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

I've been standing outside her building for ten minutes, and I'm starting to sweat.

Not from the cold. October in Cedar Falls has a bite to it that most people would find uncomfortable, but my bear runs hot enough that I barely notice the chill. No, I'm sweating because I can't remember the last time I was this nervous about anything.

Combat missions in hostile territory? No problem. Extracting wounded soldiers under fire? A normal Tuesday, but taking a beautiful woman to dinner?

Apparently, that's where I draw the line.

I adjust my tie for the fifth time, wondering if I'm overdressed.

The navy suit felt right when I bought it this afternoon.

The first new clothes I've purchased in years that weren't military-issued or purely functional.

But now, standing on a small-town street corner waiting for my mate, I feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.

The bear paces restlessly beneath my skin, agitated by the confined space of formal clothing and the anticipation thrumming through my bloodstream.

It doesn't understand why we're not upstairs already, why we haven't simply claimed what belongs to us.

The concept of human courtship is lost on it.

All it knows is that our mate is thirty feet away, separated by nothing more than a few walls and a staircase.

*Soon,* I tell it. *Patience.*

But patience has never been my strong suit, and it's definitely not the bear's.

I check my watch: 6:53. She said seven o'clock, and I've been here since six-thirty because the alternative was pacing around my empty house.

At least out here, I can smell her, that intoxicating blend of vanilla and roses that seems to cling to everything she touches.

It's stronger tonight, probably because she's getting ready, and the bear practically purrs with satisfaction.

The restaurant I chose is twenty minutes away, a place called Rosemary’s Diner that the woman at the gas station recommended. I have no idea if it's the right choice. I have no idea if any of this is the right choice.

What I do know is that I've been thinking about Christine Parker every second since I left her shop this morning. The way her eyes went wide when I gave her those flowers, the soft gasp she made when I touched her cheek, the breathless "yes" that fell from her lips like a gift.

She felt it too. Whatever this thing is between us, she feels it.

The thought should be comforting, but instead it makes the stakes feel impossibly high. This isn't just dinner. It's the beginning of everything. The first step in a dance that will either end with her in my arms or with me losing the only thing that's ever mattered.

No pressure.

A light comes on in what I think is her bedroom window, and my pulse kicks up another notch.

I can hear her moving around up there, the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood, the whisper of fabric against skin.

My enhanced hearing picks up the sound of a drawer opening, the rustle of what might be lingerie, and I have to close my eyes and count to ten to keep from shifting right here on the sidewalk.

*Get it together, Steel.*

This is why I never should have pursued her.

I'm not built for this kind of delicate maneuvering, this balance between human and animal, civilized and wild.

I'm a blunt instrument, better suited to direct action than subtle seduction.

But she deserves better than some caveman dragging her back to his lair, no matter what my bear thinks about the matter.

At 6:55, the front door opens.

And my world stops.

She's beautiful. Not just beautiful—fucking devastating.

She's wearing clothes I've never seen before, something modest but somehow incredibly sexy, showing just enough skin to make my mouth go dry.

Her honey-blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and she's done something to her eyes that makes them look bigger, bluer, impossible to look away from.

But it's the uncertainty in her expression that nearly brings me to my knees. She looks nervous, hopeful, like she's trying to be someone she's not sure she knows how to be.

"Hi," she says softly, her breath visible in the cold air.

"Hi yourself." My voice comes out rougher than I intended, betraying exactly how much the sight of her affects me. "You look..."

I trail off, because there aren't words for what she looks like. Beautiful doesn't cover it. Stunning falls short. She looks like everything I've ever wanted and never dared to hope for, wrapped up in black fabric and standing on my sidewalk like a miracle.

"Too much?" she asks, her hands fluttering nervously over her jeans.

"Perfect," I say immediately. "You look perfect."

The smile that spreads across her face is worth every moment of anxiety I've endured today. It's radiant, transforming her from beautiful to absolutely luminous, and I have to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her.

"Thank you." She ducks her head, a blush painting her cheeks pink. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

I glance down at my suit, suddenly self-conscious. "I wasn't sure what would be appropriate. I don't do this very often."

"Do what?"

"Date." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "I don't date much."

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. "Really? I find that hard to believe."

"Why?"

"Because..." She gestures vaguely at me, her blush deepening. "Because you're you."

I want to ask what that means, want to understand how she sees me, but before I can form the question, she shivers in the cold air. The protective instinct that's been riding me hard all day flares to life, and I immediately shrug out of my jacket.

"Here." I drape it around her shoulders, my hands lingering longer than strictly necessary. The jacket is huge on her, swallowing her slight frame, but she pulls it closer with a grateful sigh.

"Thank you. I should have brought a coat, but I was so nervous about everything else that I forgot."

"Nervous?" I open the passenger door of my truck, offering her my hand to help her up. "About what?"

"About this. About tonight." She accepts my help, her fingers small and warm in mine. "About the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing."

I want to tell her that she doesn't need to do anything, that just being herself is more than enough. That I'm the one who should be nervous, that I'm the one flying blind here. But the vulnerability in her voice stops me cold.

"Christine." I don't close the door, don't step back. Instead, I lean closer, close enough to see the flecks of silver in her blue eyes. "You don't have to be anything other than exactly who you are. That's all I want."

"What if who I am isn't enough?"

The idea that she could think she's not enough—this woman who makes flowers bloom and babies stop crying, who has more genuine warmth in her little finger than I have in my entire body—is so absurd it makes my chest ache.

"Then I'm even more fucked up than I thought," I say, and she lets out a surprised laugh.

"Language, Mr. Steel."

"Sorry." I grin, surprised by how easy it is with her. "But I meant it. You're..." I struggle for the right words, settle for honesty. "You're everything, Christine. Everything good in the world rolled up into one perfect package."

Her eyes go wide, and for a moment, I think I've said too much, revealed too much of the obsessive need that drives me. But then she smiles. Soft and wondering and so beautiful it makes my bear rumble with satisfaction.

"You're going to make me cry," she whispers.

"Please don't. I have no idea how to handle crying women."

"That's okay. I cry at commercials, so you'll get plenty of practice."

The casual way she talks about the future—about us having a future—makes something tight in my chest loosen. She's thinking beyond tonight, beyond this one dinner. She's imagining a world where we know each other well enough for her to cry at commercials while I watch helplessly from the sidelines.

I want that world more than I want my next breath.

"Ready?" I ask, finally stepping back so I can close her door.

"Ready," she says, but she's looking at me instead of the road ahead, and there's something in her expression that makes me think she's talking about more than just dinner.

I walk around to the driver's side, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. This is it. This is the beginning of everything—the first real step toward making her mine.

The bear settles contentedly as I start the engine, finally satisfied that we're taking action.

It doesn't care about restaurants or proper courtship or the thousand ways this could go wrong.

All it cares about is that our mate is here, within reach, wrapped in our scent and smiling like she wants to be nowhere else.

For once, the bear and I are in complete agreement.

"So," Christine says as I pull away from the curb, "tell me something about yourself that I wouldn't guess by looking at you."

I glance over at her, taking in the way my jacket has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the elegant line of her collarbone. "Like what?"

"I don't know. A secret talent? A weird hobby? Something that would surprise me."

A dozen possible answers run through my head, most of them involving the fact that I turn into a six-hundred-pound grizzly bear when the moon is right and my control slips. But obviously, that's not an option.

"I read poetry," I say finally.

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Really?"

"Really. Started during my second deployment. Someone left a book of Robert Frost in the barracks, and I picked it up one night when I couldn't sleep." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "Turns out, words can be weapons too. Just a different kind."

"What's your favorite poem?"

"'The Road Not Taken,'" I answer without hesitation. "Though I think most people misunderstand it."

"How so?"

"They think it's about taking the unconventional path, about being brave enough to choose differently. But it's really about regret. About looking back and wondering what would have happened if you'd made different choices."

"Is that what you do? Look back and wonder?"

The question is soft, careful, but it cuts straight to the heart of everything I've been running from. "Every day."

"Any regrets you'd undo if you could?"

I think about Jake, about the fight that tore us apart. About the choices that led me to the military, to Afghanistan, to the incidents that ended my career. About the years I've wasted hiding from what I am instead of learning to control it.

"Most of them," I admit. "But not tonight. Tonight feels like the first right choice I've made in a long time."

When I glance over at her, she's smiling.

"Good answer," she murmurs.

"What about you? Any deep, dark secrets I should know about?"

She laughs, and the sound fills the truck cab like music. "I'm an open book, remember? Small-town florist with simple dreams and absolutely no mystery whatsoever."

"I don't believe that for a second."

"Why not?"

"Because simple people don't make me feel like this."