Don't Judge a Bear by His Cover: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (Honeycomb Falls Book 6)

by Cassie Wright

  Contents

  Don't Judge a Bear by his Cover

  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

  Other Works by Cassie Wright

  Copyright

  Don't Judge a Bear by His Cover

  Honeycomb Falls #6

  By Cassie Wright

  Chapter 1

  I'm about to get what I came for, and I hate myself for it. I can see old Mr. Waters' resolve crumbling right before me. His hopes and dreams collapsing before my words. I can be damn convincing when I want to be. I can sell the proverbial ice to the Eskimos, and right now I'm convincing Mr. Waters to sell his indie bookstore to my dad. To join the ever-growing Universal Books family. To give up. To sell out. One more push, and his cute little bookstore will be mine.

  "But..." He's running out of steam. Frowning, he stares at his wrinkled hands, endlessly turning a pencil around and around between his fingers. The pencil is about an inch long. I've been fascinated by it since I sat down across from him. Who sharpens a pencil down to the nub? Mr. Waters, is who. It told me everything I needed to know about him in one glance. That he's frugal. That he's old-fashioned. That he's running out of money.

  "Mr. Waters." I sit back, easing off on the pressure. "You know as well as I do that sales are down. And each quarter is only going to get harder. You've told me all about your loyal clients. How they held a fundraiser to keep you open. That kind of love is - well - frankly amazing. But how much longer can you last?"

  He purses his lips but doesn't speak. We both know the answer: not long.

  "Look, my father doesn't want to change anything about Between the Pages. You'll remain the manager. You'll choose how to arrange the shelves, whom to hire, what kind of scones to serve at your tea counter. We want you to join our family precisely because of your quality. You don't even have to mention Universal Books anywhere. In a way, we just want to help you stay open."

  It sounds so good I almost believe it myself.

  Mr. Waters' frown deepens. "There's no such thing as a free lunch." He's still not meeting my eyes.

  "Well, no." I shift my weight slightly, using my body language to indicate that he's made a point. Got to give him something. Make him feel astute. "We'll insist on your using our financial software. On sending our newsletter to your customers. On coordinating author tours with our other stores." I pause. I have to deliver this part carefully. "And, best yet, we'll be entering you into our ebook referral program by installing one of our custom kiosks here. Every ebook a customer buys from a major online retailer will earn you a percentage of the sales. Think of it as free money."

  Mr. Waters snorts. "Free money." He finally looks up at me, and his china blue eyes hold an expression so raw and hard that my stomach knots itself even tighter. "I've spoken with Ted down at Poem Unlimited in Chicopee and Frances at Runaway Alphabet over in Worcester. They've told me how the kiosk system works. How they're little more than window dressing to your online referral program now."

  I go to answer, but Mr. Waters holds up his hand. "No, save it." His voice has changed. It's become as hard as his gaze. "I've been waiting for you to come knocking at my door for several months now. Saira Froud." He snorts. "You're infamous in our circles, did you know that? Who would have thought that the grim reaper of dreams would be so comely? I'll sign. I can't stay open another two months, and you know it. Bring in your damn kiosks. Just don't waste my time by trying to convince me you're doing me a favor."

  "I - Mr. Waters." I sit up straight. He's got more bite than I thought. Worse yet, he's hitting me below the belt. Grim reaper? Infamous? "My dad -"

  The small pencil snaps between his blunt thumbs as he leans forward. "With all due respect, Ms. Froud, fuck your dad." My eyes pop wide open. I'm genuinely shocked to hear this lovely old man speak like this. "He's a carrion crow feasting on our remains. I and my kind entered this business to share our love of books. To introduce kids to the magic of reading. To provide a safe place for people to browse and share and come together. Your dad doesn't give a rat's ass for any of that. He just wants money. As do you. Now leave your papers and get the hell out of my store. You've won. Do me the favor of not hanging around to gloat."

  I stand. My throat is closed and my heart is thudding. I want to apologize. But how can I? I drop the folder on his desk. He's staring down at the broken pencil between his fingers. The sight of it rends at my heart. He looks sad to have snapped it. I take a deep breath and glance around Between the Pages. The place is so cute. Soon it will change, and for the worse. And I'll have made that happen. I'll have been the agent of destruction.

  I grab my briefcase and march outside. The cold air revives me somewhat. Still, I feel awful. This is the eleventh indie bookstore I've convinced to sell to my father. Three years I've been working for him, and I just can't do it anymore. The realization hits me like a sack of bricks. I can't walk into another bookstore and tear someone else's dreams apart. I just can't. I'm going to call my dad and tell him I'm out. I don't care what he's done for me in the past. I'm done.

  A small Irish bar is already open across the street. I enter, order a glass of whiskey, and sit in the back. I set my smart phone on the table. My dad's expecting my call. My report. Not that he'll be surprised. For the first time in my life he's proud of me. I'm finally 'effective'. I stare at the phone as I sip the whiskey. It's too easy to summon the faces of the bookstore owners I've forced to sell. To remember their anguish as they tried to find a way to squirm out. The different ploys and tactics I used to make sure there was no escape.

  I finish the drink, and with the alcohol burning in my stomach, I pick up the phone and call. It rings twice, and then my dad answers, his voice sharp and clear. "Report."

  As always, I feel a complex wave of revulsion and love, affection and nervousness at the sound of his voice. I take a deep breath. "Mr. Waters has agreed to sell." Dredging up those words makes me feel sick.

  "Excellent. Any clauses or conditions?"

  "No. Not yet. He's going to read the purchase offer. He might come back with some then."

  "Very good." I can hear his contentment. "With Between the Pages, we'll have almost locked up all of western Massachusetts. Good work, Saira."

  Good work. Growing up, I would have killed for a compliment like that. Any sign of approval. Now, those words serve only to confirm that what I've done is wrong. I need to speak. I need to tell him I'm done. But my throat's locked up. I sit there, frozen in my little booth, phone held to my ear.

  "Saira?" His voice is sharp. "Are you there?"

  "I'm out," I whisper.

  "What?" His voice is almost a bark. "What was that?"

  "I'm done," I say, feeling faint. "I'm quitting."

  He laughs. "What are you talking about, Saira? You can't quit." There's a quiet satisfaction to his voice.

  "I don't care." I sit up straighter. I feel like I'm twelve years old again. Tears brim in my eyes. "I don't care what you do. I can't do this anymore. Please. Let me go."

  There's a pause. He has to hear the pain in my voice. Is he considering my words? I wait, breathless.

  "Saira." I know that tone. Careful, as if he's ab
out to pick his way through a minefield. To my horror, I recognize it as how I speak when dealing with people like Mr. Waters. I know this tactic. I've used it a hundred times myself. Switch to gentle understanding. Sympathetic, but still ultimately inflexible. "You have been my best employee. These past three years, your dedication and success has been exemplary. I'm proud of you."

  "No, Dad," I cut in, not caring how annoyed he'll be. "I don't care. They're calling me the 'grim reaper of dreams.' This isn't me. I can't do this." I feel panicked. Claustrophobic.

  "Shh. Yes, you can. You can do anything. You're that good. That smart. That talented. Saira. For better or worse, you are my daughter. You have my talent. My skills. You're the best. Just like me." His words are hypnotic, his confidence unshakable. I feel compelled to believe him. It would be so much easier to give in. To just bow my head and agree. But I can't. I've reached the point of no return. I have to get out.

  "No." I gulp and wipe the tears from my eyes. "I'm not like you. I'll never be like you. I -"

  "If you insist on this line of action," my father says, voice cold and clear, "I will send those documents to the police. Don't doubt for a second that I will. And they will re-open the investigation, and drag you into court, and I will give testimony that you are guilty, and you will go to prison."

  I grip my phone so hard I can hear the plastic protest. "No," I whisper.

  "I don't want to do this. But we have an agreement. You will work for me for ten years. You will do whatever I request until you earn your freedom. You have seven years left. It's really quite simple."

  "Please," I whisper. I've never begged. Never broken down before him. But now I've got nothing left. "Daddy. Please. Let me go."

  Silence. Tears brim and run down my cheeks. In the beginning, when my dad explained the nature of the work I'd be doing, I was convinced I could tough it out. But with each bookstore owner I broke, my sense of self grew weaker. I couldn't keep looking into good people's eyes and seeing pain and anger and bewilderment. Couldn't keep being the tool that was destroying their dreams.

  "Saira." I can tell his patience is all used up. "I'm very, very disappointed in you. I thought you were made of sterner stuff. I guess I was wrong."

  What can I say? Nothing. So I stay quiet.

  Finally he sighs. "Fine. I'm not a complete monster. I'll amend our original agreement. If you honestly cannot honor it, then - fine."

  I can't believe it. I sit up, blinking away the tears. "Seriously?"

  "I - yes." I can hear the regret in his voice. "You'll be of no use to me like this. So let's do the following. Convince one more store to sell, and I'll destroy the documents. You'll be free to go and waste your life in any way you please."

  "One more?" I bite my lower lip. "All right. I'll do one more. Deal."

  "Very good." I hear pages being turned. "This is the last bookstore on my list for the region. It's actually doing well, which will make convincing the owner to sell a real challenge. However, if Universal Books is to achieve hegemony, then the owner must be brought into the fold. I don't care what you have to do to convince him, but I need him to agree within the next couple of months so I can present a perfect report to the Board."

  Even dazed as I am, my mind begins to click into gear. Financial pressure makes forcing sales quite simple. I've only worked on one store that was in the green, and that's been my hardest challenge by far. "What's the name, and where is it located?"

  "The store's name is the Bear's Book Cave, and it's in a laughably small town called Honeycomb Falls." I hear more pages being turned. "It's owned outright by a Torben Halderson."

  My father pauses, but my mind is already spinning. Torben Halderson. Scandinavian, probably. He won't know what hit him. I'm going to get him to sell so quickly he'll get whiplash. Nothing will stand between me and my freedom. My despair coalesces into grim determination. As much as I might hate doing this again, it'll be the last time. I can barely breathe with joy at the prospect.

  "Call me when you have more information. I'll take over the rest of the Between the Pages deal. Are we clear?"

  "Clear." I'm sitting upright, shoulders back. I can do this. I can do anything if it means getting my life back and putting my awful past behind me. "I'll call you soon with good news."

  "Very well. Goodbye, Saira." As always, he hangs up before I can respond. I set the phone down and stare at it, barely believing my luck. I even feel a flowering of affection for my dad. He heard my pain. He felt my depression. And he listened. He changed his mind. Something I could have sworn would never happen. I restrain the urge to hug myself, and instead rise to my feet. I'm not going to waste any time. All that stands between me and freedom is the Bear's Book Cave. It's time to get to work.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning I drive to Honeycomb Falls and park before the Bear's Book Cave. It's a glorious summer morning, but the sun and blue skies don't touch me. They don't lift my mood. I don't care about the gorgeous woods that surround this idyllic little town, about the cute drag that leads down to the river and its famous bridge of flowers. I'm focused. My every thought is bent to this encounter. I don't care what this Torben says. I will make him sell. I will destroy his illusions. I will paint him a future so grim and dark that he'll beg me to take his bookstore.

  So what if doing so will lacerate my soul even further? So what if browbeating another dear old man into despair will make it all the harder to look at myself in the mirror? It'll serve only to throw fuel on the furnace of my self-loathing. But it's the last time. It's the last time. After this I'm quits. A free spirit, able to escape my father's clutches and do - well - whatever I want. The future for the first time is almost terrifyingly blank, an unknown, a blank easel that I can paint as I wish.

  Taking a deep breath, I grab my briefcase and get out of my car. I take a moment to study the bookstore. It looks almost more like an old-fashioned Irish pub, with 'The Bear's Book Cave' painted in gilded golden letters a foot high across the front of the facade. The bookstore is otherwise painted black, with the large window to the left of the door blocked completely by stacked books. I'm surprised. No effort has gone into making the place inviting. No sandwich boards promising tea and cookies within. No half-price carts of old books put out to entice frugal shoppers. No potted plants. Nothing inviting in the window.

  I find myself strangely fascinated. This place is doing well? I cross the street and push open the heavy front door, and am immediately greeted by the familiar smell of old paper. Leather covers. A scent that reminds me of my favorite childhood memories, but which has recently become tainted. It's gloomy inside, and I take a moment to let my eyes adjust.

  The place is crammed with bookcases, a small warren of literature, except for a small open space in the center dominated by a high table like a judge's desk in a courtroom. Despite the bright sunshine outside, the store is illuminated by yellow lights, giving the whole place the feel of a real cave.

  I don't have time to look around much. Three massive men are facing each other in the area before the desk, and the tension between them is electric. My god, they're huge. Each of them is easily over six feet in height, massively broad across the shoulders, and muscled like wrestlers. I step quietly to one side, eyes wide.

  Not only are they huge, but they're hot. All three must be in their early thirties, and they look like mountain men, or the heroic ideal of what a mountain man could be. Bearded, with handsome, stern features, powerful hands, thick chests, and arms snarled with heavy muscle. Any one of them could have appeared on a billboard and I wouldn't have blinked twice.

  Two are facing off against one, as if he's an intruder here, and in truth he does look a little different. The intruder is wearing what looks like a leather bike jacket, a stitched bear claw embroidered on the back. His arms are tangled with tattoos, and his hands are opening and closing, as if about to form into fists and stay that way.

  "I don't care what you have to say," says one of the two men facing the intruder.
His voice rolls right through me like ocean waves powerful and deep. He's got his arms crossed over his chest, chin lowered, eyes narrowed. "You're wasting your time."

  The biker shifts from one foot to the other, clearly not ready to give up. "Torben. Blood calls blood. Don't deny it."

  Torben? My eyes go wide. The handsome hunk with the crossed arms who looks like he could fell a tree with one swing of his arms is the owner of the bookstore? I can't process that. Almost every owner I've dealt with has been old and eccentric, kindly and distracted. This man - Torben - looks like he should be up in Alaska hunting polar bears with his bare hands.

  "I don't deny it." Torben's words are bitten off. He's clearly on edge. "But I can ignore it all the same. I told you, Hrald. I'm not going back."

  "Damn it, Torben!" The biker - Hrald - slams his fist into the side of a bookcase, and the wood actually crunches from the force of the blow. Both of the other men drop their arms to their sides, and something subtle shifts in their stance. Like they're suddenly ready to go. To leap on the biker, and bring him crashing to the ground. God, if they start fighting in here, they'll destroy the shop. I almost step right back outside, but sheer curiosity keeps me planted to the spot.

  "He's given you his answer," growls the up-till-now silent third man. He's just as gorgeous as Torben, slightly older perhaps, with the calm resoluteness of a man at peace with himself.

  Silence. I feel goosebumps rush across my arms at the intensity of their gazes. None of them have noticed me. I'm a fly on the wall. The biker, Hrald, leans forward, as if into the teeth of a gale, glaring at Torben, and for a moment I'm sure things are going to get violent. Then he shakes his head and actually spits on the floor. "I'll go. But you ain't realized yet that you don't have a choice in the matter. You're coming back, whether you like it or no."

  Then Hrald turns and strides right at me. I shrink back against the wall, almost cowering as he slams open the door and leaves. My heart's going a million miles an hour. I feel like a shark just swam right past me, its fin nearly touching my bare stomach. I gulp and stare at the two men who are slowly relaxing.