Page 61 of Gunnar

I turn slowly, taking it all in.

“This must have been beautiful back in the day.”

His brow furrows. “I’ll fix it up properly. This is just a start.”

I blink at him. Last night I got the distinct impression the bears didn’t care where they lived as long as there was a roof over their heads.

Now Gunnar is talking about restoring antique dining rooms.

There are two places set—one at the head, one beside it.

Gunnar pulls out the chair at the head of the table. “Madame.”

I giggle as I sit down and he pushes my chair in gently. “I’m not used to being called that.”

“I thought you deserved a little sophistication,” he says. “After what happened earlier.”

“It’s fine,” I say.

He shakes his head.

“No. It wasn’t.”

His gaze is steady on mine.

“We bears don’t behave like that. I hope you know that, Alexandria.”

I nod. “I figured Orson was just making a point.”

“I promise you,” Gunnar says quietly, “it won’t happen again.”

“I can handle him.”

Something flickers across his face. “I can see that. But you shouldn’t have to.”

“Right.” He springs to his feet. “Let me go get dinner.”

“I can help⁠—”

“No.”

He gives me one of his firm looks.

“You’re not lifting a finger tonight, Alexandria.”

Before I can argue, he disappears through the door.

I lean back in my chair and glance around the room again.

Alexandria.

Alexandria.

I could listen to him growl my name all night long.

There are odd little ornaments on the mantel—wood carvings, small brass figures, things that look like they’ve been collected over decades. Oil paintings hang on the walls—stags with towering antlers, dark forests, snowy mountains.

As I take them in, it hits me.