Page 16 of Mated to the Mountain Bear (Bear Protector #1)

ZARA

I wake to the sound of movement in the kitchen, and I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding in my chest. For a moment, I’m disoriented and still wrapped in the lingering heat of last night’s dreams.

My face burns as I remember. The way I touched myself while thinking of him. The way his name escaped my lips.

God, what if he heard something?

No. The cabin’s solid, and I was quiet. Mostly quiet.

I dress quickly in more of Ben’s clothes, trying to armour myself in normalcy. But when I catch my reflection in the mirror, I see the truth written all over my face. Flushed cheeks, messy hair, and bright eyes.

The look of a woman who’s thoroughly satisfied, even if it’s by her own hand.

Get it together, Zara.

Splashing cold water on my face, I stare at the bathroom tap like it’s personally betrayed me. Another ice-cold trickle. After days without a proper shower, I’m starting to feel less than human. Maybe I should suck it up and have a cold one, but I just can’t face it. Not today.

Instead, I run my fingers through my straggly hair and twist it into a high bun.

Ben’s in the kitchen when I emerge, fully dressed. He glances up from his coffee, taking in my dry hair and frustrated expression. There’s something in his eyes, an intensity that wasn’t there yesterday, but it’s gone before I can be sure.

“Didn’t shower?”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice. He’s been so generous in opening his home to me when few people would have. I can’t complain about the water temperature like some spoiled brat.

A frown crosses his face, his mouth twisting, the pieces clicking into place. “You said yesterday you changed your mind about showering, too.”

“I did.” That’s true. I’d changed my mind when I realised the water was still Baltic.

“The water heater.” It’s not a question. Understanding dawns on his expression, followed by steely determination, like he’s relieved it’s a problem he can actually solve. “I’ll fix it.”

“You don’t have to...”

But he’s already heading for the utility closet, eating up the distance in a few long strides.

I follow, not wanting to seem ungrateful, but also desperate for the promise of hot water. “Only if it’s not too much trouble…”

The closet is cramped, barely wide enough for his shoulders, when he crouches in front of the water heater.

I hover in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself, watching him examine connections with practiced eyes.

“My toolbox is by the door,” he says without looking back. “Could you grab it for me?”

I retrieve the metal box, heavier than expected, and set it within his reach. The light from the hallway barely penetrates the closet, leaving us in semi-darkness.

“Wrench,” he says, holding out his hand.

I dig through the tools, find what looks right, and pass it over. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and this time I swear his hand lingers a second longer than necessary. The touch sends heat up my arm, a reminder of how those hands felt in my imagination last night.

The silence stretches while I shift my stance, keeping my weight off the sorest parts of my feet, trying to think of anything other than the events of yesterday, which I’m trying to blame on some kind of stress-induced nymphomania.

Except today isn’t starting much better as I struggle to find something to say that isn’t about how good he smells, even covered in sawdust from whatever he was doing earlier.

“How long have you lived up here?” I ask finally.

“Eight years.” His voice is muffled as he works, head and shoulders deep in the closet space. “I built the place myself.”

That doesn’t seem possible.

“The entire cabin?”

He smirks at the disbelief in my tone.

“Every board. With my brother’s help.”

I look around with fresh eyes, taking in the solid construction, the careful joints where walls meet ceiling, and the way everything fits perfectly despite the rugged setting.

“That’s amazing. I can barely hang a picture frame.”

He grunts and reaches deeper into the space, his shirt riding up slightly.

That’s when I notice the thick cobwebs clinging to his hair and shoulders and now caught in the dark strands that curl around his jaw.

“Oh, you’ve got...” Without thinking, I step closer, reaching out to brush the cobwebs from his hair. “Hold still, they’re everywhere.”

My fingers touch his wavy dark hair first, softer than I expected, then trail down to his shoulder, where more webbing clings to his shirt.

He goes completely still under my touch as I pick at the stubborn strands.

“Sorry, they’re really stuck,” I murmur, focused on my task.

But as I brush the last of the webbing from his shoulder, my hand lingers, registering the solid muscle beneath the fabric. My fingers seem to move of their own accord, following the curve of his shoulder, testing the strength there. It’s impressive.

Another slow swipe. I can’t seem to stop petting him.

What am I doing?

He turns his head slowly, and suddenly, we’re face to face in the narrow space. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes and feel his breath against my cheek. His pupils are dilated, and there’s that heat again, the same look from this morning but stronger now.

“I was just...” My hand is still on his shoulder, and I can feel the tension running through him.

After last night and my dreams, it felt natural to touch him, but now that he’s looking at me, it occurs to me that he wasn’t aware of any of it.

Not a willing participant. Still not someone I should have my hands all over. “The cobwebs...”

I’m momentarily hypnotised by his brown eyes, which I thought looked angry, but now, seem welcoming. And hungry. Definitely hungry. I swallow hard, and my tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip as the heat in the tiny space shoots up.

“Zara?” His voice is rougher than usual, deeper, like he’s fighting for control.

“Mmmm?” I’m in a trance, lost in his firm muscles, his dark brooding stare and alluring manly smell.

He clears his throat. “I need another tool.”

Oh. Oh, shit.

I jump back, yanking my hands off his body, and hold them up high in front of me, like I’m surrendering. Maybe I am.

We attempt to switch positions but step in the same direction, then again, until I finally press myself against the wall.

He squeezes past, his hand lingering on my waist longer than strictly necessary to steady himself. His hip brushes mine, and I bite back a gasp at the contact that burns through the thin fabric.

Oh my.

“Phillips head,” he says, voice rougher than before.

I practically dive for the toolbox, eager to please, finding the screwdriver. When I turn, I swear, Ben’s eyes are on my backside before sliding quickly to the tool in my fingers. I hand it over carefully, making sure our fingers don’t touch this time. I can’t handle it.

“Your sister,” he says suddenly, clearing his throat and attacking the water heater with renewed focus. “Tell me about her.”

The topic change takes me back. Most people avoid bringing her up, even he has until now, but he must be desperate to ease this tension that’s been building since I walked into the kitchen this morning.

“Amber’s two years older,” I start, settling against the doorframe at a safe distance. “Always been the performer. Mom used to say she came out of the womb ready for her close-up.”

He works while I talk, and the familiar rhythm of sharing Amber stories calms my racing pulse.

All my life, I’ve been good at talking to people about Amber.

I tell him about dance recitals and acting classes, about following her to auditions with homework in my backpack, and how I started keeping her calendar as a teen because she’d double-book herself otherwise.

“She landed her first real TV role at fifteen,” I continue, watching his efficient, confident movements, impressed with how capable he seems at each and every task he turns his hand to.

Each turn of the wrench is deliberate and powerful.

“A guest spot on a medical drama. Threw up twice from nerves before filming, and I had to feed her half a tub of ice-cream to make her go on.”

“But she did it?”

“Nailed it. The director wrote her into two more episodes, and the rest, as they say, is history.” The memory makes me smile. “That’s when I knew she’d make it.”

Gradually, she was making a name for herself.

Moving from a supporting actress on a TV show to a lead role.

Then some minor film parts. And recently, she was cast alongside an A-list actor in a global franchise.

This was going to be her breakout role. Filming is supposed to start in six months.

The studio has held off re-casting, probably afraid of looking callous rather than out of any loyalty to her, but they won’t wait forever.

“Your parents must be proud.”

I grimace. “They were.”

He turns his head slowly, immediately understanding the change of tone. In the dim light, I can just make out his expression softening.

“Car accident. Almost six years now.” I provide, saving him from asking.

I swallow down the swell of emotion that always comes from speaking about them. My fingers find the doorframe, needing something solid to hold onto.

“That’s tough. I’m so sorry. It’s not easy being on your own so young.”

Something tells me he knows from experience, but I don’t want to get into some kind of misery-off where we compare our hard-luck stories. Ben doesn’t strike me as a man who’s going to open up to a stranger, anyway.

“Amber and I had each other. We managed.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “We were supposed to be moving into her new apartment next week. She’d just signed contracts, wanted us to have a real home base instead of that rental.”

When he turns, his dark eyes search mine. “But now?”