Page 6 of Claimed by the Grumpy Shifter (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #5)

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

I stare at his profile in the dashboard light… The strong line of his jaw, the way his hands grip the steering wheel like he's holding onto control by a thread and wonder what exactly I make him feel.

Because whatever it is, it's probably a pale shadow of what he makes me feel.

"How do I make you feel?" The question slips out before I can stop it, breathy and far too revealing.

His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. "Like I've been sleepwalking my whole life and you just woke me up."

Oh. Oh.

Heat pools low in my belly, spreading outward until I'm sure I'm glowing in the darkness. No one has ever said anything like that to me before. Hell, no one has ever looked at me the way Marc does, like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once.

"I don't understand what's happening here," I whisper, because honesty seems to be the theme of this evening and I might as well lean into it.

"Neither do I." He glances over at me, and even in the dim light, I can see the intensity burning in his amber eyes. "But I know I don't want it to stop."

"It scares me," I admit.

"Good. If it didn't scare you, it wouldn't be worth having."

There's something almost eerie about the way he says it, like fear is just another obstacle to overcome.

It should probably concern me, this edge of darkness I sense in him, but instead it makes me feel.

.. alive. Like I've been playing it safe my whole life and he's offering me something wild and real and completely outside my comfort zone.

He drives in silence for a few minutes, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. I try to focus on the scenery rushing past—the familiar landmarks of Cedar Falls giving way to countryside I don't recognize—but my attention keeps drifting back to the man beside me.

He mentioned deployments. Military, then, which explains the scars on his hands, the way he moves like he's always assessing for threats.

It doesn't explain what brought him to our quiet little town.

"So," I say, desperate to break the silence before I do something embarrassing like reach over and touch him, "you were deployed. Army?"

"Marines." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Two tours in Afghanistan."

"That must have been..." I struggle for the right word. Difficult seems inadequate. Terrifying, maybe, but that feels presumptuous. "Hard."

"It was what it was." The dismissal is casual, but I can hear the walls going up. "I did my job and came home."

There's more to it than that. There's always more to it when someone deflects that quickly, but I can tell he doesn't want to talk about it. Which is fair. We barely know each other, and whatever happened over there is probably not first-date conversation material.

Still, I'm curious. More than curious.

"Is that how you ended up in Cedar Falls? Looking for somewhere quiet after...?"

"Something like that." He signals for a turn onto a road I don't recognize. "What about you? Ever think about leaving? Seeing what's out there beyond small-town life?"

The subject change is so smooth I almost miss it, but I let him redirect because the alternative is pushing a man I barely know about what are obviously painful memories.

And because, honestly, I'm not sure I'm ready for his full story yet.

There's something about Marc Steel that feels too big, too intense for the safe little world I've built for myself.

"I used to," I say instead. "When I was younger, I had all these grand plans.

College in the city, a career in event planning, maybe travel the world coordinating destination weddings.

" I laugh, but it sounds wistful even to my own ears.

"But then Mrs. Chelsea offered me the shop, and Cedar Falls just..

. it's home, you know? Sometimes the life you're supposed to have isn't the one you end up wanting. "

"Do you regret it? Staying?"

"Most days, no. I love what I do, love being part of people's happiest moments. But sometimes..." I trail off, suddenly embarrassed by how provincial I must sound to someone who's seen the world, even if it was through the lens of military service.

"Sometimes what?"

"Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be the bride instead of just the one arranging the flowers."

I duck my head, hiding behind the curtain of my hair, mortified that I just admitted to a virtual stranger that I'm desperate for my own love story.

"You want to get married."

"Someday," I say, then decide if we're being honest, I might as well be completely honest. "I want the whole thing. The wedding, the husband, the babies. The house with the white picket fence and Sunday morning pancakes. I know it's old-fashioned and probably naive, but—"

"It's not naive." His voice is rough, almost aggressive. "It's what you deserve."

The certainty in his tone makes me look up, and what I see in his expression takes my breath away. He's looking at me like I'm something he wants to protect and possess in equal measure, like the very idea of me having those things with someone else is physically painful to him.

Which is crazy. Right? We just met yesterday.

Before I can analyze it further, he's pulling into a parking lot in front of a building I don't recognize. It's charming in that rustic-chic way that's popular now—exposed brick and weathered wood with string lights creating a warm, inviting glow.

"Rosemary's," Marc says, reading the sign above the door. "It just opened a couple weeks ago. Thought you might like to try somewhere new."

"I've been meaning to check it out," I say, grateful for the distraction from our conversation. "I heard they have an amazing chef."

He comes around to open my door before I can do it myself, offering his hand to help me down from the truck.

"Thank you," I murmur, very aware that he hasn't let go of my hand.

"My pleasure."

We walk to the restaurant entrance together, his hand warm and steady on my back. It's a possessive gesture, claiming, and I should probably object to being steered around like I belong to him.

Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch.

The hostess greets us with a bright smile that falters slightly when she gets a good look at Marc.

I can't blame her. He's the kind of man who commands attention without trying, all controlled power and barely leashed intensity.

But there's something almost frightening about the way he surveys the restaurant, like he's cataloging exits and potential threats instead of admiring the décor.

"Table for two," he says, his voice polite but with an underlying edge that makes the hostess nod quickly and grab menus.

She leads us to a corner table that gives Marc a clear view of the entire restaurant, and I realize he chose it deliberately. Old habits from his military days, probably, but it strikes me as both protective and slightly paranoid.

"This is lovely," I say once we're seated, trying to ease some of the tension I can feel radiating from him, "But you seem nervous," I observe softly.

His amber eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, I see something wild flash in their depths. "Do I?"

"A little. Like you're expecting trouble."

"I'm not used to..." He gestures vaguely between us. "This. Being around people. Especially people who matter."

People who matter…

"Well, you're doing fine so far," I assure him. "Though you might want to stop glaring at that poor waiter. He looks terrified."

Marc glances over at the young man hovering uncertainly by the kitchen door and has the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."

"From the Marines?"

"Among other things." He picks up his menu, effectively ending that line of conversation. "What looks good to you?"

I let him change the subject again, but I file away this glimpse of vulnerability. Underneath all that controlled intensity, Marc Steel is just as nervous about this as I am. Maybe more so.

The thought is oddly comforting.

"Everything sounds amazing," I say, scanning the menu. "I'm thinking the salmon with lemon butter sauce. What about you?"

"Steak. Rare."

Of course. I can't imagine him eating anything that isn't red meat, preferably bloody. There's something almost primal about the way he says it, like he's thinking about hunting and killing rather than ordering from a menu.

The waiter finally approaches our table, still looking nervous but professional. Marc orders for both of us, along with a bottle of wine that probably costs more than I make in a week. When the waiter leaves, Marc turns his full attention back to me.

"Tell me about the shop," he says. "How did you get into flowers?"

"It's not very exciting," I warn him.

"I'll be the judge of that."

So I tell him about Mrs. Chelsea, about learning to arrange flowers in her kitchen when I was twelve years old.

About the way different blooms have different personalities, how color and scent can tell stories and capture emotions.

About the joy of creating something beautiful for people's most important moments.

He listens with an intensity that's almost overwhelming, asking questions that show he's not just being polite. He genuinely wants to know about my work, my passion, the things that make me who I am.

"You light up when you talk about it," he observes when I pause to sip my wine.

"Do I?"

"Like you're glowing from the inside out. It's..." He shakes his head, looking almost pained. "It's beautiful."

When was the last time someone really saw me? Really listened to what mattered to me?

"What about you?" I ask. "What makes you light up?"

His expression shuts down so quickly it's like watching blinds slam closed. "Nothing comes to mind."

"Nothing? There has to be something. A hobby, a dream, something you're passionate about."

"I'm passionate about survival," he says flatly. "About not fucking up other people's lives. Beyond that..." He shrugs.

The words are like a slap, revealing depths of pain I can't even begin to fathom. What happened to this man? What did he see, what did he do, that left him so convinced he's only capable of destruction?

"Marc," I say softly, reaching across the table to cover his hand with mine.

The contact galvanizes him. His hand flips palm-up to capture mine, his thumb stroking across my knuckles.

"You're going to try to fix me, aren't you?" he asks, and there's something almost resigned in his voice.

"Do you need fixing?"

"More than you could possibly imagine."

"Good thing I like a challenge."

His laugh is short and bitter. "You have no idea what you're getting into."

"Maybe not," I admit. "But I'd like to find out."

He stares at me for a long moment, his thumb still stroking my hand, and I can see a war being fought behind his amber eyes. Whatever he's battling, part of him wants to let me in. I can see it in the way he holds my hand like a lifeline, in the way his expression softens when he looks at me.

"Why?" he asks finally.

"Why what?"

"Why would you want to find out? You could have anyone, Christine. Someone uncomplicated. Someone who could give you that white picket fence without bringing a world of baggage along with it."

Because you make me feel alive, I think. Because you look at me like I'm something precious. Because every instinct I have is screaming that you're important, that this is important, in ways I can't even begin to understand.

But what I say is: "Because baggage doesn't scare me as much as being bored for the rest of my life."