Page 19 of Bear’s True Mate

Nothing.

The storm must have knocked it out.

I changed in the dark, peeling off my wet clothes and pulling on loose pajama pants and a dry tank top. After towel drying my hair as best I could, I poured myself a glass of wine because the day had earned it and headed for the back porch.

The storm was putting on a show. Lightning lit up the sky over the ocean, followed by rolls of thunder that I felt in my chest. The rain drove sideways across the beach, the waves were rough and wild, crashing against the shore in a rhythm that was anything but calm.

I settled into my usual chair and pulled my knees up.

Nolan’s door opened. He stepped out with a beer in hand, some dry clothes on, and his hair still damp. He paused when he saw me and then smiled.

“You stalking me?”

Despite everything, I laughed. “You wish.”

He dropped into his chair and stretched his legs out. For a minute, neither of us said anything. We just sat there, drinks in hand, watching the storm tear across the sky.

“This happen a lot here?” I asked.

“The storms? Yeah. A few times a month this time of year. They blow in fast and blow out fast.” He took a sip of his beer. “The power usually comes back within an hour or two.”

“Good to know.”

Something had shifted between us. Maybe it happened when he leaned across the seat of his truck and told me to get in with that protective edge in his voice as thunder roared above me and rain pelted my skin. I couldn’t be sure exactly when it had happened, but I knew that something had.

Something was different between us.

“So how’d you get into landscaping?” I asked because the silence was getting comfortable and that scared me more than the storm.

“I needed a job out of high school, and I didn’t want to fish.” He took a sip of his beer. “So, I borrowed a mower from my buddy’s dad, printed some flyers at the library, and stuck them on every mailbox I saw. That first week I got two calls. One was a wrong number.” He grinned.

“And the other?”

“Mrs. Dawson. She’s been my client ever since. Still tries to pay me in baked goods.”

“Does it work?”

“Every time. The woman has the best zucchini bread you’ll ever eat.”

I laughed hard, and it surprised me, but it also felt good.

“What about you?” he asked. “The writing. How’d that start?”

“I’ve been writing since I was a kid. Scribbled stories in notebooks, bad fan fiction in middle school, moody poetry in high school.” I took a sip of my wine, thinking back. “I sold my first book three years ago. I was sitting in a coffee shop when I got the email from my publisher, and I cried in front of a room full of strangers.”

“Happy tears?”

“Ugly tears. The barista brought me napkins.”

He grinned. “What kind of romance do you write?”

“Contemporary. Love stories set in the real world. No vampires or werewolves. None of that paranormal romance stuff.”

“What, you don’t believe in that stuff?”

“Seriously?” I gave him a look. “No, I don’t believe in that stuff.”

He took a sip of his beer, and something about his expression shifted—like he was biting back a smile. “Fair enough.”