Page 22 of Clashing With The Grumpy Wolf

"I keep the dead fish collection in my secret lair."

He shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on a hook by the door, and I'm struck again by his sheer size. Without the uniform, in just a Henley and jeans, he looks less like the stern sheriff and more like a man who could bench-press a small car without breaking a sweat.

"Let me show you around." He gestures toward the kitchen, a compact space with butcher block counters and open shelving. "This is the kitchen. Please, feel free to help yourself to anything. Right here is the living room. Bathroom's down that hall."

I follow him up the creaking stairs to the second floor. Two doors face each other across a narrow hallway.

"Guest room," he says, pointing to the door on the left. "My room." He nods to the right.

He hesitates, running a hand through his hair, making it stand up in unruly spikes. I have to refrain from reaching up and combing it down for him.

"You’re sleeping in my bed."

I blink at him. "Excuse me?"

"It’s because of the scent," he explains, his expression serious. "If we're going to convince anyone in my pack that we're bonded, you need to be wearing my scent. Sleeping in my bed is the quickest and best way to make that happen."

My cheeks heat at the implication, though I know he's being practical rather than suggestive.

"What about you?"

"I’ll take the guest room. But I'll give you something of mine to sleep in." He moves past me into his bedroom, returning a moment later with a flannel shirt. It's clean but clearly worn, the fabric soft from countless washings. "This should help."

Our fingers brush as I take it, and a jolt of something electric races up my arm. I pull back quickly, clutching the shirt against my chest.

"Thanks. I guess I'll go bathe in your pheromones now."

His lips twitch. "Bathroom's en suite."

I retreat into his bedroom, closing the door firmly behind me. The room is surprisingly neat with a king-sized bed dominating the space, covered in a dark-blue quilt. The furniture is all solid wood, sturdyand masculine. A large window looks out into the forest, though all I can see now is darkness and my own reflection.

The en suite bathroom is small but functional. I change quickly, sliding into his flannel shirt after folding my own clothes back into my bag. The shirt hangs off my frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh and the sleeves extending well past my hands. I roll them up, then catch sight of myself in the mirror.

My cheeks are flushed, my hair falling in wild curls around my face. Without my usual armor of tailored clothes and perfect makeup, I look like a version of myself I swore I would never be again. And wearing Adrian's shirt, surrounded by his scent, I look like I belong to him in a way that makes my stomach flip.

This is insane. I'm not the type of woman who rushes into anything, let alone a fake relationship with a werewolf sheriff who makes my pulse race. I'm organized, methodical, in control. Except right now, I don't feel in control at all.

I splash cold water on my face, staring at my reflection.

"Get it together, Julia," I mutter. "This is business, not romance."

When I emerge from the bathroom, Adrian is standing by the bedroom window, looking out into the darkness. He's changed too—black cotton shirt, loose lounge pants that hang low on his hips. His feet are bare on the wooden floor. That strange thing in my belly quivers and turns into a small hurricane and I hope his werewolf senses don’t pick up my fastened heartbeat.

The man looks good enough to eat. Too bad he’s the big bad wolf and not the little red riding hood.

He turns at the sound of the door. His gaze rakes over my body, and something flickers across his face too quickly for me to read.

"Better?" he asks, voice rougher than before.

I tug at the hem of his shirt, suddenly aware of how much leg I'm showing.

"If by 'better' you meandrowning in werewolf essence, then yes."

"That's the idea. But it’s not enough in itself."

A smile ghosts across his lips. It’s the second time he almost smiles at me and my heart skips a beat. Or two.

He takes a step closer, and I fight the urge to step back. Or to step forward and climb him like a mountain. Both can be true and both are equally stupid.