Page 6 of Wooded Bliss (Mated to the Monster: Season 3)

BIRDIE

My book nook is my favorite spot in my house. When I started renting my house on the edge of the forest, this was a breakfast nook. That wasn’t going to fly for me, not with the big bay windows and a shape which was begging to become the perfect place for reading.

It took a little work, but I was able to make it into the space of my dreams, complete with shelves for my books, little nooks with surprises including a miniature library, and several plants. I love sitting here at night with a glass of wine or a cup of tea and reading. Trust me, my nook gets more action than my couch does in the living room where my TV is.

For some reason I can’t seem to concentrate on the book in my lap tonight. It was only hours ago when I saw Thatcher again for the first time in far too long. It’s kind of sad the number of times I thought about him over the years. No matter how many times I chalked it up to young, puppy love, I knew it was something more, something deeper.

Seeing him again today only brought everything I’ve been so studiously ignoring for years to come rushing back. Thatcher has grown into the man I always imagined he would become.

Still, I have so many questions.

What does he do with his time? Why hasn’t he come to Whispering Pines in so long? Was that his house I was delivering to? Why did he seem pissed off I was there? What are his dreams for the future? Who is he now—not like I really knew him back then, but I’m still curious.

I have a feeling I’m not going to get answers to any of my questions. Still, they’ve been swirling around in my head for hours now.

It’s strange how I never had any deliveries out that way, but then one suddenly popped up. There wasn’t a card, I triple checked, nor was there any information on who sent him the flowers in the first place. Maybe he has a woman, possibly even a wife I don’t know about, or it could have been a special day in his life.

How would I even know? It’s not really my business though, is it?

“You need to forget about Thatcher Bosch,” I murmur, wishing my voice was firmer and that I believed it was even possible.

My heart aches with how damn good he looked and how much distance there was between us. I’m not sure what I thought would happen if I were to ever see Thatcher again, but what happened this afternoon was not my fantasy reunion.

As I stare out across the backyard and to the tree line, I allow my imagination to run wild. I can reimagine our meeting as many times and in as many different ways as I want.

In my fantasy world, Thatcher takes one look at me and a smile stretches across his ridiculously handsome face. His feet eat up the distance between us until we’re so close our chests are almost touching. When I take a deep breath, his petrichor and fall scent surrounds me, enveloping me in a feeling of safety.

My skin buzzes as he reaches up and cups my face in his hands. “Birdie,” he breathes as if he can’t believe he’s had to live so many days without me in his life.

“Hi Thatcher,” my voice is husky and filled with desire, everything I’ve denied and pushed aside right there at the surface.

The way he bites his lip as he looks at me has me clenching my thighs together. Talk about sexy as fuck. My gaze flits between his eyes and his lips as if I don’t know where to look. Because I don’t.

“I’m going to kiss you, little one,” he rasps, a promise in his voice. “Once I get a taste of you, I’m going to haul you over my shoulder and carry you into the woods. We’re going to make love under the stars with the moon providing the perfect light for us to become one.”

My fantasy knees are weak, and I melt against his broad chest while knowing that he’s got me and won’t let me fall. The way his hands tighten on my waist only bolster the confidence I have in this man. I want him in a way which feels so damn right and like far too much at the same time.

I blink up at him and the question spills from me before I can stop it, “Where have you been, Thatcher?”

His eyes soften and darken as his gaze roams over my face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I needed some time, but I’ve been waiting for you.”

My eyes widen and he leans closer to me. His lips are so damn close to mine, I swear I can already feel the press of them against my own. His breath is minty and warm, skating over my skin and making me want him even more.

When I reach up and tangle my fingers in his hair, even though it’s barely long enough for me to do so, he lets out a low growling groan which causes my clit to pulse. We’re so close. So damn close.

“You heard me right,” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on my lips now, “I’ve been waiting for you. You’re the only woman I want, and I’ve been waiting for this moment for far too long.”

At first, I don’t know if I believe him, but then I realize fantasy Thatcher wouldn’t, couldn’t really, lie to me about anything. I sigh and tug on the strands of his hair.

Just as our lips are about to meet, I’m pulled out of my fantasy by movement in the tree line. I have to blink a few times to clear away the reverberations of Thatcher’s touch and how I imagine it would feel to be in his arms. It feels like I’ve just woken up from a long night of sleep. I don’t want to leave my fantasy world, but it dissolves to nothing around me.

I get the feeling something or someone is watching me, but it’s so dark outside I can’t see anything. Even when I move closer to the windows, the darkness of the tree line obscures everything. Still, the feeling persists and only grows stronger.

The longer I sit still and look, searching for something, anything, to explain this feeling, the more I feel like I need to go outside. It doesn’t make any sense, but it’s as if I can’t ignore the need to go out and investigate what is going on.

It’s probably a stupid thing to do, but my feet are moving before I even realize what is happening. When I step outside, I’m glad I prefer curling up in my reading nook with a chunky sweater on because it cooled down after the sun set.

I stand at the edge of my back porch steps and try to spot any movement. There isn’t any though, but something in my gut is tugging me toward the trees.

“Don’t investigate the strange feeling at night, Birdie,” I mumble to myself.

But I don’t go back inside. It’s like I can’t.

The strangest thing about feeling like I need to walk down the steps and move toward the forest is that I’m not afraid. Not even a little bit. Instead, warmth unfurls in my chest. It makes no sense.

When I take a step, and then another, I can’t seem to stop. They’re cautious at first but then pick up speed.

I’m standing feet away from the tree line before I even realize what I’m doing. I look up at the sky and can’t help but smile at the way the moon shines down on me as the stars twinkle. Even though I’m trying to find what pulled my attention in the dark, it doesn’t feel like I’m alone.

It’s kind of strange, not feeling alone when I am. This afternoon I felt lonely even when I was standing right in front of Thatcher. The realization makes my heart clench.

Clearly, I built him up in my mind for far too long. He was rude and gruff when he didn’t need to be.

I mean, I was bringing him flowers. Who can be grumpy when they’re getting flowers delivered to them?

Thatcher Bosch, that’s who.

What a shame.

The sound of a twig snapping and leaves rustling on the forest floor has my attention snapping toward the sound. I squint, as if it will help matters, and stare into the space between the trees. The forest isn’t overly dense right at the edge of my property, but there are definitely places someone could hide.

When I’m about to call out, I bite my lip and stop myself. It’s one thing to come out here and try to figure out what caught my attention. It’s another to go and call out for a serail killer, or whoever is out here, like a foghorn.

No, thank you.

I might not watch horror movies, but I know enough about them to know calling attention to myself would be a stupid move.

I’m about to turn away when I hear a chuffing sound and freeze. For a second, I don’t even breathe.

And then I suck in a breath as a giant brown bear steps out from between the trees, his dark eyes locked on me. My mind races as I try and remember what you’re supposed to do when faced with a bear.

But there’s nothing. I don’t have a single thought in my head, at least not a helpful one. Remembering, randomly, how to make a frittata is the last thing I need to be recalling. And yet it’s blaring in my mind like I’m about to host a damn cooking show about brunch instead of being mauled by a giant bear.

I doubt that the fact that I’m standing on my property and haven’t breached the forest line is going to do a damn thing to save me right now.

Do I raise my arms and try to appear as big and threatening as possible? Do I just turn and run like I’m not standing in front of a predator who has a prey drive?

I want to curl up in a ball and weep, but I don’t. it’s not bravery holding me in place, it’s sheer fucking fear.

My breathing becomes choppy as I pant and wheeze a little. I swear the bear’s eyes turn concerned, which doesn’t make any sense. How could a bear possibly feel empathy or concern?

It’s not like we speak the same language or anything. The bear in front of me is a wild animal driven by primal instincts. I’m an idiot who left the warmth and security of my home because something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye.

The bear takes a deep breath and lets out a low rumble. It’s not a warning and it doesn’t make me want to run. How fucking strange.

As we stand there, facing each other and taking each other in, my body starts to relax and my fight or flight instinct evolves to include calming the fuck down and staying put, but not to fight. How fucking strange.

Maybe I’m still fantasizing about Thatcher and none of this is real. If only.

The bear takes a step towards me and my hands come up in front of me as if it’ll be enough to ward off the giant in front of me. It won’t be. Hell, the whole scene would be comical if I weren’t stuck in the middle of it.

Just when I’m sure the bear is going to charge, I’m shocked as he sits down on his rump and chuffs. I narrow my eyes as I study the bear who seems more than happy to be sitting in front of me like a puppy.

Fucking puppy, my ass.

Even though this bear could rip me apart without a second thought, he simply sits there and takes me in. He looks me over in a way which has awareness coating my skin.

I know it doesn’t make sense, but this bear seems familiar, I just can’t figure out how or why.

As my heart rate decreases, I find myself studying the bear closer. Its coat is full and seems to shimmer under the light of the moon. Incandescent. That’s how I would describe this bear.

Well, incandescent and deadly.

What a combination.

“You’re gorgeous,” I murmur, awe filling my words even though they’re quiet. I wouldn’t want to startle the, you know, bear and all. “I bet your fur is thick, but so soft.”

I swear the bear smiles at me as he shifts closer while laying down on the ground. Laying down. On the ground.

Talk about surreal.

My hands itch to reach out and pet him, but I’m not willing to risk it.

Absently, I point over my shoulder back toward my home. I sound distracted as hell, “I should get back. I was reading a good book,” I blush because that’s not all I was doing, “and it’s just getting to the good part.”

I have no idea whether that’s true or not since I barely read anything and hadn’t turned a page in a while, but the bear doesn’t need to know the details. Why am I even talking to a bear in the first place?

“Thanks for not eating me,” I whisper before I start to step back, unwilling to turn my back on the wild animal.

It’s possible I imagine it, but I swear I hear the bear chuckle as I move away from him until I get to the porch and then bolt back inside the house. If I didn’t know before, I do now—it’s bedtime.

At least the bear showing up made me forget about seeing Thatcher again. Only for a little while, but I’ll take it.