Page 70 of Bearly Out Loud

“You’re kneeling in broken glass.”

She looked down. She was. Two small cuts on her left knee, blood beading through her jeans. She hadn’t noticed.

“Great. We’re both bleeding. This is the worst date we’ve been on.”

“Is this a date?”

“You walked me to my car and defended my honor with eight hundred pounds of bear. If that’s not a date in whatever culture you’re from, your species needs better courtship standards.”

He laughed. Low, surprised, pained—the wound pulling—but real. And the sound broke the last lock between her brain and her body, the one that had been holding the fear at arm’s length while she processed and performed.

Her eyes burned. She blinked hard. Once. Twice. Her jaw tightened against the tremor building behind it.

“Hey.” His free hand came up. Cupped the side of her face. His thumb swept under her eye, catching the tear she hadn’t authorized. “I’m okay. Look at me. I’m okay.”

“You got shot.”

“A graze.”

“Stop saying graze like it’s a paper cut. You were SHOT. With a GUN. While being a BEAR. In a PARKING GARAGE.” Each emphasized word landed louder than the last. The acoustics amplified them. Her voice filled the hard space, echoing off pillars and ceilings, and she didn’t care. She was a voice actress and she was shaking and the man she was falling for had been shot and she was going to be as loud about it as she wanted.

His thumb moved against her cheek. Gentle. Patient. He understood that her volume was her processing speed and the louder she got, the closer she was to the center of what she was feeling.

“You crumpled a car door.” Her voice dropped. The volume spent, replaced by a rawness that made her throat ache. “With one paw.”

“It was a Honda.”

“THAT DOESN’T MAKE IT LESS IMPRESSIVE.”

He smiled. Full. Warm. The smile that had been undoing her since the first studio session, except now she understood what powered it—not politeness, not CEO charm, but the deep, settled contentment of a bear whose mate was safe and close and yelling at him about car brands.

His mate. Is that what I am? Is that what this is?

She filed the question. Later. Right now: bleeding man, concrete, broken glass, two unconscious operatives, a destroyed Honda, and the sound of approaching sirens because, of course, someone had called the police. Car alarms on three levels tended to attract attention.

“You need clothes.”

He looked down at himself. Naked, kneeling, her jacket pressed to his shoulder—a denim jacket designed for a five-foot-six woman, currently doing the work of a bandage on a six-foot-four man. The visual was absurd and she was going to remember it for the rest of her life.

THIRTY-SIX

NARI

She shrugged off her bag. Dug through it. Came up with a scarf—silk, Hermès, a birthday gift from Suki that she wore to industry events and was about to sacrifice to the cause of covering a bear shifter’s modesty.

“This costs more than your car insurance deductible.” She handed it to him. “Wrap it around your—” She gestured vaguely at his lower half. “Situation.”

He took the scarf. Their fingers brushed. Even now—bleeding, shaking, kneeling in glass—the contact sent a current up her arm that she was tired of pretending was static electricity.

He wrapped the scarf with a dignity that no man should be able to maintain while tying a Hermès print around his waist in a parking garage. It covered approximately forty percent of what needed covering. The rest was muscle and skin and a man whose proportions did not accommodate accessories designed for women of average height.

“That’s the least effective use of Hermès in fashion history.”

“I’ll buy you another one.”

“It’s a limited edition. Suki sourced it from Tokyo.”

“I’ll buy you three.”