Her Chef Bear Page 2

  Glaring at the pair of cranes proudly standing on the roof of his mauled vehicle, he snarled, “Assholes! What did I ever do to you?”

  The pair of sandhill cranes looked down at him with their beady, black eyes and their long, sharp beaks, as if daring him to get any closer to them. The damn things were known to go straight for the eyes.

  “You’re lucky that you’re a protected species,” groused Scott to the birds. Seemingly in answer, one of the cranes clacked its long beak at him.

  Scott wished that he had teeth worth baring at the cranes. His human form simply wasn’t as impressive as his bear’s shape.

  As a general rule, Scott wasn’t particularly interested in eating winged game meats, regardless of his shape, but at that moment, he would have cheerfully made an exception for those two sandhill cranes. Scott had just gotten his car repainted, and because of those cranes and their wretched talons, he was going to have to get it repainted again.

  And it was drizzling! Of course, it was drizzling. Scott could practically see his ride rusting right in front of him.

  Retreating to his front porch, Scott pulled on his shoes. He tried to figure out what he was going to do about his car… and the giant, paint destroying birds standing guard over it. A quick call to animal control confirmed the fact that, when it came to moving the cranes, he was on his own.

  “I’d leave them alone though,” said the animal control officer on the other end of the call. “When they feel threatened, they go straight for the eyes. It’s safer just to wait them out.”

  “But I’m already late to work!”

  “Tell your boss that the cranes made you do it.”

  “I’m the boss!”

  “Even better!” chirped the animal control officer cheerfully. “Your boss will totally understand then. If there isn’t anything else…”

  Scott took the hint and stopped tying up the phone line.

  In the end, Scott decided to follow the expert’s advice and waited the birds out. If the people who were paid to control animals didn’t want to control the sandhills cranes, that was probably a hint.

  Scott had always been able to take a hint.

  While waiting for the cranes to move on, he had called in late to work, eaten his protein bar, called a local auto shop, and gone inside again to shave. When he had come outside again, the cranes were still guarding his car.

  Scott had eyed them again, resentful all over again that they had chosen today to do this. It wouldn’t have been a big deal on his day off.

  The cranes had eyed him again too.

  Still annoyed, Scott had gone to fetch his mail.

  Among his assorted bills, coupons, and credit card offers, he found a letter from the county. His interest piqued, Scott ripped it open.

  It was a notice of eminent domain. The county was going to purchase his home from him and use the land to build the new university that he had been hearing so much about lately.

  Scott’s home was old and always seemed to need something repaired on it, but it was also his. It was comfortable with its open floor plan, three bedrooms, and two full bathrooms. And it was perfectly located: near his business, down the street from the beach where he liked to go surfing, and within walking distance of a few high quality pastry shops. Most importantly, it abutted a small nature preserve and a lot of undeveloped land.

  The nature preserve and the undeveloped land were both covered by the scrubby sort of forests that grew in central and south Florida. There were retention ponds in and around the woods, complete with mosquitoes and smaller gators and tiny squeaky birds.

  On full moons, Scott simply shed his human form and shambled through his unfenced backyard into the woods for a nighttime ramble. He would eat berries and the occasional animal, mark or defend his territory, and generally see what was new since his last ramble.

  Scott’s home was perfect for him, and no one was going to take it away.

  I’m going to need an attorney, probably a good one, thought Scott grimly. He didn’t even know where to start with that.

  When the cranes had finally moved on, Scott had driven his unfortunate car to the auto shop, picking up the loaner that they were holding for him there, and then headed into work. By the time all was said and done, Scott was nearly an hour and a half late for prep at his restaurant, and his day didn’t get any better from there.

  It wasn’t the season for it, but that afternoon a tropical storm blew in, seemingly out of nowhere. People stayed home, and service wasn’t great. It gave Scott plenty of time to brood on his problems… right up until the power went out. By then, the clouds were so dark and so heavy outside that it was grey at best in the front of the house and nearly pitch black in the back of it.

  Scott knew when to give up.

  It was almost a relief to clear the debris of the service-that-wasn’t and go home. Almost, because he still had to worry about potential spoilage, lost profits, and paying his staff for a service that didn’t even bring in enough money to break even.

  Outside, the ocean’s waves were riding high and choppy, and the wind was howling. Thunder rolled, rattling the windows in their frames, and lightening forked across the sky in the distance. Rain fell in sheets. Given the weather, Scott understood why his employees were loathe to leave the safety of the restaurant to run to their cars, but waiting for a break in the storm took awhile. And when it came, it wasn’t much of a break.

  It wasn’t far between the back door of his restaurant and the beater that the auto shop had loaned him, but by the time that he flung himself into the driver’s seat, Scott was soaking wet. Grateful for the car’s shelter, Scott started the car and turned on the heater in an entirely vain attempt to dry out… or at least, get less wet.

  His gym bag, recently rescued from the backseat of his own vehicle, had been tossed into the backseat of the repair shop’s beater. Grabbing a clean black t-shirt from it, Scott changed his shirt. Wet pants were probably still better than ratty gym shorts, he figured.

  A sensible man might have headed home then. Certainly a man who did not possess a were-bear’s hearty constitution would have gone home to warm up and get dry.

  But Scott was a were-bear, one that had just gutted his way through a bad day. Scott needed a drink, and he preferred not to drink alone. Even though it was still pouring outside, Scott headed straight to Buck’s Bar.

  Dead deer heads and sawdust on the floor were certainly a design choice, but Scott wasn’t sure that hanging about two dozen stuffed and mounted deer heads on the walls was the right design choice for any bar or restaurant. Nevertheless, Scott still drank at Buck’s. The selection of liquor was decent, and the drinks were cheap. Even if the food wasn’t great, Buck was an old friend. And anyway, Scott didn’t go there to eat.

  Scott had just finished his third drink – and was consequently lightly buzzed – when she walked into the bar.

  Buck’s Bar didn’t get a lot of women in it – for obvious reasons – but that wasn’t what drew Scott’s eye to her. It was something about the way that she moved: the confidence in her stride, the swing in her hips, the way that her narrow blue suit skirt sheathed her thighs. The woman was short – Scott estimated that she might only come up to his shoulder – but she still managed to fill the room.

  She had long legs, rounded hips, and large breasts draped in some sort of loose pink suit shirt, which had been plastered to her curvy frame by the rain. Her long brown hair was dripping wet, but Scott found that he still wanted to touch it and see if it was as soft as her pale skin looked. The woman’s face was pretty, but the set of her jaw was firm, even stubborn, and her gaze was challenging. Just looking at her, Scott knew that she would be a strong-will, opinionated, difficult woman.

  And he was already half-hard with wanting her.

  Gesturing to the beer that he wanted – and getting a chilled bottle of it in return – Scott shifted to catch the woman’s eye. When he had her attention, Scott slid the fresh bottle of beer down the length of the
bar, holding his breath until the woman’s hand darted up to catch it.

  For a moment, she looked bemused. Then she looked directly at Scott… and she smiled.

  Scott’s heart did what felt like a somersault in his chest. He wanted her bad.

  Scott was a were-bear with a plan, but it took two to tango. He hoped that the mysterious woman was going to be on board with it.

  Only one way to find out!

  Chapter 03 – Frederica

  A more sensible woman would have walked into Buck’s Bar and then immediately walked right back out of it again, because the place was an unabashed, no holds barred dive.

  The bar had perhaps been shooting for a rough log cabin vibe, but had instead fallen down on the side of dirty and vaguely seedy.

  There was sawdust and broken peanut shells on the floor, all of it vaguely discolored as if it had been there for awhile. A ragged line of stools stood at the bar, some of them badly lopsided, and a row of booths marched along the back wall of the establishment. All of the red upholstery on the stools and in the booths was threatening to split along at least one studded seam with wisps of white filling poking out from between the stitches.

  Old airplane propellers doubled as fans overhead – a neat touch, and one that Frederica admired – but the walls were decorated with a veritable herd of stuffed and mounted deer heads, all of which were awful.

  There were so many deer heads in the room that no matter where you sat in the bar, there would always be a deer staring down at you reproachfully. A glance was all it took for Frederica to decide that the heads “caught” in action poses were the absolute worst, although the ones with playfully crossed eyes or a poked out tongue were a close second. If ghosts were real, the Buck’s Bar was likely haunted by a whole herd of them.

  Only the fact that it was late and she was famished kept Frederica moving towards the bar.

  The bar was long and smooth, its faux marble length gleaming in the low lights overhead, the bartender taking obvious pride in his station. At it sat a handful of men, the nearest one of which caught her eye and sent a bottle of beer sliding down the remaining length of the bar towards her. That beer made up for a lot of the rest of the room. Frederica even managed to catch it.

  Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Frederica tipped the sealed bottle towards its sender, a handsome man with a strong neck and shoulders so broad that a lady gymnast would have felt confident doing handstands on them. His shaggy light brown hair needed a trim, and a five o’clock shadow stubbled his square jaw, but he had a kind face. When he smiled at her, his grey eyes seemed to lighten and a dimple appeared to one side of his strong chin. He was very handsome.

  Taking the beer and the smile as an invitation, Frederica moved to join him.

  I am a dragoness, Frederica reminded herself, as she claimed a seat at the bar under the glassy-eyed gaze of at least a half dozen dead deer. She propped her red umbrella against the empty stool to her left. And thus I do not have to be sensible if I don’t want to be.

  As far as Frederica could see, she was the only person in a suit in the entire bar, but she refused to let that bother her. She was often the only person in a suit at family picnics too.

  But there was no one as handsome as the sender of her beer at family picnics either.

  Just thinking it, Frederica felt a twinge of self-consciousness. Briefly she looked down, smoothing her navy blue skirt over the swell of her thighs. As she did, Frederica fancied that she could feel her benefactor’s eyes on her.

  When she glanced up, he met her gaze, apparently unabashed at having been caught ogling her. As Frederica watched, he smiled at her, slow and seductive.

  Under his gaze, Frederica felt a warm flush of pleasure. Feeling unaccountably shy, Frederica smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “Thanks for the beer.”

  “No problem. You looked thirsty,” said the stranger. His eyes were very blue. “I’m Scott, Scott Behr.”

  “I’m Frederica Hale, although most people call me Freddie,” said Frederica, as the bartender set a bottle opener and a second beer in front of Scott, the bottle’s bottom clinking against the bar top. He didn’t offer her a glass, and she didn’t ask. Frederica could read a room.

  Frederica watched, her mouth suddenly dry, as Scott popped the tops off of their bottles, the pull and play of the muscles in his forearm like lines of poetry shrouded in flesh. She shivered, wondering if he would let her watch him do pull ups and weights and maybe hammer some things. Frederica could lay her hand on his strong forearm or maybe his thigh…

  “Thanks,” said Frederica hoarsely, and Scott briefly inclined his head.

  Scott tipped his beer at Frederica before tilting his head back for his first sip, the long line of his throat and the bob of his Adam’s apple mesmerizing.

  Lowering his drink, Scott peered at her.

  “Don’t you like it?” he asked, and Frederica blinked at him, wondering what on Earth he was talking about.

  Does he even have to ask? Of course, I liked it. I liked what I saw very much, she thought, her fingers flexing against the cold sides of her beer.

  Her beer!

  Hastily, Frederica raised it to her mouth.

  She sipped at her beer and smiled, enjoying the full-bodied taste of the German brown beer that Scott had slung at her. The man certainly knew his beers.

  Lowering the bottle, Frederica licked the foam off of her upper lip. Scott had never looked away from her face, but his gaze was suddenly much more intent. The tip of his tongue briefly darted across his upper lip. It made Frederica feel good.

  “So what brings you to Buck’s?” asked Scott, and Frederica shook her head.

  “Hunger,” replied Frederica. “I’m staying at a nearby hotel, and I thought I’d see if there was anything to eat within walking distance of my room.”

  “Don’t eat here,” advised Scott. “They don’t even have a working kitchen.” Off of the bartender’s sour look, he said, “Well, you don’t.”

  “What would you recommend then?”

  “At this time of night, Jiji’s Pizza or Pepper’s Barbeque Pit,” said Scott promptly. “Where exactly are you staying?”

  “The hotel that’s just down the block,” said Frederica slowly, while eyeing the man next to her. She was fiercely hungry, but she didn’t want to give him up yet.

  “I know a couple of the cooks that work in the hotel’s restaurant,” said Scott. “Their hamburgers are good.”

  “Yeah? Would you like to join me?” asked Frederica, then caught her breath and held it until Scott inclined his head, his blue eyes twinkling.

  “Sure, I would,” he said. “Just let me finish up here?”

  Frederica nearly wilted in relief. To cover it, she took another swig of her beer.

  So tasty, thought Frederica, and she wasn’t sure if she meant the beer, the man, or both. Excitement bubbled through her blood, the feel of it as heady as the beer that she was sipping. She felt drunk with it.

  “Of course,” said Frederica. “This is one of my favorites.”

  “Really?” asked Scott. He sounded pleased. “I’m glad.”

  “You know why I’m here,” said Frederica. “What about you? Why are you here?”

  Scott sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

  Frederica nodded. “I hear that,” she said, and Scott flashed a quick smile at her.

  While the chatted about little things, they sipped at their drinks.

  “Eight brothers and sisters?” asked Scott. “And you’re all in sets of triplets?”

  He sounded appalled.

  “It wasn’t as bad as it sounds,” laughed Frederica. “The oldest three – Abigail, Beatrice, and Constance – are twelve years older than my three. I’m triplets with Ellis and Grissom. And then the last three – Harrison, Irwin, and Jamison – are all twelve years younger than us.”

  “Not a lot of overlap,” noted Scott.

  “Not really,” agreed Frederica, and s
he felt a fleeting twinge of sadness at that. Smiling, she added, “But Ellis and Grissom were always around. Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “I have a couple of brothers.”

  “Were you triplets?” inquired Frederica eagerly, and Scott laughed.

  “No, nothing like that,” said Scott cheerfully. “My family only has singles. A set of twins would really be something to talk about.”

  “Twins are really common on my fathers’ side of the family,” said Frederica. “It’s my mother’s side that has all the triplets.”

  And Frederica’s older sister, Abigail, had definitely taken after their mother in that respect. She already had nine kids. Frederica would never say it to an outsider, but that was a lot of kids. Three would be enough for her.

  If she ever found the right man, that was.

  They continued to chat, and when their respective bottles were empty, Scott stood. He offered Frederica a hand up. She didn’t need it, but she took it anyway, enjoying the gentle way that he held her hand in his.

  At the door to the bar, Frederica offered Scott her umbrella saying, “The tallest person should probably be the one to hold it.”

  Scott grinned. Taking the offered umbrella with his left hand, he slung his right arm around Frederica’s waist and pulled her tight against his side.

  Surprised, Frederica startled then deliberately relaxed into his side. She liked Scott – she liked him a lot – and he seemed nice. More than that, they had to be close together. Otherwise, one of them might get wet. At least, that was her story and she was sticking to it.

  Together, they stepped out into her storm. Rain lashed around the edges of the umbrella’s protection, refreshingly cool against Frederica’s overheated skin. Cool and cozy and pleasantly damp beneath her umbrella, they meandered their way down the block towards Frederica’s rom. Frederica could feel everywhere that they touched – the length of their sides, his hand on her hip, her arm across the back of his waist, and her head against his shoulder – with searing clarity, Scott’s big body hot against hers.