Page 10 of Bear’s True Mate

“Uh-huh.”

“She showed up out of nowhere, she’s living in my space, and she acts like I’m the one intruding.”

“And you can’t stop thinking about her,” Omar added with a shit-eating grin.

“That’s not what I said.” I shook my head and took another swig from my beer.

“You didn’t have to. Last time you talked this much about anything you liked, it was when you bought your truck and made us listen to all the engine specs for an hour.”

“This is nothing like the truck.” I frowned.

“It’s exactly like the truck,” Danny said. “You’re obsessed and you don’t want to admit it.”

They were both grinning now. Full-on, stupid grins that made me want to throw a pretzel at both of them.

“You’re wrong,” I said flatly.

“Sure we are,” Omar said.

“You are.”

“Okay, Nolan.”

I took another swig from my beer and changed the subject, but the damage was done. They’d planted something in my head I didn’t want planted, and my bear—the traitor—had perked up at their words like they’d confirmed a theory he’d already been working on.

The drive home took only a few minutes, but by the time I pulled into the driveway, the sky was turning orange and pink over the water, and the air had cooled enough that it felt good on my sun-baked skin.

Rose was outside.

She was sitting at the little patio table near Alister’s front door, laptop open in front of her, and a mug of something in her hands. She looked up when my truck rumbled in, and her expression shifted into that familiar look. It wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t welcoming either.

I got out, grabbed my work bag from the truck bed, and headed for my door. I could have gone straight inside, probably should have, but I didn’t.

“Evening,” I said instead.

She gave me a short nod. “Hey.”

It was the kind of short reply someone gave when they wanted to be left alone.

My bear leaned toward her, that same pull from this morning, and I gritted my teeth against it.

“Your truck takes up most of the driveway,” she said, not looking at me. “I’ll probably have to start parking on the street.”

“It’s a truck. It’s big. That’s how trucks work.”

“There’s enough room for two cars if you parked more on your side.”

“I do park on my side.”

“You park in the middle.”

I turned to look at the driveway and frowned. She wasn’t wrong; my truck was sitting a little past center. Not by much, but enough. I wasn’t about to admit that, though.

“I’ve been parking there for two years,” I said. “Never been a problem before.”

“I’m sure it has. Your friend must just be too nice to say anything.”

“And whose fault is that?”