Page 18 of Paw Inspiring (Paranormal Dating Agency #86)

SEVENTEEN

“ D arling, that closet is a crime against fashion!” Frenchy’s voice echoed through Meara’s new bedroom at the cabin as another dress sailed over his shoulder. Silk whispered against cotton as the rejected garment joined its fallen comrades on her bed. “Everything here screams ‘I commune with canvas’ not ‘ravish me, you magnificent beast.’“

Meara caught a flying scarf midair, adding it to the growing textile mountain. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the bay windows, turning the chaos into an impromptu art installation. “I do have nice clothes.”

“Honey.” Frenchy emerged from the closet, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised. “Your idea of dressing up is wearing the jeans without paint on them.”

“That’s not—” She paused, glancing down at her current outfit: leggings splattered with ultramarine blue and an oversized sweater that had seen better days. “Okay, maybe you have a point.”

“Of course, I do. Now...” He dove back into the closet with the determination of a fashion archaeologist. Hangers scraped against the rod, punctuated by muttered commentary. “Too casual... too gallery opening... too ‘I just finished a mural’... oh!”

He emerged triumphant, brandishing a black dress like he’d discovered the Holy Grail. The vintage-inspired piece featured a fitted bodice that flowed into a dramatic flared skirt, the hem hitting just below the knee. The neckline promised to showcase her collarbones while remaining elegantly tasteful.

Meara touched the fabric, remembering how Betsy had insisted she buy it last year. “For special occasions,” she’d said with that knowing twinkle in her eye. “Life isn’t all about paint fumes, sweetie.”

“Your grandmother was a visionary.” Frenchy pressed the dress into her hands. “She knew someday you’d need something that said ‘yes, I’m an artist, but I also know how to make a man’s jaw drop.’“ He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Though in Artek’s case, maybe it’ll make him growl. Do bear shifters growl when they’re attracted to someone? We should google that.”

“We are not googling bear shifter mating habits!” Meara rolled her eyes as she grabbed the dress. “And he’s not... we’re just...”

“Having dinner with the ridiculously attractive man who went all protective alpha male defending your property.” Frenchy’s grin turned wicked. “The same man whose muscles you couldn’t stop staring at during said defense.”

“I’m going to change now.” Meara retreated to the en suite bathroom, Frenchy’s laughter following her.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding the subject!” he called through the door. “And hurry up—we still need to do hair and makeup!”

An hour later, Meara barely recognized her reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress fit like it had been made for her, accentuating curves usually hidden under paint-splattered clothes. Sharp winged liner made her dark eyes look huge and dramatic, while bold red lips completed the vintage glamour effect. Her hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders, the kind of effortless-looking style that actually took forty-five minutes to achieve.

“I’m nervous.” The admission slipped out as she fidgeted with a curl. “I haven’t been on a real date in forever.” Not one that mattered, anyway. Her last relationship had ended six months ago, fizzling out like all the others when her passion for art eclipsed any spark of romance.

But Artek... something about him bypassed all her usual defenses. The way he moved, the intensity in his eyes when he looked at her, how his rare smiles seemed reserved just for her—it all combined into something that made her heart race faster than a blank canvas ever had.

“Of course, you’re nervous.” Frenchy adjusted her skirt with practiced precision, the patent peep-toe pumps he’d insisted on adding three inches to her height. “You finally met someone who makes you feel something besides the urge to paint.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Darling, I saw how you looked at him during that fight. If I hadn’t been there to maintain propriety, you might have jumped him right there in the pine needles.”

“I would not?—”

A knock at the door sent her heart racing. Frenchy squeezed her shoulders, his expression softening into genuine affection. “Yes, you would. And that’s okay. Betsy would be doing cartwheels right now, seeing you finally ready to paint with some new colors, if you catch my meaning.”

“That metaphor is terrible.”

“But accurate.” He gave her a gentle push toward the door. “Now, go get him, tiger. Or bear. Whatever the appropriate encouraging animal is in this situation.”