Page 4 of Wooded Bliss (Mated to the Monster: Season 3)

BIRDIE

The longer I drive for this delivery, the more a feeling starts swirling in my gut. It is a feeling like something is on the horizon, an impending something I don’t know and can’t name. I can’t shake it, and butterflies are swarming in my belly.

When the trees on either side of the road start to thin out, I realize I’m approaching a huge lodge, but it isn’t where my phone is telling me to go. Honestly, I should just be happy my GPS even works out here.

Pulling up to a gorgeous cabin, I suck in a sharp breath. While nestled in a small clearing, the way the forest encloses the home lets me know that the views from inside would be breathtaking. Movement near a building off to the side of the cabin has me looking that way and my breath stalls in my lungs.

As if I was thinking about him too hard yesterday, Thatcher Bosch is standing there with his intense dark eyes trained on me. My heart starts to pound in my chest as I take him in. The ten years between the last time I saw him and now, melts away.

The way he’s grown into himself has my body going on high alert. It’s not just attraction, it’s something more, something wilder. My heart is fluttering in a way that tells me I’m the prey.

It’s ridiculous since there is no way Thatcher would look twice at me. Even though I wish he would.

I take a moment and catalogue everything that is Thatcher Bosch. He was tall ten years ago, but I think he’s even taller now. The way his broad shoulders, arms, and chest are wrapped in muscles have my thighs clenching. His dark hair is spiked up as if he’s run his fingers through it a few times, while it’s short on the sides.

The flannel he’s wearing is stretched across his chest, and I swear the buttons on that thing must be getting hazard pay or something because even from here I can feel the strain being put on them. His jeans are perfectly worn and stretch across his thighs that are so damn thick that I have no doubt he’d be able to pick me up and fuck me against the wall.

Woah.

No. No fucking against any walls.

I’m here to make a delivery and then I’m going to head back to Whispering Pines to be kept warm at night with this memory.

Fuck, he looks good.

I can almost feel the way his arms would wrap around me and keep me safe and warm. His chest would make a damn good pillow. Well, maybe it would be a little too hard, but I could deal with it. For him, I could deal with a hell of a lot.

Knowing I can’t keep putting it off, I open the door and step out. The fact that I don’t stumble the moment I take a step toward the back of my van is a miracle. I take a chance and glance at Thatcher to find emotions flitting across his face which I can’t discern.

His shoulders are stiff and everything about him is taunt and rigid. Sure, he looked strong the moment I pulled in, but this is different. This looks like tension.

While holding the bouquet of flowers in front of me like a shield, I step toward where Thatcher is standing. No one can be mad about getting flowers. Right?

His jaw is clenched tightly and I’m a little concerned about his teeth. But I can’t let it stop me. I have a job to do and I’m here to do it.

“What are you doing here?” His growled question has me almost tripping over my feet, but I’m able to right myself.

As I take a deep breath, I swear I hear a low warning growl, but I ignore it. No, I don’t ignore it so much as I’m distracted by the scent of petrichor and fall. Is it coming from him?

I want to wrap myself up in the scent and roll around in it. My stomach clenches with the thought, but I don’t understand my reaction. Even when I bury my face in the flowers I’m holding, Thatcher’s scent easily overrides it.

“I have a delivery,” my voice wavers slightly and I find myself holding my breath at the way his eyes become even more intense.

Why is he looking at me like that? Is there something on my face? Maybe he’s annoyed because I’m here? It’s not like it was my choice, I’m just fulfilling an order.

The thought of him not wanting me here, for a delivery or any other reason, has my heart sinking. It makes no sense because I shouldn’t really care what Thatcher thinks.

But I do.

I really fucking do.

“A delivery?” His thick eyebrows pull together as he studies me.

I thrust the flowers in his direction, unsure if I should step closer to him or not, as if they are proof enough that what I’m saying is true. Does he think I’m lying about a delivery? Why would I? It makes no damn sense.

“Yes?” I cringe when it comes out as more of a question than a statement. Being this close to the only man I’ve ever had a crush on and seeing him after ten years is throwing me off. After clearing my throat, I try again, “Yes, a delivery. Of flowers.”

“Flowers?” I swear his eyebrows become one giant furry caterpillar with how hard he’s furrowing them right now. It would be cute if I wasn’t the one being interrogated. “I don’t remember there being a flower shop.”

The sigh I let out is big, long, and loud. “No offense, Thatcher,” his eyes widen when I say his name, “but you haven’t exactly been hanging around and taking in all the changes in Whispering Pines.”

He swallows hard and I try—and fail spectacularly—to not watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs with the movement. The pressure between us mounts with every breath we take.

I hate it because I don’t do well with tension. I don’t want to alienate a customer even though I have a feeling he won’t be ordering his own flowers anytime soon.

“Who sent me the flowers?” His voice is gruff, and I have to fight the shiver wanting to work its way up my spine.

There’s just something about his voice that does it for me. The fact that this is the first conversation we’ve ever had is a distant thought.

“I have no idea,” I admit while I try to give the flowers to him again.

“I can’t think of anyone who would send me flowers,” he spits out as his face twists with a slight look of disgust.

“Everyone should get flowers at least once in their life,” I soften my voice. “Aren’t they pretty?”

Thatcher’s eyes stop studying me like he’ll be tested on it later and he really takes in the flowers. Something softens in his eyes, and it makes my gut twist with jealousy even though I have no right to have such a reaction. Maybe he does know who sent him flowers; the thought has me dropping my chin and staring at my feet.

“They are pretty,” the husky note in his voice has me snapping my head up to find him not looking at the flowers at all.

No, he’s looking at me. My cheeks heat, and I’m sure I’m blushing up a storm.

Something shifts in Thatcher’s eyes and fill with hunger. No one has ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me right now.

The only problem is that he doesn’t seem happy about it considering the scowl on his face. What is up with this man? He’s a walking contradiction, one I’m not sure I’m capable of or want to unravel.

Or maybe I do. Desperately.

I don’t understand the pull between us. In the past, I told myself it was just a crush. For ten years that was enough for me to push it out of my mind and only pull those feelings out in the dark of night when the loneliness tried to pull me under or whenever I thought about dating someone.

Sure, I tried to talk myself into moving on from my childhood crush millions of times, but the thought of someone else holding my hand, kissing me, holding me, or being inside me for the first time made my skin crawl. I’m sure Thatcher wasn’t holding onto his virginity all these years, not with the way he looks, but that doesn’t have anything to do with me. At least it’s what I’ve been telling myself for years.

Pathetic.

I’m pathetic.

“What has you looking so sad, little one?” Thatcher’s growled question stretches across the distance between us and his voice isn’t quite his own.

When I look at him it’s as if someone else is peeking at me through his eyes. It makes no sense, but I feel it all the same.

I shake my head and plaster a fake as fuck smile on my face. “Nothing,” I dismiss his question with a breezy wave of my hand which feels foreign and out of place. “Anyway,” I hold the word out, “I hope you enjoy the flowers.”

When I shake the bouquet a little bit, he still doesn’t make a move to take it from me. I huff out a breath and give another shake with the same results.

“What’s your name?”

His question catches me off guard and my face falls. Of course he doesn’t know who I am. Why would he?

It shouldn’t sting. But it does.

“Birdie,” I whisper and hate myself a little bit because of how small my voice comes out.

The scowl on Thatcher’s face deepens. “You were in the same class with Wylie, weren’t you?”

Fucking hell. Pure joy fills me to the point of being a little embarrassing. While trying to keep my face neutral, I nod slowly.

He grunts, but I can hear a hint of curiosity in his tone, “You work at the flower shop?”

“I own the flower shop,” there’s no way I can keep the pride out of my voice, and I don’t even try.

The surprise on his face makes me chuckle softly. A look crosses his face, and I freeze. Predatory. Needy.

Alarm bells sound in my head. I should be afraid, but I’m not. My first instinct is to run with the knowledge that he will give chase.

But that would be weird.

“Look, Thatcher,” I try and keep my voice even, “it’s clear you weren’t expecting this delivery, but that’s kind of the beauty of sending flowers to someone. They shouldn’t really expect them, or it ruins the surprise,” I offer.

I need to get away from here, away from him. The way my body is thrumming is completely foreign to me.

Sure, I was attracted to Thatcher when I was younger and had a huge crush, but this is different. I’ve never felt this kind of desire toward someone. The crush I had was mostly innocent, but this feeling now is naughty.

Naughty and downright sinful.

Thatcher takes a deep breath, and his eyes darken even further as he snatches the flowers out of my hand. I know I was offering them to him, but for some reason not having a reason to stay here with him anymore has sadness hitting me square in the chest.

“You should go,” he snaps before baring his teeth at me.

After swallowing hard, I nod like a fucking bobble head, turn on my heel and practically run back to my vehicle. This time, I don’t take a moment to appreciate the Blooms Happen logo on the side of my retrofitted minivan like I normally do. Nope, not this time.

It feels like something is nipping at my heels and I can’t seem to move fast enough. I don’t hear Thatcher’s footfalls behind me, but I definitely can feel his eyes watching me closely.

When I finally close the door of my minivan, I’m able to take a deep breath. Being around that man is intense in a way I’m not used to and don’t know what to do with. If he was trying to intimidate me, he succeeded.

I take the risk of glancing at him and he’s staring right at me. As much as it feels like his gaze is trying to hold me in place, I force myself to pull out and head back toward Whispering Pines.

Maybe it’s better that I don’t see Thatcher for another ten years. By then I might really be over my crush on him.