Chapter 7 #2
I press my lips together and try to give myself a pep talk. Maxine Palmer, you are thirty-two years old. You’ve shaken hands with Barack freaking Obama. Get it together.
But I’m sitting next to a man who smells like hard work and Hennessy, and looks like he could both unalive me with a look and annihilate my labia. And yes, I’d still thank him. I’d thank this bear of a man with everything I’ve got!
I want to ask him a hundred more questions just to hear his deep, raspy voice again, but before I can open my mouth, we pull into a hotel, a lodge, that looks like it was pulled from a luxury travel magazine. Classy. Pricey. Definitely above my “Budget Rental Car in a ditch” price range.
“I don’t think I can afford this,” I admit, biting my lip.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, cool and casual. “I’ve got you.”
Oh. Okay then, Book boyfriend!
I walk up to the front desk, fixing my hair and trying not to look like a woman who just screamed Michael Jackson lyrics at a stranger in the woods.
The concierge greets me with a practiced smile. She’s wearing a perfectly pressed blue uniform and a name tag that reads Geneviève, which is probably French for “about to fuck up your night.”
“Bonsoir! Welcome to Chateau Evergreen,” she chirps. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No, but I was hoping you might have a room available for the night? Just for one. Please. It’s been...a day.”
She types something into her computer, nodding politely. “Actually, yes—we do have one room left and one suite.”
I practically melt with relief. “Thank God. I’ll take the room.”
She reaches for my ID, and I hand it over.
That was a mistake.
Her eyes scan the card, then flick up to meet mine.
“Ah,” she says, her smile freezing into something colder than a Canadian February. “You are...American.”
I blink. “Yes. Is that...a problem?”
She tilts her head sympathetically. “Unfortunately...the room has just been booked.” You have got to be kidding me.
I glance around the lobby. It’s empty. “Just now?”
“Yes. Très unfortunate.”
Before I can fully process the steaming pile of BS I’ve just been handed, The Bear strolls in behind me. He steps up beside me, calm and confident, like a damn bodyguard with a beard.
“Gen, my love,” he says smoothly, his voice dipping into something dangerously close to a French accent. “Is there any room available?” He leans in just enough. “Pour moi, mon amour?”
Was that French?
Molly, you in danger, girl! My libido screams, in the voice of Whoopi Goldberg, from deep within my soul.
Apparently, The Bear can charm when he wants to. And I am not okay.
Geneviève’s smile reappears, tighter now, polished with the kind of fake sweetness that makes me want to throw her keyboard across the lobby.
“Well...” she purrs, eyes flicking to him and only him, “we do have the penthouse suite, Mr. Shaw. For you.” Her lashes flutter, then her facial expression turns stiff as she brings her gaze to me. “Two hundred thousand dollars a night.”
I choke on my own breath. “Two hundred what now?! Is it made of gold? Does it come with a foot massage from Idris Elba? Do beautiful African men bathe me and chant ‘whatever you like’ every time I ask for a towel like in Coming to America?!”
The Bear curses, “Fuck it,” under his breath, already turning on his heel like he’s five seconds from leaving me to fend for myself in this Canadian hellscape.
I scramble after him, dragging my suitcase behind me. He’s carrying the other. The wheels squeak like they, too, are exhausted by my life choices.
“Wait. What just happened?!” I gasp, catching up to him as he pushes through the hotel doors, not bothering to wait for the attendant to open them for him.
He doesn’t stop until we’re outside, where the cool air hits me like a reality check.
“You could have held back the fact that you were American,” he says, his voice flat. “We’re still grieving here.”
My eyes go wide. “Excuse me? How was I supposed to know the people around here were gonna discriminate against me—not for the content of my character, but for the seal on my passport?!”
“Calm down, Dr. King,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised.”
“Because I always heard you people were nice!”
His head snaps toward me. “First of all, watch how the hell you throw around you people. Second—just because Canadians are nice, doesn’t mean we don’t have teeth. We bite.”
I bite my lip at that. Yummy.
“So let me guess,” I say, folding my arms. “Not only is no one providing roadside assistance to us. But no one’s renting hotels to Americans these days, either?”
“Seems like it!”
“Because of a stupid trade war?”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Ever since your country nominated the orange orangutan, it’s been a shitshow and I haven’t had my favorite whiskey in months.”
I stare at him, stunned.
“Get in,” he orders, voice low, clipped, sexy as shit.
“Yes, sir,” I say, jumping up into the truck and sliding in with a grin. “I like it when you tell me what to do.”
He just shakes his head like he’s so over me but I’m honestly having fun getting under his skin. Then he shuts his door and starts the engine, hands firm on the wheel.
“So, uh…your place then?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not like I’m imagining what his shower looks like. Or his bed. Or what he looks like naked in said shower or bed.
He sighs like the universe is personally testing his patience. “Yeah. just for one night. We’ll figure out your car in the morning. I just need to make a stop on the way.”
I nod, biting back my smile as I buckle up. Inside, I’m doing a silent happy dance with jazz hands and a sexy little eyebrow wiggle.
Because ladies and gentlemen, I’m going home with The Bear.
America may have declared war on beavers, but this beaver is about to give Canada one hell of a peace offering.
Eli
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Eli,” I say to myself as I merge into traffic. “You’re going to let her sleep in the guest wing. You’re going to lock yourself in the master wing. And under no circumstances are you going to so much as glance at this loud, quirky, adorable woman.”
Simple. I’ve got this. She is no different than the others.
Right?
Right.
I’m not like most men. I don’t believe in giving myself over to just anyone.
I don’t let people get close unless it’s intentional.
And when I do let them in, I never do it with the expectation that they’ll stay.
I allow myself the pleasure of falling. I give them whatever we can make of our time together.
I love freely, fully—but I don’t hold women hostage to the idea of permanence.
I don’t ask them to stay. I don’t beg. I don’t cling.
I let whatever we have, whatever we become, end when it’s supposed to. And it works for me.
Like I said, I’m a different kind of brother.
Most women say they can handle that. Few actually can.
They struggle with the way I compartmentalize.
With the fact that I can love them deeply…
and still let them go. That I don’t hold on the way a possessive man should.
Because to me, love isn’t about convincing someone to stay.
If they want you, you never have to ask.
I’ve never encountered anyone I wanted to ask to stay.
But there’s something about Max.
Something that tells me she’s too dangerous to play that game with.
I just need to keep my distance.
It’s one night, for crying out loud.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
I risk a look to my right.
She’s staring out the window, fingers fidgeting in her lap, bottom lip caught between her teeth like she’s holding back from saying something outrageous…which means it’s absolutely about to come out anyway. And damn it, I want to know what it is.
That mouth never stays quiet for long, and I’d really like to fill it with—
Fuuuuuuck.
Yeah. I’m in trouble.