Chapter 7
The Bear
Max
So, it isn’t a bear.
But also, what I wasn’t prepared for...was a man.
A very large, very Black, very bearded man.
Definitely not a bear. Unless the wildlife up here is sponsored by Shea Moisture.
He towers over my car like he was carved out of black stone and scented with pure testosterone.
The kind of man who could carry you out of danger or into sin.
His beard is thick, his shoulders are criminal, and the way he sets that axe down on the ground like he’s just gotten done with battle? Lord, let this man take me now.
I absolutely volunteer as tribute.
He walks back to my window, calm as can be.
“I’m going to try this again,” he says, voice deep and warm, with just enough edge to make my spine straighten. “Are you okay?”
I blink, still unsure whether I’m alive or knocked unconscious and dreaming I’m in a very niche lumberjack romance novel. “I’m ok. I think? But your roadside assistance lady can go straight to hell!”
His brow furrows. “I’m sorry?”
I roll the window down the rest of the way and give him my best overly-friendly-but-clearly-panicking smile. “Hi. I’m Max, and I really need to get to Toronto for a mixer tonight to meet my favorite romance author.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. Then his voice flattens with the tone reserved for toddlers as he punctuates his question. “Do. You. Need. Help?”
“Yes! Did you not hear what I just said?! I need to get to Toronto!”
“You’re an hour and a half away,” he replies dryly.
“And also in a ditch! Want to point out anything else wildly obvious, you big—bear?”
His eyebrow rises. Slowly. Dangerously. “Max, was it?”
I nod like a schoolgirl.
“I was on my way home. Peaceful, uneventful, stress-free. But now I’m here, trying to do the right thing.
So I’m going to be calm, take a deep breath, and help your anxious little ass before I get home and regret ever stopping.
” He leans in slightly. “I’m going to ask again. And I want a one-word answer. Got it?”
I nod.
“Do you need help? A phone? A ride?”
Suddenly, it hits me. This is it. The moment. The meet-cute. My real-life romance novel is happening! And this man? This brooding, black-clad mountain of a man?
He’s The Bear. Sent from the heavens. Possibly hell, but with the size of him? I’ll take either.
I look at my big, brooding bear of a hero and suddenly everything makes sense.
This is why God gave my ex a tiny penis.
He was protecting me. Preserving the goods. Saving my vagina for him.
The Bear.
I open the door and immediately regret my desire to be cute for my first day at the conference.
The air is freezing, slicing straight through my sweater dress as I step out of the rental. My suede boots, a poor choice, I admit, sink into the treacherous, slushy concoction of snow and mud. It looks innocent enough, but it feels like the earth is actively working against me.
It's entirely my fault, of course. Why on earth would I choose knee-high suede boots over something more practical, more intelligent? I sometimes do the smart thing, but other times, I'm capable of truly ridiculous decisions.
I tug my flimsy coat tighter around myself, realizing I severely underestimated the weather and cold here.
I’m a tough girl. I can handle all sorts of discomforts.
But this cold is something Atlanta would never dare do to me.
I smooth down my dress like I’m meeting royalty instead of a man who looks like he wrestles wildlife recreationally.
I take one step.
Then another.
Then.
“Oh—shi—”
My foot skids out from under me and I windmill my arms like I have any other choice but to hit the ground. I do not. I land hard on my ass with a very undignified oof, the cold seeping straight through my coat into my pride.
Wonderful.
I groan, trying to scramble to my feet, nearly slipping again before I find my footing.
Somewhere behind me, I hear snow crunching.
I look up and realize he’s watching the entire thing.
Judging me.
The beautiful man takes a small step back, hands in his pockets, giving me space.
A car passes by without even slowing down, catching both of our attention.
He turns back to me, catching me staring at him like I’m ready to put him to work.
I lick my bottom lip. Then I say it—the line I just told Timantha I would use if I ever ended up in a small town romance. Except it comes out all wrong. “I may be small, but I’ve got a big ride for little boys!”
His brows shoot up. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Wait, no—that’s not how it was supposed to come out.” Shit!
“How exactly was that supposed to come out? Because I’m about to call the police. Are you having a stroke?”
Ugh! “No! I’m just. It’s been a day, Ok?! First I handed the border patrol a tampon—”
“Ma’am?”
“Hiccup.” Dammit. “Then I nearly died by elk, and now I’m stuck in the woods while the romance mixer of the year is happening without me but I’m trying to make the best of this situation by flirting with you!”
The bear just blinks.
“Sorry. A bit more than a one word answer but I get chatty when I’m nervous or about to get murdered.”
He turns on his heel, muttering, “I’m leaving. Walk to fucking Toronto, for all I care.”
“No! Wait!” I scramble after him, tripping over my own regret. “I’m sorry—I’m really sorry—I—hiccup.”
He spins around, glaring. “What are you, two years old? The hell is up with the hiccups?”
“I get the hiccups when I’m nervous, too!”
He lets out a sound—part growl, part sigh—and honestly? I like it. Way more than I should. I like it a lot.
“If you would please give me a ride to somewhere I can call a tow truck and still make it to Toronto, I’d really, really appreciate it.”
He rubs his jaw like he’s weighing the possibility of abandoning me to the elements. “It’s after six. You’re not getting a tow truck out here ‘til morning.”
I deflate, my voice cracking. “Okay. Then could you please take me to the nearest hotel?”
He exhales like I just asked him to donate a kidney. “Get your things.”
I scramble back to the car, grab my purse, and pop the trunk. Before I can even reach for my suitcases, he lifts them like they’re stuffed with feathers and tosses them into the back of his cab with a casual flick of the wrist.
And his truck? Not what I expected, either.
Not beat-up. Not rusty. Not even “rugged.” No. This thing is a fully-loaded black-on-black chariot with leather seats and a cabin that smells like cedarwood and manhood.
He gets in, and I swear I hear music playing in the background. It might be angels singing.
Since my coat is wet, from my ever so graceful exit from my rental, I quickly take it off before the chill sets in and I step into the cab. I buckle my seatbelt. “Thank you. I know this is probably the last thing you wanted to do tonight, and…well…thank you.”
“It’s fine,” is all he says back.
Silence. Heavy, awkward silence. I don’t do well with silence when my nerves are all over the place.
I clear my throat. “How far is the hotel?”
“About twenty kilometers.”
“Okay. That’s about…twelve or thirteen miles?”
He glances over at me, just a flick of the eyes. “Most Americans don’t care to learn our metric system.”
“Well, I’m not most Americans.”
“No,” he mutters, “you’re not most humans.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you could be a book boyfriend?” I ask, watching his profile while he drives. Studying the beauty of his hard lines and rough edges.
“No,” he says flatly.
“Anyone ever asked to climb you like a pole?”
He cuts his eyes at me, sharp and unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or intrigued.
“No,” he snaps.
“What’s your name?”
“No!”
I blink. “Excuse me? I am in your car and you’re a stranger! You can’t tell me your name? I told you mine!”
“Not my fault you have zero survival instincts and tell any random stranger all your personal information.”
“That is not true!”
He side-eyes me again. “Who gets in a car with a big Black man in the woods without even knowing his name?”
Click. I hear the doors lock around me.
My eyes go wide. “That’s not funny,” I whisper, panic creeping into my voice.
He doesn't crack a smile. Just keeps driving, cool as hell.
I may have just met my match…or my murderer. Jury’s still out.
He almost smiles. Almost. It’s barely there, but I catch the flicker at the corner of his mouth before it disappears like it never happened.
“Relax,” he says, voice calm but firm. “I’m not kidnapping you. I’m taking you to the nearest hotel, as promised, and getting you out of my hair as quickly as possible. No need to know my name. You’ll never see me again.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I say suggestively, folding my arms with a huff.
He shakes his head then the car goes quiet again.
But just when I think we’re back to awkward silence and my internal monologue is screaming at full volume, The Bear speaks.
“What’s a book boyfriend?”
My head whips toward him so fast I nearly sprain something. “A book boyfriend is the sexy, brooding, emotionally repressed male character in a romance novel who’ll do anything for the woman he loves. Usually tall, built like Lucifer, emotionally unavailable—like you.”
“I’m not emotionally unavailable,” he protests, eyes still on the road.
“Yeah. Sure. Okay,” I say sarcastically, shaking my head. “Also,” I continue, “book boyfriends tend to have inhumane-sized penises and generous tongues that they don’t mind using to absolutely wreck their woman. Repeatedly. Usually until it hurts.”
He chokes. Full-blown cough attack. I’m honestly proud of myself.
“Why don’t you just not talk for a bit?” he requests, clearing his throat like I didn’t just light his frontal lobe on fire.
“I’m sorry but you asked me what a book boyfriend was. Not my fault if you weren’t prepared for the answer.”
“I wasn’t prepared for you at all,” he says, practically to himself.
“I’m aware this is a lot. Sorry. Again.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Sorr—I’ll be quiet now.”