Page 4 of Claimed by the Grumpy Shifter (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #5)

I wake up thinking about amber eyes.

It's ridiculous. I barely know the man, but Marc Steel has somehow invaded my dreams, leaving me restless and aching in ways I don't quite understand.

I lie in bed for a long moment, watching the morning light filter through my bedroom curtains, and try to convince myself that yesterday was just my imagination running wild.

But then I remember the way he looked at me, like I was something precious he wanted to protect and devour all at once, and my pulse starts racing all over again.

I roll over and check my phone. Six-thirty.

I don't usually get up this early, but there's no point trying to go back to sleep when my mind is spinning like a hamster wheel.

Besides, if I'm being honest with myself, there's a tiny part of me that hopes Marc might be an early riser too.

That maybe I'll catch another glimpse of him through his window.

Which is pathetic. I'm pathetic.

But that doesn't stop me from taking extra care with my morning routine.

I actually blow-dry my hair instead of letting it air-dry into its usual messy waves.

I spend fifteen minutes debating between three different outfits before settling on a fitted blue sweater that brings out my eyes and jeans that make my legs look longer than they actually are.

I even put on mascara and lip gloss, telling myself it's just good business practice to look professional.

It has nothing to do with the possibility of seeing my mysterious neighbor again.

Nothing at all.

By the time I make it downstairs to open the shop, I'm second-guessing every choice I've made.

The sweater is too tight. It clings to my curves in a way that makes me self-conscious.

The jeans are too casual. The lip gloss is too much.

I look like I'm trying too hard, which I am, and Marc will probably take one look at me and realize I'm just another desperate small-town girl with unrealistic expectations.

I'm in the middle of this internal spiral when I unlock the front door and nearly walk straight into a wall of muscle.

"Oh!" I gasp, stumbling backward. "Marc! You scared me."

He's standing right outside my door, looking like he's been there for hours. He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal henley that hugs his massive frame in ways that should be illegal, and his amber eyes are fixed on my face with that same intense stare that made me forget how to breathe yesterday.

"Sorry," he says, his voice still that rough gravel that does things to my nervous system. "I was hoping to catch you before you opened."

There's something almost predatory about the way he's positioned himself, blocking my exit, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe. Any other man and I might be nervous, but with Marc, I just feel... claimed. Like he has every right to be here, waiting for me.

Which is insane. He's my neighbor, not my boyfriend.

"You're up early," I manage, proud that my voice sounds mostly normal even though my heart is pounding faster.

"Couldn't sleep." His gaze travels over my face, taking in every detail with the kind of attention that makes me feel like the most fascinating person in the world. "You look beautiful this morning."

Heat floods my cheeks so fast I'm probably glowing. Men don't call me beautiful. Men barely notice me, period. But Marc says it like it's an undeniable fact, like the sky is blue and water is wet and Christine Parker is beautiful.

"Thank you," I whisper, then clear my throat and try again. "Thank you. Did you... did you need flowers for something?"

"Yeah." He steps aside so I can prop the door open. "I need to buy some flowers."

There's something odd about the way he says it, like he's not entirely sure what flowers are for. I glance at his hands. No wedding ring, no tan line where one used to be. Not flowers for a wife or girlfriend, then.

"What's the occasion?" I ask as I flip on the lights and start my opening routine.

He follows me into the shop, and immediately the space feels smaller. He's so big, so intensely male, that everything else seems to shrink in comparison. The delicate flowers look even more fragile next to his scarred hands, the pastel walls more feminine against his dark clothing.

"No occasion," he says, watching me move around the shop with that laser focus that should make me uncomfortable but somehow doesn't. "I just... like the way they smell."

I pause in the middle of adjusting a display of white roses, surprised by the unexpected answer. "You like the way flowers smell?"

"I like the way you smell when you're around them."

The confession is so blunt, so honest, that it steals the breath right out of my lungs. I turn to stare at him, and the heat in his amber eyes makes my knees weak.

"I..." I have no idea how to respond to that.

No one has ever said anything remotely like that to me before. It's intimate and strange and exactly the kind of thing that should send me running, but instead, it makes me want to step closer.

"Sorry," he says, though he doesn't look particularly sorry. "That was too direct."

"No, it's... it's fine." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, a nervous habit I've never been able to break. "What kind of flowers were you thinking?"

He moves closer. "What do you recommend?"

"Well," I say, trying to focus on business instead of the way his presence seems to fill every corner of the shop, "it depends on what you want them for. Are they for your home? A gift?"

"A gift," he says immediately.

My heart sinks a little. Of course they're for a gift. A man like Marc probably has women throwing themselves at him left and right. I'm an idiot for thinking—

"For someone special?" I ask, proud that I manage to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

"Very special." His eyes never leave my face. "Someone I want to get to know better."

"Oh." I clear my throat, trying to ignore the way my pulse is racing. "Well, for someone you want to get to know better, I'd suggest something simple but meaningful. Maybe roses, but not red. That's too forward for early in a relationship. Pink would be nice, or—"

"What's your favorite?" he interrupts.

"My favorite what?"

"Flower. What's your favorite flower?"

The question catches me off guard. "I... why?"

"Just curious."

"Peonies," I say finally. "I love peonies. They're soft and romantic, and they smell incredible, but they're also resilient. Stronger than they look."

"Peonies," he repeats. "Do you have any?"

"It's not really the season for them, but I have some preserved ones in the back. They're not fresh, but they're still beautiful."

"I'll take them."

"You don't even know how much they cost."

"I don't care."

Who buys flowers without asking about the price? Who looks at a woman like she's the answer to every question he's ever had?

Marc Steel, apparently.

I disappear into the back room, using the few minutes alone to try to pull myself together. This is crazy. I'm reading way too much into everything he says and does. Just because he's buying flowers doesn't mean he's interested in me. Just because he asked about my favorites doesn't mean—

But when I come back with the preserved peonies, pale pink and still achingly beautiful despite being dried, he takes them from my hands like they're made of spun glass.

"They're perfect," he says.

"They're fifteen dollars," I manage.

He pulls out his wallet and hands me a twenty without taking his eyes off the flowers. "Keep the change."

I ring up the sale with shaking hands.

"Thank you," he says, but he doesn't move toward the door. Instead, he stands there holding the flowers, looking at me with that intense stare that makes me feel like I'm the only person in the world.

"You're welcome," I whisper.

I should say something, ask him about his day, comment on the weather, or do any of the normal things people do during normal transactions. But there's nothing normal about this, nothing normal about the way he's looking at me like he wants to devour me whole.

"Christine," he says finally, my name rough on his tongue.

"Yes?"

He holds out the flowers—the peonies I told him were my favorites, the ones he bought without asking the price.

"These are for you."

My heart stops. Actually stops beating for a full second before starting up again at double speed.

"What?"

"The flowers. They're for you." He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You said they were your favorites."

"But... but you said they were for someone special. Someone you wanted to get to know better."

"They are." His lips curve in something that might be a smile if it didn't look so forced. If it didn't look like he hasn't smiled in a long time.. "I want to know everything about you, Christine. What you like, what you dream about, what makes you laugh."

I stare at him, speechless. This can't be happening. Men like Marc don't pursue women like me. They don't buy us flowers or look at us like we're something precious. They don't—

"I can't accept these," I say weakly, even though every fiber of my being wants to snatch them out of his hands and hold them close.

"Why not?"

"Because... because I barely know you. Because you're my neighbor and this could get complicated. Because I don't understand what's happening here."

"What's happening here," he says, his voice dropping to a rumble that I feel in my bones, "is that I'm trying to court you."

Court me. Not date me or hook up with me or any of the casual terms men my age usually use. Court me, like I'm something worth winning.

"Marc..."

"Have dinner with me." It's not really a question, more like a gentle command. "Tonight. Let me take you somewhere nice."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

Because you look at me like you want to own me, I think. Because something about you makes me want to do stupid, reckless things. Because I'm already half in love with you and we've known each other for less than twenty-four hours.

"Because it's complicated," I say instead.

"It doesn't have to be." He reaches out and touches my cheek, just a whisper of contact that makes my panties soaked. "Say yes, Christine."

The smart thing would be to say no. To thank him for the flowers and maintain professional boundaries and not get involved with the mysterious man who watches me from his window and makes me feel things I've never felt before.

But when I look into those amber eyes, when I see the hope and heat and something that looks almost like desperation, the word that comes out of my mouth is:

"Yes."

His smile is blinding, "Seven o'clock?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"I'll pick you up." He starts toward the door, then pauses and looks back. "And Christine? Wear something you feel beautiful in."

Then he's gone, leaving me standing in my flower shop with a bouquet of peonies and the feeling that my life just changed forever.

I lift the flowers to my nose and breathe in their sweet scent, and for the first time in my life, I feel like the heroine of my own romance novel.

It's terrifying.

It's wonderful.

And I can't wait for seven o'clock.