Bedded by the Bear: A Shifters in Love Fun & Flirty Romance (Mystic Bay Book 6)

by Isadora Montrose

  Howard set his beer can on the table between the rockers and rose to his feet. “It’s not that we’re unneighborly,” he said almost apologetically. “We just like our space.”

  “Heard and understood.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Zoë~

  Breathe, she commanded herself. Breathe. From inside the cabin Mitchell’s deep chuckles still reverberated. She was overreacting. Totally overreacting. Breathe. Admire the dawn. Do not stamp your feet. Do not shriek.

  This morning, the air was cool and foggy, although soft pink light glowed through the tree canopy. At the best of times, she couldn’t see past the trees from the porch. She had no reason to be irritated by the poor visibility.

  She was a native of the Pacific Northwest. She knew from fog and overcast days. Her irritation was not actually due to this entirely predictable and rather pretty fall morning.

  She was pissed at Mitchell and her anger was looking for a target. Mitchell’s isolated honeymoon cottage was grinding down her patience. His pouring her hot water into the bathroom pump to prime it was the final straw.

  If he had apologized for his mistake, that would have been one thing. But he had laughed at her dismay. She had put up with stumbling her way to the bathroom with only her flashlight.

  Not complained that once she was out of bed, the cabin was distinctly frosty. Even in slippers, her feet ached. But his using her hot water had totally gotten her goat. She needed to butt him where it would do the most good.

  Her eyes fell on the two empty beer cans lying askew on the porch table. Had Mitchell been drinking alone in the middle of the night? There was a faintly acrid smell out here. That not-quite-skunk stink.

  The porch broom was lying across the steps. She bent to pick it up and halted when she saw the handle had been chewed to splinters. Some critter had been gnawing on the wood. Great, they had critters.

  Mitchell’s footsteps told her he was behind her. “I put more hot water in the jug,” he said softly. “It’s in the bathroom.”

  She turned and tried to smile. “Thank you. I’ll have my wash now.” She knew her voice was still stiff. Unforgiving.

  “I’ll make the coffee,” he offered.

  “Thank you.” She was so not ready to make up.

  He caught her as she was trying to scoot past his bulk. Kissed her. This was no careful seduction like the kisses he had given her last night. This was no prelude to hot and sweaty sex. This was a brisk, masculine stamp of possession.

  Nonetheless, she responded like a fool, forgetting how funky she smelled, how cold she was, how ticked off. She wound her arms around his neck like some kind of clinging vine and returned his kiss with interest. Participated fully in her downfall.

  She was breathless and overheated when he let her go with a final kiss and scooped up the empties in one big hand.

  “Were you drinking alone in the middle of the night?” she demanded testily. “That’s a bad habit for a man to get into.”

  Not that a couple of beers would get a man as big as Mitchell drunk and incapable. But it was the principle of the thing.

  He replaced the chewed-up broom in the corner by the door. “Our neighbor dropped by to ask us to stay on our land.”

  She instantly forgot her real grievances. “The porcupine shifter did that?” She flapped a hand at the broom.

  “Howard Stickney. I apologized for trespassing and we had a beer together and then he went home.”

  “Oh.” The porcupines could chew their stuff, but they were to stay off Stickney land. Right.

  “We’re supposed to pick up a jar of olives for his wife in Mystic Bay. Emily. She’s pregnant.” Mitchell’s deep voice was amused.

  “Huh.”

  “Close your mouth and go have your wash. I’ll make pancakes.”

  She felt better when she had taken a sponge bath in the sink. But her hair was still a tangled mess, stiff with salt spray and sweat. There hadn’t been enough hot water to wash it too. Face it, she was not used to roughing it. And she didn’t want to get used to it.

  She wanted to be able to turn on a light so she could see into the corners of the room. Who knew what had crept through those cracks in the walls and now lurked in the dim recesses?

  Spiders probably. Maybe even centipedes. And she wanted to be able to take a proper shower without freezing. Wash and dry her hair. Be able to see to put on her makeup. Face it, for all she was a bear, camping was not her favorite activity.

  She combed her hair as best she could and put on clean clothes before she went out to the kitchen. Mitchell was in his element. He looked military crisp in a pressed shirt, with his hair neatly combed and his face smoothly shaven.

  “Did you shower?” she demanded.

  He nodded without taking his attention from the frying pan. “Of course.”

  “With cold water?”

  That made him stare. “Sure. It’s not that bad once the initial shock is over.”

  Not. That. Bad. “And you shaved with cold water?”

  “Not the first time.” He grinned at her. “A Marine is always clean. It’s kind of a rule.” He flipped pancakes.

  “I see.” She sat down at the table.

  Mitchell made them a mountain of fluffy pancakes and added a vat of fruit salad to the table. Sweet melon and tart berries made a perfect accompaniment to the pancakes and syrup. She drank her coffee gratefully and felt her morning fuzziness fade. Filled her mug again.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “But should you be drinking so much coffee while you’re pregnant?” He waved a hand at her water glass.

  She showed him her teeth. Finished her second cup. Possibly coffee increased the risk of miscarriage by some tiny percentage. Possibly. Or not. She poured herself a third cup she didn’t want. He shrugged and forked up pancakes as if he hadn’t just offended her.

  “So what did you and Mr. Stickney talk about?” she asked when deep breathing had controlled her temper.

  “Stuff. He wasn’t here long.” Mitchell ate his last bite of pancakes and drained his mug. He stood up. “If we’re going into Mystic Bay, we should leave soon.”

  If? “I thought that was our plan.” She failed to keep the snarkiness out of her voice.

  “I wondered if we should put our trip off, you seem a little tired.”

  She showed him her teeth again.

  His brows rose. “If you’re up for it, we do need to make a trip to the hardware store, and we need a marriage license. I could go by myself, if you’re not feeling well.”

  “I’m not staying here with the porcupines.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mitchell~

  This morning under a dull gray sky and with a persistent drizzle falling, Mystic Bay did not look quite as inviting as it had yesterday. Still Zoë perked up a bit as he eased their launch into a berth in the town marina. He tied up the Zephyr and Zoë scrambled onto the dock before the attendant could amble over.

  She leaned over, hands on her hips, gulping air. Mitchell had to admit that she didn’t look great. Her red raincoat was soaked. Around the hood, wet curls were plastered to her pale face. And her bare hands were blue with cold. Their ride from Bear Lookout had been both choppier and chillier than yesterday’s.

  Probably he should have put his foot down and left her at the cabin. In fact, if she was going to suffer from seasickness or morning sickness as part of her pregnancy, he was going to have to do something about the launch.

  They needed something more sedate with a closed cabin. This morning’s run had been zero fun for Zoë and a pain in the ass for him. The vessel simply did not handle as well at slow speeds. And Zoë did not handle fast ones at all.

  As soon as he had concluded the negotiations for the dock rental, Zoë turned to the dripping attendant. Unlike Zoë, Harvey was wearing yellow oilskins. The rolled collar of a heavy sweater peeped out from his neckline. That dude was probably roasting.

  Zoë gave Harvey a real smile. “Is there somewhere I can bu
y a slicker like yours?”

  “Sure.” Harvey’s yellow arm waved them up the slope to the ridge where the buildings began. “We have a general store and a marine outfitter. Right on Main Street. Can’t miss them.”

  “We’ll go there,” Mitchell assured her, “Just as soon as we pick up our license.”

  Zoë didn’t answer. She just set off. The hill wasn’t particularly steep, and it wasn’t far to Main St. But even he didn’t think that was why she rejected his hand. His little fiancée was pissed. Cold and pissed. He was going to have to upgrade that boat pronto.

  The town hall was a modest red-brick building with sandstone steps, a bit fancier than the wooden Victorian buildings on either side. Zoë marched right past it. The drizzle had made the sidewalks treacherous, but she still wouldn’t let him take her hand.

  Nicholson’s Marine Outfitters was right across the street, but she ignored it just as she was ignoring him. But she stopped dead transfixed by a plate glass window. Some sort of art gallery had three oil paintings grouped together on easels in its front window.

  “Look,” she said urgently.

  At least she was speaking to him. He looked. Three forest scenes looked back at him. Literally. The trees were full of eyes. Of life. It appeared to be the Old Forest. The artist had captured the essence and atmosphere of those ancient trees. Before he could remark on this, Zoë had trotted through the automatic door.

  A petite blonde woman about the same height as Zoë glided toward them, her plump face serene and welcoming. “Welcome to the Mystic Bay Artist’s Cooperative,” she said. “I’m Moira Drake. This week, we’re having a special showing of Quinn Drake’s work. Please, let me know if I can help you with anything.”

  “Did he paint those pictures in the window?” Zoë demanded wide-eyed. Her hands brushed her hood off.

  Moira’s smile grew brighter. “He did. Full disclosure: Quinn is my husband*.”

  “They’re wonderful,” Zoë said. She looked down at the wide, bare floorboards. “I’m sorry, I’m dripping everywhere.”

  A faint smell of horse wafted from the cavernous space. A refurbished stable, his nose deduced. A little rainwater was scarcely going to hurt it.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Moira said cheerfully. “May I?” She waved one arm. Zoë’s red coat was instantly dry.

  Mitchell looked down. His oilskins were also dry. He kept his composure with an effort of will. Aunt Ursula had said Mystic Bay was a haven for the paranormal. “How?”

  “Just a little fairy trick,” Moira said airily.

  Zoë nudged him, so he closed his mouth. She held out her hand to Moira. “I’m Zoë Worth, and this is my fiancé, Mitchell Reynolds.”

  Moira took Zoë’s outstretched hand in hers. “You’re freezing!”

  “We just got off our boat,” Zoë explained.

  “You were on the water in this weather?”

  “We don’t have road access,” Zoë said flatly.

  “Are you the folks staying in the Reynolds cabin?” Moira asked.

  It was time for Mitchell to take control of this conversation. “Yup. I’m the new owner.”

  Moira’s brows rose almost to her hairline. She blinked her green eyes at him. “Did the Council vote already?”

  That was right. The Town Council still had to vote on the land transfer from Ursula to him. It was interesting that this woman was aware of the details of a private arrangement.

  “My aunt signed the papers, and I’m a bear. It’s pretty much a done deal.” Although he was beginning to foresee trouble.

  Moira’s face cleared as she shook his hand. “You shouldn’t have any difficulty then.” She turned back to Zoë. “You need something hot to drink and a pair of gloves.”

  “We were on our way to get both,” Zoë said, “When I got distracted by the paintings in the window.”

  “Quinn’s work has that effect,” Moira said happily. “Those pieces are already sold, but there are several others just as good on the far wall.”

  Today’s job was obtaining a marriage license and some olives. He also needed to get to the building center and price generators and pick up caulk. Of course, buying warm clothes for Zoë was also important. Paintings weren’t on the list.

  “We don’t need any art today,” he interjected.

  Zoë looked up at him. Her lips tightened. “We have plenty of time. It’s not as though there is anything to do at the cottage.”

  Just a list longer than his arm. She certainly was in a mood today.

  Moira shot him a look that even he could see was a warning. “Why don’t you stop in on your way back to the harbor? You can return my gloves then.”

  Zoë’s hands were now sleekly covered in navy gloves. She flexed her fingers gratefully. “Thank you. Did you get these in town?”

  Moira shook her head. Blonde curls bounced. “I make my own clothes,” she responded as casually as if she meant she spent her free time sewing. “But it’s against the rules for me to outfit other people. If you don’t return them, those gloves will vanish in a few hours.”

  “Oh.”

  “Try the place across the street. Nicholson’s will also have heavy sweaters and slickers. Jessop’s Mercantile is a better bet if you want something less rugged.”

  “No chain stores?” asked Zoë.

  “Not one. No fast food chains either. You can get good coffee at the Wheelhouse.”

  Mitchell looked out at the glistening street. Drizzle fell steadily. “What about the Bean and Bran?” he asked. “It’s right across the street.” The tiny store front had an old-fashioned wood and glass door and a steady stream of customers.

  The fairy’s smile dimmed fractionally. “You’ll never get a seat there,” she murmured. “If you want lunch you could try the Crab Hut.”

  He took Zoë elbow firmly. “What do you want first? Food or a coat?”

  “Since I’m dry, let’s get some coffee.” She actually smiled up at him. “We’ll be back,” she told Moira. “Thanks for the loan of the gloves.”

  *Desired by the Dragon

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Moira~

  “Aunt Robin?”

  “How are you dear?” Even over the phone, Robin Fairchild’s silvery soprano retained its exquisite charm.

  “I’m fine. Those bears you’re expecting were just in the artist’s co-op. They’ve come to town for a marriage license.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” Robin said. “How did they strike you?”

  “They’re a nice couple. But she’s sort of testy. And he’s a bit impatient.” Moira cleared her throat. “She’s pregnant. You didn’t mention that.”

  “That’s why they are getting married,” Robin said ruefully. She waited a beat. “Do they like Bear Lookout?”

  Moira knew a lot was riding on that. “He does. She doesn’t. She’s freezing, and she wants hot water.”

  More silver bells rang as Robin chuckled lightly. “Perfectly understandable. But Gordon and I are in agreement that those two need a little adversity to strengthen their bond. I want to get a look at their auras. After all we have the reputation of the island riding on this match.” Robin referred to the old saying that, ‘A match made in West Haven is a match made in heaven’.

  “Good idea.” Both Robin and Sully possessed the talent to observe auras and intuit whether or not they complemented one another.

  “Are they still at the Co-op?” Robin asked.

  “I sent them to the Wheelhouse for a hot drink.”

  “That’s no good,” Robin said. “I can’t go over there. I’ll have to wait for them at the Town Hall. I can lurk in my office. Anyway, I should have a word with Brad before they arrive.”

  Poor bears. “And then what?”

  “If their auras resonate, we go forward with our plan.”

  “What plan would that be?” Moira asked.

  “Big wedding. Ursula Reynolds has invited their whole clan for the Saturday after next. So that’s pretty much a done
deal. But everything depends on whether or not they really belong together.”

  “You and Sully are the expert matchmakers,” Moira said.

  “We are. But that doesn’t mean we can create matches out of nothing. We can’t make those two fall in love if the raw material isn’t there.”

  “I suppose not. What exactly is it that Brad’s supposed to do?”

  “Stall them.”

  “How?”

  Robin laughed delicately. “Red tape.”

  “You know, you can be evil, Aunt Robin!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Zoë~

  By the time they had passed the Bean and Bran and walked the extra half-block to the Wheelhouse, Zoë’s raincoat was dripping and she was glad Moira had lent her some gloves. Once again, she was chilled right through. Mitchell pushed the door open and they went back in time.

  The Wheelhouse was a diner, and a relic of the fifties. Red vinyl booths marched along the far wall. A bunch of chrome stools with red tops crouched before a long stainless-steel counter. Small tables and chairs occupied the middle of the restaurant.

  It wasn’t as crowded as the Bean and Bran had been, but there were a respectable number of people. The booths were full, but there were plenty of empty tables.

  Mitchell pulled out a chair for her at the nearest one and helped her off with her coat. She had to stop sulking and snapping. But she was cold, queasy, and disgruntled.

  Before they could sit down, however, a big dude in a plaid shirt descended on them, hand outstretched and face beaming a welcome. “Capt. Reynolds?” he asked.

  Mitchell’s face broke into a matching grin. He grasped the other man’s hand and pumped it. “Good to see you, Benoit,” he said heartily.

  “You and your,” Benoit paused fractionally, “Friend should come sit with us.” He waved at a booth where a tall lean man was sitting.

  “This is my fiancée, Zoë Worth.” Mitchell put a hand in her back to propel her forward. “Zoë, I’d like you to meet Anton Benoit. We served together in the Corps.”

  Of course they had. What neither of them said, was that Anton was a bear. But it was obvious.