Holly’s Grizzly (Monster Relations Bureau #4)

3

Holly

I wake in a furnace.

Or, maybe more accurately, I wake in the arms of a furnace.

Irving is dozing beneath me, still with both arms cradled around me, keeping me held steady in his lap. I’m warm, so warm, and it takes a few long, hazy moments for that last bit to fully register.

In his lap.

As soon as it does, more memories come rushing back in.

Falling in the river. Dragging myself out. Being carried through the woods by a bear who’s actually not a bear to the most picture-perfect little cabin.

And then…

Oh.

Oh, god.

I got naked in front of him, didn’t I?

Which, I mean, was probably necessary considering I was drenched and about to freeze to death, and I do remember there being a blanket involved, but still.

Doing my best not to wake him, I prop myself up a little and glance down to find I’m still wrapped in that blanket. Irving’s got one draped over him, too, and another memory rushes in at the sight of it.

A big, broad male body dusted in coarse dark hair. How easily he scooped me up. How careful he was in bringing me back here and making sure I was alright.

I glance up.

My face is just a few inches from his. His eyes are closed and his face is relaxed in sleep, but he’s still just as ruggedly handsome as I remember, with his big bushy beard and his thick brown hair.

And he’s still just as impossibly warm.

I’m no longer half-frozen from my idiotic dunk into the river, but the memory of it still lingers deep in my bones, and I can’t stop myself from savoring that warmth as I take a deep inhale.

Irving smells like the mountains. Rich pine and crisp snow, fresh air and something deep and earthy that’s almost as calming to my frayed nerves as his warmth is.

I close my eyes and take another whiff.

“Holly?”

They snap back open, and I’m met by Irving’s deep brown, very concerned gaze. He shifts me in his arms, helping me sit up and putting a few inches of distance between our torsos.

I barely bite back a groan of protest at losing even a little bit of his warmth, then give myself a mental slap.

Get a grip, Holly.

The man single-handedly saved me from freezing to death. The very least I can do is not be an absolute weirdo, losing my mind over his body heat and his freaking scent .

“Are you alright?”

Am I?

Aside from the unreasonable, scattered-brained attraction that I’m absolutely going to blame on my dunk in the river and my subsequent thaw, I think I am. My limbs seem to all be in working order, and I reluctantly put them to use as I wiggle my way off Irving.

“Yeah. I’m alright.”

Settling on the sofa beside him, I clutch at the blanket, way too aware of the fact that I’m completely naked beneath it.

I’m way too aware of everything all of a sudden.

I’m in a stranger’s house.

I’m naked in a stranger’s house. My pack is gone, there’s a blizzard outside, and I’m alone with a grizzly shifter somewhere deep in the woods on the side of a mountain with no idea where I am or what I’m going to do now.

All those realizations tighten my throat and spike my heart rate, and not even Irving’s mountain-fresh scent is enough to keep my wildly careening emotions in check.

Irving must be able to see the rising panic on my face, because his eyes widen, and he stands and takes a few steps away. He keeps his own blanket held firmly around his waist, but as he glances down at himself, his cheeks flare with color over the top of his beard.

“Are you okay here for a few minutes if I go get dressed?”

I nod silently, and Irving retreats to a set of stairs at the side of the room leading to a lofted space above. When he disappears from view, I let out a long breath and try to get a handle on myself, looking around the room to get my bearings.

The cabin is beautiful.

Filled with warm wood—from the high-vaulted ceiling to the walls to the wonderfully worn floorboards—the space radiates a cozy mountain charm. A full wall of windows at the front of the living space overlooks a clearing and what must be a great view when it’s not completely whited out by a blizzard. A stone fireplace sits opposite the couch, stretching all the way to the ceiling and still burning low with the fire Irving built up when we got here.

All around the living space—which connects to a small but tidy open-concept kitchen—are little touches of color and softness. A woven rug on the floor. Framed photos and art prints on the walls. The low, comfortable couch I’m sitting on, and a pair of mid-century armchairs. All those touches soften the edges of what might have come across as a hyper-rugged, mountain man aesthetic with all the pine and stone.

My inspection of Irving’s cabin is interrupted by a noise from the loft. A door shuts, and footsteps echo across the floorboards as he reappears at the top of the stairs.

Blanket discarded, he’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a red and black plaid shirt. It’s all very lumberjack-chic, and that, combined with the hesitant look on his face, the way he chooses to sit in a chair on the opposite side of the room, and the memory of how gentle he was with me earlier chase away some more of my panic.

Which… maybe I shouldn’t let my guard down so easily.

I don’t know anything about him, after all. I don’t know if he’s some kind of solitary, homicidal maniac, or a genuinely good guy trying to help, and just because he’s handsome as hell and has a scent that makes my head spin doesn’t mean I need to trust him immediately.

It also doesn’t mean I should overstay my welcome.

Irving stays silent as he settles himself in the chair, like he’s waiting for me to speak first, and I clear my throat.

“Thanks again for helping me out,” I start, though thanks doesn’t seem to be nearly enough to acknowledge what he did for me earlier. “But I… I should probably get going. I need to get back to my—”

“Holly,” Irving interrupts, looking at me with a furrowed brow and confusion written all over his face, as if he’s seriously questioning my sanity. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back out in this weather.”

My stomach sinks as I glance toward the wall of windows at the front of the cabin. The snow has gotten worse in the last few… hours? How long have I been asleep?

“I…” I say, completely at a loss.

I’ve got no gear, no snowshoes, my clothes are in a wet heap on the floor.

Beyond that, all my muscles still feel shaky and weak, my head is aching slightly, and the idea of trekking back out in the cold kicks up that same ache deep in my bones, the memory of the river not far from my mind.

“Holly,” Irving says again, drawing my attention away from the windows and the growing dread that’s lodged itself firmly in the center of my chest. “I think you should stay here and wait out the storm.”

“N-no,” I stammer. “I can’t. I mean—I don’t expect you to—I can probably make it back to—”

“I don’t mind,” he says, sounding so earnest and sincere it stops my babbled protests short. “I don’t think it would be safe to go back out before the storm passes, and I’m not sure trying to drive somewhere would be the best idea, either. The roads up here are dangerous in these conditions.”

I nod slowly.

He makes a lot of good points, but…

“If it’s me you're worried about,” Irving says softly, “I’ve got a small apartment over my shop out back. I can stay there if it would make you feel—”

“No! Oh my gosh, no. I wouldn’t want to put you out of your own house. If anything, I can—”

“Please, you’re my guest.”

For some reason, the word guest draws a small, unlikely smile to my lips.

Absurd.

Absolutely absurd.

Like all of this is just some typical Christmas holiday, and I’ve come up to the mountains for a visit. Like it’s not completely bonkers for me to be here right now, sitting on Irving’s couch and seriously considering riding out the blizzard with someone I only met hours ago. Someone who saved me, carried me through the woods, saw me naked, and let me sleep on him.

But…

Irving still has that earnest, serious look on his face, and I’m not sure I’ve got any other options. And while I’m almost certain it should bother me more, make me more panicked or afraid or… I don’t know, like I’ve just landed myself smack in the middle of a horror movie rather than a warm and cozy Christmas special, it… doesn’t.

“Am I?” I can’t help but tease a little, the tightness in my chest slowly unspooling. “Your guest, I mean.”

“If you want to be?” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, answering mine.

And… alright. I guess we’re doing this.

I guess I’m doing this. Leaning on Irving, deciding to trust a stranger, when all I wanted from this trip was to prove that I could do it all on my own.

It puts a note of bittersweetness in my relief, a tremble in my smile, but I take a small, steadying breath to try to dispel it.

“Okay. Sure. And the couch is fine. It’s not you, really. I just…” I trail off, not sure exactly how to phrase what it is I’m feeling.

Beyond the immediate concern of shacking up with some guy in the middle of nowhere, it’s the same old discomfort I always feel when asking for or receiving help. Some nagging sense of putting people out, of being a burden, of getting more attention and charity than I deserve.

“Do you have your phone?”

Irving’s question pulls me out of those uncomfortable thoughts.

“I…” I look around, trying to remember where exactly I had it. “Oh! I think it was in my…”

I glance at my pile of wet clothes and grimace, but when I try to stand, he beats me to it.

“I’ve got it. Coat pocket?”

Nodding, I watch as he fishes it out of the zippered pocket at the front of my jacket. By some stroke of dumb luck, I had the foresight to tuck it into a waterproof bag to keep it safe from the elements, and as he hands it over I find it still has a charge.

And surprisingly good cell service this far out in the forest.

“I have a signal booster,” Irving explains when he catches my furrowed brow. “And I thought it might be good if you let someone know where you are, and that you’re alright. Do you have friends or family who might be looking for you?”

I shake my head. “No. I was alone on this trip.”

The words come out hollow and flat, but Irving doesn’t push for details. He’s right, too, that it would be good to let someone know I’m okay. I think for a moment before sending a text to Kenna and Nora.

My family—well, what little family I have—is back on the East Coast. Beyond telling them I wasn’t going to be back for the holidays, I didn’t let them know my plans. Since I only talk to them once every couple of months, they won’t be worried or waiting to hear from me.

My friends, however…

Almost immediately, both Kenna and Nora send back texts saying that they’re glad I’m alright, and wanting to know exactly where the hell I am.

I glance over at Irving. “Is it… would it be alright if I let them know your address? Just, you know, so they know where I am?”

“Of course,” he answers, relaying the info as I fire off another quick text with more assurances that I don’t think I’m in any imminent danger from my grizzly shifter rescuer.

It seems to appease them, though they’re both painfully curious to know the story about how I got here, and I promise to call them later.

It all seems like too much to deal with right now, so I set the phone aside and settle back against the couch cushions.

“I was going to make some dinner,” Irving says, standing from his chair. “Are you hungry?”

I hesitate, and he waits in silence for my reply.

It’s a little quirk of his I’m beginning to notice, the tendency not to rush me for an answer, to be alright sitting with the silence and letting me take my time deciding what I want to say.

I’m not sure if I appreciate it or am unnerved by it.

Maybe both.

“It’s just that…” My cheeks heat and my stomach squirms with discomfort. “I don’t… I don’t eat meat. Or eggs. Or dairy. But if you’ve got some… I don’t know, some bread and peanut butter, I could make myself a—”

“Making something vegan is no problem. How do you feel about mushrooms?”

“I—” I say, stopping short in surprise. “I love mushrooms.”

Irving smiles. “Good. And pasta?”

“Pasta sounds incredible.” At just the mention of it, my stomach lets out a little growl, and Irving’s smile grows even wider.

“Coming right up. While I get things ready, do you want to take a shower?”

He nods toward a door at the side of the room that I assume leads into a bathroom, but another problem presents itself.

I glance down at the pile of my wet clothes sitting on the rug in the middle of the floor, then at the blanket still wrapped around me, and Irving chuckles.

“It’ll absolutely be too big on you, but I’ve got something you can wear.”

Before I can protest, he heads back up to the loft. When he returns a minute later, he’s got another big plaid shirt and a pair of sweats with a drawstring waist bundled up in his arms.

“Sorry,” he says with a rueful grin. “You’ll probably be swimming in these. I can throw your stuff in the wash so it’s clean for later.”

My surprise at just how generous he’s being momentarily overrides my immediate instinct to deny the offer, to tell him I can do my own laundry if he shows me where it is, and I simply nod.

“Bathroom’s that way,” he says. “Use whatever you need to, and there are fresh towels in the cabinet.”

Again, I have no chance to protest before he passes over the bundle of clothes and turns to grab mine off the floor. He carries them through another door at the back of the kitchen that must lead to the laundry, and I stumble into the bathroom feeling more than a little off balance.

I drop the blanket and start poking around the room to find what I need. There’s shampoo and conditioner and soap in the shower, and after grabbing myself a fresh towel and turning on the water, I step beneath the spray.

As I do, I try to ignore the cloying feel of surreality tugging at the corners of my mind.

I breathe in, then out, then glance around the bathroom through the clear glass of the shower door to anchor myself in the present.

It’s another beautiful space—small, but thoughtfully designed with dark gray slate floors and fully tiled walls. The shower is huge, taking up nearly half the room, and the waterfall head is mounted directly above on the ceiling, obviously installed with Irving’s height in mind.

Those little details give me a mental perch to stand on, something to keep me here, grounded, and prevent me from thinking too hard about everything that happened today, how my entire world feels like it’s been tipped on its head.

But as hard as I try to stay where I am, my thoughts keep wandering, from Irving’s cabin, to my car who-knows-how-many miles away at the trailhead, to my life back in Seattle.

Inexplicably, they land on Cody.

More specifically, I think of one of the last big fights we had before he left. It’s the fight that would be waiting for me if I followed all the strings that stretch from this moment I’m in to the one that started it all. The fight that led to the break-up and my desperate need to feel normal again, to feel like myself, to search and search for some way to take back my power and find my center.

What had it been about, again?

A year later, it’s hard to remember all the details, but I think it had started with his insistence that he hadn’t forgotten to show up for a dinner hosted by the biotech company I work for, celebrating all the company’s highest performers.

It had just been my fault.

My fault, that I didn’t text him earlier that day to remind him.

My fault, that I didn’t schedule him a reminder on the goddamn Google calendar we’d shared.

My fault, that I’d come home crying, a little plaque in hand proclaiming me as one of the company’s best up-and-coming software developers. It was an honor that had felt stupid and hollow as I set it on the counter of the apartment we shared and trudged into the bedroom to fall into bed fully clothed, clutching a pillow to my chest as I tried to breathe through the bitter disappointment.

It was just one more hurt to add to the pile.

One more thing I shouldn’t have assumed he’d care about, should have made sure to communicate more clearly if it was important to me he showed up for it.

But it doesn’t matter now.

Cody is long gone, and getting over him was the impetus behind… all of this.

Changing things up, learning to survive on my own, finding out who I am now. Twenty-eight and completely capable, expanding my horizons and proving to myself just how much I don’t need anyone at all.

And I had gotten over it, or at least over him. Even if it’s still hard sometimes to open up about it, and even if running away to the woods for Christmas seemed preferable to being the sad single friend at the holiday gathering, I’ve been so proud of how much I’ve grown.

Well, at least until I fell into a goddamn river and almost died. Until I got my ass saved by a bear shifter who’s being so unbelievably kind to me.

My thoughts tangle again, but instead of trying to make sense of them, I try not to think of anything at all and instead lose myself in the warmth and the steam of the shower.