Page 26 of Bear and Order

"I said I think so." I try standing. Pain immediately argues, strongly. I wobble, and Brock catches me before I fall — one arm wrapping around my waist, steady and warm and solid. The contact sends awareness racing through me. Far too much awareness.

His gaze meets mine. Close. Very close. The silence settles in, and the alley suddenly feels much smaller. My pulse becomes annoyingly noticeable. So does his. For a moment everything else fades — the suspect, the investigation, the pain — and only Brock remains.

Then he clears his throat and looks away. The moment breaks, abruptly, probably for the best.

"You should have stayed put," he mutters.

I smile despite the pain. "There he is."

His eyes narrow. "The grizzly?"

"The grizzly."

A frustrated sound escapes him— which earns another look. A significantly softer one this time.

As Brock helps me toward the street, I can't stop thinking about the fury in his eyes. Not the rage. The pain behind it. Because that part wasn't anger.

That part was fear.

And somehow, that thought intimidates me far more than it should.

12

BROCK

My phone vibrates. I glance at the screen.

SOS.

That's it. No explanation, no context. Just three letters. My stomach drops immediately. Juniper. I call. No answer. I call again. Nothing. Every worst-case scenario surfaces at once — the suspect from the stakeout, the investigation, the sabotage, the injury to her ankle. I turn the truck around before I've consciously decided to, and by the time Sweetbell Bakery comes into view, irritation has joined the concern. A dangerous combination.

The bakery lights are on, the sign is lit, everything appears normal. I push past the front door and the bell rings overhead. Juniper looks up from behind the counter.

"You're here."

I watch her. Standing. Healthy. Entirely unharmed. Relief hits first. Annoyance follows without pause.

"What happened?"

She blinks. "What do you mean?"

"The text."

"Oh." The single syllable makes me suspicious. Very suspicious. Juniper smiles — the kind that belongs to someone about to become a problem.

"You said SOS," I say.

"Technically, yes."

"Technically?"

She gestures toward the kitchen. "I need help."

I stare cluelessly at her and her smile grows wider. "I have a catering order. Ollie is sick. The order needs to be perfect." A brief pause. "And I knew you'd answer."

I had to shut my eyes briefly. Because if I don't, I might actually growl. When I open them, she's still smiling, completely unrepentant.

"You abused emergency communications."