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

by Cassie Wright

  "You OK?" The other man claps a hand on Torben's shoulder.

  "Fine." Torben's voice is gruff, and then he sighs and shakes his head, staring at the ground. "Damn him. Damn all of them."

  "You don't have to go. You know that."

  Torben finally looks up and nods, but he looks - glum? "I know. Thank you, Soren."

  Soren snorts as if he's amused. "Of course. I'm going to stay close. There's no telling what Hrald might try. If anything happens, give me a holler. I've got your back."

  "Will do. Tell Anita I send my love."

  Soren grins, and like that the fierceness melts from his face and he reveals himself to be a genuinely arresting and good-natured kind of guy. "Her or her cakes?"

  Torben snorts and gives Soren's shoulder a shove, which sets the other man walking toward the front door. Soren finally notices me, his expression turning neutral, and he gives me a guarded nod as he pushes open the door and steps outside.

  The door closes. It's just me and Torben now. Torben Halderson. I'm still standing frozen by the door, pressed into the corner where a bookcase meets the wall, my briefcase held before me like a shield. Torben sighs, is about to turn back to his desk when he catches sight of me for the first time.

  He blinks and then his eyes go wide. "Miss?"

  Chapter 3

  I force myself to take a deep breath. My thoughts are completely scrambled. I've never had much difficulty speaking to attractive people, but this guy is on a whole other level. Should I leave? Come back later when events aren't so tense? He's staring right at me, waiting for my response, and instinct tells me to seize the moment. To come back later would diminish the impact of my message. Would leave him with a first impression of my being afraid. I have to be bold. I have to strike.

  "Mr. Halderson?" I walk forward, lowering the briefcase, striving to sound executive, tough, in control. I feel anything but.

  "The same." He's trying to place me. I'm clearly not a customer intent on browsing. I'm here on some kind of business, based on my suit and briefcase. But what kind? I can see these thoughts flickering through his mind. As large and handsome and strong as he might be, he's likely to be just the same as any other bookstore owner. I feel marginally more confident as I stop before him and look up.

  My, he's tall. Six four? Six five? And as broad as two men. From the way his red and black plaid shirt strains across his bulky shoulders and then hangs loose down past his broad chest, I can get a sense that he's all muscle. No flab rounds out his stomach. His jeans are cinched tight by a broad brown belt. A former football player, maybe? But I can't picture this man in a spandex football uniform. I almost laugh at the thought.

  "I'm Ms. Froud." I extend my hand, and he studies it for a moment before taking it in his own. It's like shaking hands with a baseball catcher's mitt. Callused and strong, warm and powerful, I've never felt anything like it. I force myself not to gulp again. It's too easy to allow my imagination to start drifting and thinking of what he could do with his long, strong fingers.

  "Ms. Froud," he rumbles. He frowns down at me. He's having trouble focusing on the conversation. He's clearly still riled up by his confrontation with Hrald. "This isn't a good time."

  "I can imagine." I force myself to speak briskly, as if my time is important. "And it's only going to get worse."

  "Worse?" His frown deepens and his gaze sharpens. "What are you talking about?"

  Does he have to be so damn tall? I'm almost staring straight up. It's hard to act tough and intimidating with a man who's almost three times larger than you are - and I'm no small lady - and ridiculously hot.

  "The book industry, Mr. Halderson. I'm speaking of the disruptive trends that are shaking the publishing world, from the rise and hegemony of online retailers to the collapse of traditional publishing houses. I'm sure -"

  "Wait," says Torben, cutting me off. He looks confused. "The book industry?"

  I nod, mouth thinning as if I'm losing my patience. In truth I could stare at him for hours, but it's all about psychology. Make them feel guilty for wasting your time with their questions. Put them at a disadvantage.

  "You're here about the book industry? Oh." He seems relieved, the tension leaving his shoulders. "That's good. I thought you were here from - well, never mind."

  Hrald, I realize. He thought for a second that maybe I was working with Hrald and his group. Turning from me, he begins to pile books into a stack.

  "Mr. Halderson," I say, not liking the fact that I've been so quickly dismissed. "I'm here with a unique opportunity for you and your store."

  "Mmm-hmm," he rumbles, the sound akin to large boulders shifting deep within the earth. He straightens, a tower of books in his hands, and disappears down one of the aisles.

  Damn it. I don't want to trail after him like a puppy, so instead I raise my voice. "Industry predictions forecast that ebooks will claim over 85% of the publishing market within six years. The number of independent bookstores has dropped by just as much in the past three years."

  "Is that so?" He pauses halfway down the aisle, considers the book at the top of his pile, and then inserts it into a space on the shelf. Then he steps through a gap in the bookcases and disappears.

  "Further," I say, darting to one side till I see him in the next aisle, "the digital revolution and the rise of peer-to-peer recommendations via social media presages - presages - Mr. Halderson?"

  The damned man has actually opened one of his books to read something inside. He looks up and blinks at me, as if he's surprised I'm still standing there. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Social media, you were saying." He pauses. "Isn't all media social?" Then he looks back down.

  "No - social media refers to online social services like - like Facebook, or Twitter." I feel like I'm sinking in quicksand. Every instinct is telling me I'm not just losing this exchange, I'm getting clobbered. I take a deep breath. "Five hundred thousand."

  He looks up again. "Hmm?"

  "Five hundred thousand." I force myself to lean back on my heels, to raise my chin and stare down my nose at him. Do everything I can to convey a strict and icy cold demeanor.

  "So you said. Five hundred thousand what? Penguins? Bright pink Cadillacs?"

  "Dollars, Mr. Halderson. That's what my company is willing to pay you."

  Torben stares at me in complete confusion. "For what?"

  "The Bear's Book Cave," I say, wanting to shake him. "That's why I'm here. I represent Universal Books, and we're looking to bring you into our Indie Family - that's trademarked - so that you can benefit from our -"

  "Five hundred thousand dollars?" He sets his stack of books down on a stool and walks toward me. My voice dies in my throat. He's such. A big. Man. I'm a curvy lady, but he makes me feel petite, delicate. He stops before me, hands on his hips, and stares down at me. His eyes. They don't look human. I hadn't even noticed before. They look golden. Like an animal's. Not a cat. Nor a dog. Something. I can't place it.

  "Ms. Froud. Are you asking me to sell my bookstore?"

  "I - um - yes." I'm having trouble concentrating. Pheromones? Is that's what's going on? I feel like my brain is being sidestepped and some form of communication is taking place between Torben and my deepest emotions. An animal part of me is stirring, coming to life, causing my stomach to tremble and my pulse to race. What the hell? One last store, I remind myself. Get it together. Make this sale.

  "Why would I want to sell to you guys?" He sounds genuinely curious.

  "Because. The industry. You're going to close soon." I take a slow step back, as if that might help me think straight. What would he look like without his shirt? "You're going to need support to stay open. We can give you that. And money."

  I'm talking like a fool. And money? Is that my best pitch? I need a cold glass of water. No, a glass of vodka. I almost pinch myself and force a frown onto my face. "Survival, Mr. Halderson. That's what we're offering you."

  "Oh," he says, and then shakes his head. "No, I think I'm good. Thanks for dropping by."
<
br />   And like that, he turns and ambles back down the aisle.

  I just gape after him. Can he really be that clueless? About how the world is changing? Whether they love me or hate me, every bookstore owner I've met has been eager to talk about where the industry is going, who is succeeding and who is failing. Each and every person has had their personal theories, their plans for survival. Something. Anything.

  Thanks for dropping by? No way. I hustle after him, determined to not give up. "Mr. Halderson, you don't seem to realize -"

  "No," he says, turning around, and like that the absent-minded and friendly mountain of a man turns into an intense and suddenly dangerous-looking mountain of a man. "You don't seem to realize that I'm not interested. I've got bigger things to deal with. Now, I've been courteous and let you talk. You've said your piece. I've said mine. We're done here. Clear?"

  I want to turn and run. Even though he's still being polite, I feel like prey. Like I'm facing a wild animal that might bite at any moment. My mouth is dry. My tummy goes from fluttering to clenched. Run! my mind whispers, but I won't. I can't. One last sale, I think, and raise my finger to poke him in the chest.

  "You are being unreasonable and you are being rude." I don't know what I'm saying even as I speak the words. "You haven't heard a word I've said. Whatever problems you're dealing with, they clearly haven't come knocking because you're such a gentleman."

  Torben blinks. This he clearly didn't expect. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Takes a deep breath as if he's fighting for patience, and then nods. "Well. If that's the case, I apologize. I didn't mean no disrespect."

  This is your one chance! Seize it! But how? I'm flying by the seat of my pants. "If you mean that," I say, "then take me out to dinner and hear me out."

  What? I nearly scream at myself. What did I just say? My face freezes as I fight to stay calm. Torben looks even more surprised, but barely. I summon every ounce of self-control that I have and stare him full in the face. Brazen, bold, and with as much fake confidence as I can muster.

  "Dinner?" Torben rubs the back of his head. I wish I could read his eyes. He hesitates, and then I see something change in his gaze. Not a softening... but a new look of consideration. Suddenly he's actually looking at me. Saira Froud, a young woman in a sharp suit. Seeing the woman, and not just a stranger who's come barging into his store. "Well. All right. I guess I can do that by way of apology."

  "Good." I take out my business card and tuck it into his shirt pocket. "Call me later today. We'll work out the details." Then, before I can panic or change my mind, I turn and almost literally run out of his shop.

  Chapter 4

  Outside I stumble to my car and resist the urge to crouch out of sight behind it. Get it together, I tell myself angrily, but my meeting with Torben has unnerved me in ways I can't quite explain. I walked in there feeling like a queen of vengeance, and scurried out a dog with her tail between her legs. I start down the street toward the distant river, trying to figure out my emotions. Clarity has been of the utmost importance to me since my disaster three years ago. I can't be impulsive. I can't act without thinking. That way lies trouble. That way lie the kinds of mistakes I've sworn to never make.

  So I think and ponder and walk slowly, hands linked behind my back. I asked Torben out to dinner. Well, no; I demanded that he take me. Was that wrong? It veered dangerously close to the line, but no, it was fine. It was the only thing I could have done to salvage the moment. One wrong move, and he would have closed the door on me forever. I managed to hang on, but just by my fingernails. At least over dinner I'll be able to explain how advantageous my offer is. How much trouble he's in.

  Or will I? He's beyond oblivious. It's as if he has zero interest in the future of the book world. For a mad moment I wonder if the Bear's Book Cave is some kind of laundering front, and Torben a criminal posing as its owner. No, the thought's laughable. I know nothing about Torben, but I can't imagine him as a criminal. There's something profoundly honest about him. Something sincere. I'm usually an excellent judge of character, and while Torben is almost impossible to read, I feel confident in that.

  But then again, can I picture him with a book in his hands? I stop and stare into an art gallery window, not seeing the exhibit within but instead imagining Torben sitting in a massive armchair, a book in hand. His thick, long hair tousled and falling down past his shoulders, his beard glinting in the firelight. Fluffy slippers on his feet. I frown, and the slippers are gone. Bare feet. Bare chest. Hmm. He turns the page, lost in the book. I see myself step up behind him and lean over his shoulder. My hands slide down over his bare chest. He smiles and looks up, and our eyes meet.

  I shiver in real life, and quickly turn away from the window to stride down the street. I've heard of animal magnetism. I've heard of love at first sight. I don't know what this, but some deep part of me is responding to this hot mountain man, and it's starting to aggravate me. I'm not here looking for a date. I'm here to close a deal and earn my freedom. I'd better get my head in the game, or I might as well give up and go home now.

  I reach the river. It's picturesque, glittering in the sun. The town as a whole, I realize, is pretty damn cute. People look happy. I take a deep breath, and then see Hrald sitting on a porch on the other side of the river. Mindy's General Store, reads the sign above the door. He's drinking a beer right from the bottle and looking sullen.

  I bite my lower lip. I need an angle. I need information. Hrald looks as inviting as a junkyard dog, but he's right out in the open. Making up my mind, I cross the bridge quickly, cross the street to the porch, and step up onto it. There are three tiny little tables set out here, but only Hrald is taking advantage of the weather.

  "Hi," I say, then pull out a chair and sit down. Brazen, bold, and faking the highest levels of confidence. It's my M.O.

  "What do you want?" He's as charming close up as I thought. His curly black hair is shot through with gray, and held back by a bandana. His cheeks are weathered, and I can actually make out a white scar carving its way through his beard. He looks like he's lived a hard life, out in the wild, and each year has taken its toll.

  "My name's Saira Froud. You're Hrald." Best to start with the basics.

  He lifts his bottle and drinks the rest of the beer in one smooth, practiced pull. His eyes never waver from mine. They're the same as Torben's, I realize. Inhuman in some subtle way. They make me want to blink and look away. As if I'm glimpsing something private, something other. I don't blink, however. Nor do I look away. When he doesn't respond, I plow on.

  "We've got something in common." I leave it at that. It's a trick I learned early on. Make an intriguing statement, and then let their curiosity compel them to join the conversation.

  Grudgingly, Hrald takes the bait. "And what's that?"

  "Torben Halderson," I say, and lean back, watching him carefully.

  He grunts. Noncommittal. "What do you want with him? And why should I care?"

  This is the tricky part. "We might be able to help each other. We both want to change the status quo. I know you want him to come with you. I want him to sell his bookstore. Maybe we could work together."

  Hrald stares at me, eyes hooded as he considers. I hold his gaze as best I can, and feel a wave of revulsion pass over me. This is the kind of crap I hate doing. Finding angles. Working on weaknesses. Forcing good people like Torben to bend to my will by any means I can. Just as I can tell Torben's a good, decent man, I can tell the opposite of Hrald. There's a cruel light in his eyes. His lips seem prone to sneering. Working with this guy is bad news.

  "Well, maybe we can help each other," he finally admits. "How you planning on getting hold of his store?"

  "I'm not sure. I just got into town. Tell me more about him, and we'll figure something out together."

  Hrald grunts. "Buy me a six pack and I might."

  I restrain the urge to roll my eyes, and instead just stand and enter the General Store. It's a cheerful place, the kind of mom and pop store tha
t's got personality, and normally I might take my time browsing. Instead, I just go to the side room where wine and beer is sold, and grab a six-pack of cheap American beer. I pay, and then panic. Was this a trick to get rid of me? I rush outside, convinced Hrald will be gone, but he's still there, boots propped up on a chair.

  "Here," I say, and set the beers down.

  He nods and twists a can free, then pops the tab. "All right, then. What do you know about Torben?"

  "Just that he owns the Book Cave, and is doing pretty well. Somehow."

  Hrald snorts. "So you know nothing. Maybe you'll not be as much help as I thought."

  "I bought you the six-pack," I say. "Keep your end of the bargain."

  "Girl," he says, leaning forward, causing his leather belt and jacket to squeak in that way leather has, "our deal only goes as far as I say it goes."

  "Oh, yeah?" I can feel myself getting mad. "When you come up with a plan to deal with Torben and Soren, when you figure out how to get what you want without getting your smelly biker ass kicked from here to Boston, you give me a call."

  And with that, I go to stand up.

  Hrald's eyebrows shoot right up, and then he laughs, a creaky wheeze, and waves me back down. "Touchy, ain't ya. Women. I was just messing. Sit that pretty ass down and let's talk."

  I stand there, resolute. I don't want to sit down. I don't want to talk with this guy. I want to deal fair and straight with Torben, but I can sense where that will get me: nowhere.

  So I sit.

  "Torben, well. First things first. He's a shifter like me. A werebear."

  I do a double take. "What?"

  "Uh-huh." Hrald knocks the beer back, chugs it down, then crumples the can in his large fist and tosses it over his shoulder. "A werebear."

  "You? You're a werebear? And he - ?" I don't know why I'm so shocked. We're practically out in the wilderness here. And everybody knows shifters exist. I've just never met one before.