Page 3 of Bear’s True Mate

I closed my laptop and sat back in the chair.

A loud clanking noise came from next door. Then the man laughed.

What was he doing over there?

I placed my head in my hands and squeezed my eyes shut.

My editor was expecting this book in three weeks. That was all the time I had to write a book my readers had been waiting what felt like forever for. How was I going to write it living next to a man who apparently didn’t own headphones?

Still, this was better than being home and trying to write.

I stared out the window at the ocean waves. The sun was lower now, casting long gold streaks across the water. Somewhere below the noise coming from next door, the sounds of waves crashing against the shore were playing out in a rhythm I could almost feel.

The music thumped on.

I picked up my tea. I’d give it tonight. One night. If it was still like this tomorrow, when the guy next door could clearly see my car parked in the driveway, I’d figure something else out.

For now, I was here. I was away from Evan. I had a desk with an ocean view and three weeks to write an epic love story—even though I wasn’t sure I believed in love anymore—and hope my readers couldn’t tell.

2

NOLAN

Weekends off were sacred.

No clients calling about trimming hedges. No hauling mulch in the back of my truck. No ripping out overgrown bushes that should have been dealt with years ago. Just me, my music, a few beers, and whatever project around the house I felt like getting into. Yesterday that had been repairing my weed eater. Today, it was cleaning my place.

I wasn’t a slob by any means, but a white-glove test wasn’t something my place could pass either. I’d worked my way through the house, ending in the kitchen. One of the cabinet doors had been hanging crooked for a month. So here I was, screwdriver in one hand, beer in the other, with music cranked up loud enough to rattle the windows.

That was the best part.

I sang along to the chorus—badly, and I knew it—while I tightened the last hinge on the cabinet. It swung smooth when I tested it. Not bad for a guy whose actual job was dealing with dirt and grass.

After that, I cracked open a window to let the ocean air in and stood there for a second, soaking in the view. This was why I lived here. Not because the place was fancy—it wasn’t—but because on days like this, everything was exactly right. Good music, cold beer, salty air, and not a single person telling me what to do. My bear stretched lazily inside me, and I took it as a sign of his agreement.

A knock sounded at my front door.

I almost didn’t hear it over the music. When it came again, harder this time, I set my beer on the counter and crossed the living room.

Nobody knocked on my door. Alister always just walked in, and any of my other buddies would text first before swinging by. No delivery guys would come this far down the road unless I’d ordered something, and I hadn’t.

I pulled the door open, and there was a woman on my steps.

She was short with brown hair that fell past her shoulders, and reading glasses pushed up on her head like a headband. Her blue eyes were locked on me with the kind of look that said she’d rather be anywhere else than standing here in front of me.

“Hi,” she said, though it didn’t sound friendly. “I’m renting the other side.”

I stared at her. “The other side of what?”

“This.” She gestured to the duplex. “The other unit. Next door. I got here yesterday.”

Yesterday? I’d been home all day yesterday. Granted, I’d had the music going and had been in and out, but still, I hadn’t seen anyone pull up, and I sure as hell hadn’t been told anyone was coming.

“Nobody’s renting the other side,” I said. “My buddy owns it. He’s traveling.”

She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen a few times, and held it up. A rental listing stared back at me. Photos of Alister’s unit—the living room, the kitchen, that desk he kept by the window. Below the photos was a confirmed booking with dates, a price, and a name.

Rose Sheplan.