pull of a large crowd.

  “Yeah, I’m not a big fan of crowds either. We’ll hang back. Stay with me, and we’ll both be fine.”

  Shayla knew she’d be fine on her own without Grant’s help. She knew what tricks to use, to breathe deeply and find the facts—what sounds did she hear, what could she smell, what did she see, what things were true—no matter where she was. While they waited for the crowd to thin out, her subtle deep breaths helped the senseless panic to fade and curiosity began to take the place of anxiety.

  “I’m sure you know why crowds freak me out a little. Any particular reason you don’t like crowds, or are they just not your thing?”

  Grant looked down and raked his hand through his shaggy dark hair. “It’s kind of stupid, but when I was a kid, my mother would throw these huge parties. Things got wild. People got crazy, sometimes mean. I just tried to stay out of the way.”

  “But you weren’t always fast enough?”

  “No.”

  His short answer made Shayla think the parties he’d endured weren’t like the cocktail parties her parents threw, and Grant hadn’t simply been running from a bunch of adoring, slightly drunk grown-ups who wanted to give him hugs and pinch his cheeks. A strange kind of rage bubbled up inside her at whoever had hurt Grant.

  His lips were warm at her ear, his voice a gravelly whisper. “It’s all right, baby doll. I made it out alive.” Grant’s hand, warm over hers, was a welcome surprise, and he kept her hand in his while they made their way through the corridor to a room full of some remarkable artwork. He gave her hand a squeeze before letting go.

  Shayla spoke with artists, bloggers, feature writers, critics, and even buyers. Leo Yuki, the gallery owner, introduced Shayla to a local newspaper columnist who wanted to do a feature on the After the Apocalypse exposition.

  “Rochelle Appel with Camden Star.” A tall, curvy woman with blue-streaked hair held out her hand, and Shayla shook it. “I hear you organized the effort to have Mr. Yuki donate part of the proceeds of ticket sales and art sales to the Hope and Healing charity.”

  “That’s right. Hope and Healing has made extensive efforts to donate prosthetic limbs and other services to disaster victims. They also fund research on mechanical limbs and treatment of burn victims.”

  “I also wanted to meet you, Ms. Patrick, because I read your story about the commuter van bombing while I was doing background research for my story.”

  Shayla cringed. Would this lady be another hack like Kendall Baron?

  Ms. Appel went on. “I assume living through such an experience had something to do with your efforts to raise money for Hope and Healing?”

  “It did. Very much so. So many people have not been fortunate enough to survive terrible things and come out as…intact as I did. If someone’s lucky enough to survive something horrible, then worrying about the cost of healing shouldn’t be their main concern.” Grant was close by, and that made her feel better, for whatever reason. He glanced her way. She got the message—he was there if she needed him. Turned out, she didn’t. The reporter had her own story to tell.

  “A decade ago, I couldn’t afford a prosthetic arm. I had recently graduated from college when I lost my arm in a rock-climbing accident. I couldn’t afford a good prosthetic with my crappy health insurance. It took me years of hard work before I was in a position to be able to buy the kind of prosthetic arm I wanted.”

  She shrugged. “Then I sort went all out.” She pulled up her left sleeve and showed Shayla a futuristic-looking arm with a complex system of gears and pulleys. The hand was a light silvery color with a pattern of black thorny flowers and vines running down the fingers. “This arm does more than fill out a shirtsleeve.” Ms. Appel wiggled her fingers and closed and opened her hand.

  “Fantastic! The design is beautiful too.”

  “Thanks. These exhibits are all pretty amazing, and I guess I’d better get a few more photos for my article, but thanks for talking with me.”

  “No problem.” Shayla smiled at the woman who had turned an injury into something beautiful. There was nothing creative Shayla could really do with her scars from the bombing unless she wanted facial tattoos, but she would make sure Hope and Healing had donations coming in on a consistent basis. While Shayla explored the last exhibit, Living Machines, which consisted of glass-and-iron animal sculptures with movable joints, Grant studied one particular piece. His fingers traced the spaces near the angles.

  “You’re building something else entirely in your head aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Guilty.” He gave her an embarrassed grin. “It’s relaxing.”

  Shayla waved to Sydney, who was deep in conversation with an art blogger Shayla had met earlier in the evening, and she and Grant made their way to the door.

  “I think yoga and funny movies are relaxing, but hey, whatever works for you. I don’t even like building things that come in a box with directions and the proper amount of screws and bolts. I’ve got an unassembled bookcase mostly still in the box because the screwed-up directions made me want to take up chain-smoking and start throwing things.” She laughed.

  “I’m good with stuff like that and fixing things around the house. Anything you need doing, just let me know.”

  “Those might be the most magical words a girl with no assembly and appliance-fixing skills can hope to hear. Be careful, or I’ll take you up on that offer,” she teased. Grant put his arm around her shoulders after they stepped outside. Maybe he was just trying to keep her warm in the chilly night air?

  “Call me anytime. I don’t mind fixing things. Besides, I like your company.”

  Shayla’s breath caught at the sincerity of his voice. When Grant pulled her closer to him, she was caught without her usual charm and skills to steer a conversation wherever she wanted it to go. When he leaned in, she didn’t back away. When he brushed his lips against hers, she returned the kiss. When she wrapped her arms around him, the kiss intensified.

  His lips against hers were perfect, and she wanted so much more, but she shouldn’t. An instant later, she and Grant pulled apart. Grant started to speak, then shook his head and opened the car door for her. Yes, they were both going to forget that kiss had happened, or pretend to, anyway. Light conversation and strange pauses filled the ride home. The journey wasn’t awkward because they had nothing to say, but awkward because there were things that couldn’t be said. Seven billion people in the world, and she was crushing harder by the minute on a guy she couldn’t have.

  Chapter Five

  Two weeks after the art exhibition, Shayla sent out one last e-mail for the day and shut off her light. Everything else could wait until Monday, and not just because she didn’t want to stay until all hours of the night and succumb to her former workaholic ways. This particular Friday she needed to haul ass home and finish cleaning up her house before her guests arrived. Her cleaning lady had called earlier, very sorry that she couldn’t make it to her once-weekly cleaning appointment at Shayla’s house, which sucked because Shayla had been so busy all week long that her house was a wreck.

  Everyone at Brass Cat was leaving early to go get ready to attend her birthday party, and also attending were a few other friends she had made since moving to Great Oaks almost three years ago. Shayla had a lot to celebrate. She made less money now than she
had three years ago—hence, a party at her house and not at some venue—but had her own business to grow however fast or slow she wished. Not to mention that she actually had a personal life outside work, and that in itself was huge progress. She could only regret that it had taken her almost getting blown up and crushed to death to start that process.

  The upcoming party was more about celebrating all she had endured and how much she had changed than about turning a specific number. She just didn’t want to go around spouting off a bunch of philosophical mess about it, and “I have scars and PTSD, but I’m not an asshole anymore, so let’s celebrate” didn’t make for a great invitation headline. Nope, Shayla’s Thirtieth Birthday Celebration looked much better on the invites.

  She locked her office door and made her way to the front to give Sue, the front-desk receptionist-office manager, a couple of quick details about the Monday-morning staff meeting. Grant walked into the lobby and sat in one of the leather chairs in the waiting area. Two weeks had gone by since their kiss outside the art gallery. They should probably talk about it, but she didn’t want to speak the words that would put an end to whatever was beginning. He met her gaze and raised his eyebrows. She nodded, noting his serious expression. Grant picked up a copy of Time magazine but was clearly waiting for her. Patiently but urgently. The patience part she could see. The urgency she could feel.

  Shayla prided herself on being a logical woman. She had a talent for reading nonverbal cues, and the manner in which Grant sat—a relaxed pose with tense muscles, jaw set in determination, his brow slightly furrowed—gave her the clues she needed. She could feel the intensity of it when she looked at him and because she cared about him as a friend. A friend you want to see naked.

  Sue smiled and patted her on the arm. “I’ll see you tonight, Shay.” Sue lowered her voice to a fake whisper. “Now go see what that gorgeous man over there wants.” She and Sue both glanced over at Grant, then giggled. Grant gave them a theatrical scowl.

  “Don’t frown, sweetheart.” Sue teased Grant. “I’m going home to make some blueberry muffins with fresh blueberries and brown sugar, just like you like them. I’ll bring them to the party tonight.”

  “Thanks, Sue.” Grant stood and escorted her to the door. “You need me to walk you to your car tonight?”

  “No thanks, sweetie. I’m parked right out front. It’s still light outside, anyway. I’ll see you kids in a little while.”

  Shayla and Grant were now face-to-face, and for once she couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. Oh, good grief, how on earth can his cologne smell so freaking fantastic? Finding that polite, professional attitude where a boss and employee chatted about superficial things and went on about their business might be the only way Shayla could survive and overcome her attraction to the smart, sexy man so close to her every day. She wanted to find that attitude, but she needed a minute to get herself together. She started to step back.

  Grant looked down for a second. “Would you mind if I stopped by a little early tonight, before the party starts? I need to talk to you.”

  Responses such as, What is it already?, Can’t we just talk now?, or Is it really that important? all fizzled in her head because he looked so serious and he stood so close, and of course she still couldn’t ignore the fact that he smelled amazing, like the faintest hint of oceans and pine trees. Grant had probably gone to lunch at the Greenhouse Effect and sat by the lake, or maybe he had on some outrageous black-market type of cologne designed to bring women to their knees with promises of ecstasy. Shayla was glad for lightly padded bras when she felt her nipples tingle and harden, as if he had run his fingers over her skin. Make it stop, she pleaded with her body.

  “Shay?”

  “Um, yes. That’s fine, but are you sure we can’t just—”

  “Not here.”

  What does that even mean? “Okay. Sure.” She took a little step back, to get some distance, and he exhaled. Was he holding his breath?

  “See you at six.” And then…he smiled a shy, sweet smile, the kind that she so rarely saw from him. Her heart melted into a syrup puddle. No time to dwell on it, though. She had to go home, clean her house, and get ready. And she had to do it a whole lot quicker than she had expected.

  * * * *

  Is he going to quit? Is he going to ask me out? Is it something bad about the business? Did stupid Kendall Baron decide to mess with Brass Cat after all? What does he need to tell me? Shayla worried along, going from room to room, vacuuming and hiding messes in closets and under beds. Nobody would look under the beds. Dirty dishes got loaded in the dishwasher, and dirty laundry got thrown into the wash.

  Now her house was ready, but Shayla still wasn’t. She did her best to focus on getting gorgeous and not worry about problems that might or might not exist. She had already chosen one of her favorite dresses, a simple black almost knee-length, not-too-dressy dress, made remarkable by the wide cherry-red belt and the red velvet trim. The lining of the dress was so soft, almost cotton, but better. Sleek black ankle boots and ruby earrings completed the outfit. Shayla put a few curls in her hair with the curling iron and let them set before pulling the top part of her hair back and into a clip. She rarely wore her hair completely down. It was kind of a “fuck you; deal with my scars” message to the world.

  A look in the mirror revealed that despite her hurried preparations, she still looked pretty good. If Grant was leaving Brass Cat, she wanted to tempt him to stay. Shayla sank down onto her bed with a heavy sigh. She was Grant’s boss. She couldn’t think of him like that, but damn it, he had been there since Brass Cat Advertising opened, so he was a part of the business. He had become a friend, and Shayla knew what part of her life she would like him to fit into. It wouldn’t be the first time she had thought someone at work was fantasy-worthy, but this time she was the boss. She repeated that little fact over and over in her head.

  All those thoughts about possibilities would have to be kept to herself, despite her feeling that there was something indescribably good growing between them, however unspoken it was. Too many times to count, Shayla had felt Grant’s gaze on her, and not just lately. At first, it had been a simple ego boost for her, especially since she hadn’t yet undergone the scar-reduction surgery when she’d hired Grant and officially opened her company for business.

  The accident had not left Shayla completely unattractive, nor did she appear frightening to small children, but the scars were clearly there on her face where everyone could see. After her scar-reduction surgery a few months before, she had come home and looked in the mirror. Really stood there in the bathroom and looked. The image did not reflect perfection, but she saw improvement. When she’d returned to work that Monday, on her desk had been a bottle of champagne, a big chocolate bear—everybody knew she loved bears—and a vase of pretty pink roses. In front of everything lay a note from Grant with a simple message: Welcome Back.

  When Shayla had found Grant, she’d given him a huge hug to thank him for the gifts. She’d had to stand on her tiptoes to reach. When he’d wrapped his arms around her and hugged back, it felt as though he was welcoming her home, like maybe he had really missed her. The thought had seemed silly at the time, but…

  Grant had pulled back then and looked her straight in the eye. “You look beautiful,” he’d told her before turning abruptly and walking away. “You always look beautiful.” He had said it just under his breath, but Shayla had caught it. She had hearing like a bat.

  Things between them had never gone further than hugs, intense looks, sharing body heat at a freezing winter festival, and yeah, that one kiss, but would she stop him if he tried? She would have to put a stop to anything physical between them because I’m his boss. Yes, back to that. What else could she do but endure her little crush until it fizzled? She vowed to work on meeting a few nice men. She hadn’t really been trying. She no longer let work consume her entire life. The frenzy of starting a new business from nothing—except for a few clients she had figured out how to legally
swipe from her old job thanks to the legal genius of her friend Derrick Porter—had calmed in the past few months. It was time.

  Shayla had spent the past few years of her life healing from her injuries and trying to really get to know herself again, trying to see herself as more than what she did for a living. When she’d begun to work on finding hobbies and friends outside her career, she’d gradually become a part of her new community in Great Oaks. The town, once full of empty textile plants, boarded-up grocery stores, and other deserted businesses, had started growing and thriving when creative new architecture replaced desolate buildings. Businesses attracted more commerce and trade, and people flocked to the fresh air and good real estate prices. Brass Cat Advertising had made its home in a renovated convenience-store building.

  While she had been busy putting herself back together and finding a good place in life and, oh yeah, running a business, Shayla hadn’t thought much about dating, except that for the past couple of months she’d been thinking way too much about Grant. Why did the train in her head keep insisting on going around the Grant track? She wanted him, and she couldn’t date him. The end.

  Back to the plan of looking for a nice, handsome stranger to get to know, maybe go out on a few dates with. No more friends with benefits like she used to have. Seriously, what was the point anyway? She got more satisfaction out of a good workout session followed by a bowl of peanut-butter-chocolate-chunk ice cream. And ice cream and fitness instructors didn’t require awkward conversation or faked orgasms. The whole concept of fuck buddies no longer appealed to her, but the idea of dating with a purpose was a little daunting.