Holly’s Grizzly (Monster Relations Bureau #4)

4

Irving

The pasta sauce I threw together simmers on the stove and the noodles are nearly done cooking by the time I hear the shower turn off.

I freeze for a moment, hands hovering over the counter, knife poised just above the head of romaine I was cutting for a side salad. But, giving my head a hard shake, I make myself snap out of it.

All of this is… fine.

It’s fine that Holly’s staying here.

It’ll just be for a couple of days, and then she’ll be on her way. Although I can’t actually remember the last time I had a houseguest, I can be a good host. I can make Holly feel welcome and hopefully cheer her up after the weighted conversation we had earlier and her repeated insistence that she doesn’t need any help or want to make me feel put out.

And dinner is a perfect place to start.

Having my hands full with the cooking is exactly the distraction I need to get out of my own head a little. I’m not going to overthink this. I’m not going to question why every inch of me feels so tuned up and tuned in, vibrating with some strange energy and hyper-aware of every sound coming from the other side of that door.

I finish the salad, drain the noodles, and give the sauce a quick stir before flipping off the burner. Everything’s ready, and I lean back against the kitchen island in satisfaction, doing a quick sweep of the spread to see if there’s anything I missed.

Knowing the right thing to say to ease Holly’s fears and assuage the guilt she seems to feel about accepting my help isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse—truthfully, knowing the right thing to say isn’t ever really in my wheelhouse—but this? This I can do.

I love cooking. Well, I love food, more accurately. Growing it, preparing it, trying new recipes and developing my own.

It’s always been one of my hobbies, and my favorite way to spoil the people I care about on the rare occasions I have to do so. I’m solitary by nature, but given the opportunity, there’s nothing I love more than making sure the people around me have enough to eat and a comfortable place to sit and rest a while. I’m no expert in love languages, but if I had one, that would certainly be it.

That last thought gives me a moment of pause.

Is this too much?

Is that part of the reason Holly’s so uncomfortable? Maybe I’m coming on too strong, being presumptuous, putting too much pressure on her.

The instinct to provide for her—to offer her shelter and warmth and a good meal after all she went through today—was so immediate I didn’t stop to question it.

At the same time, I don’t think it’s any more or less than I’d offer to anyone who found themselves stranded in the woods or who showed up on my doorstep looking for help. It’s hardly an inconvenience or a burden, and I doubt I’d be questioning it at all if it didn’t seem to make Holly so uncomfortable.

Well, that, and the fact that providing for this particular stranger seems to tug at some deeper, less rational need to protect and provide.

Beneath my skin, my grizzly rumbles his approval.

He’s a greedy bastard.

Like most shifters, my other form is me… and not me. He takes his post in the corner of my mind while I’m in this human form, but when I allow myself to shift, he’s at the forefront.

His wants, his needs, his instincts. They’re still mostly aligned with my own, and I’m not beyond the capability of reining them in when they rear up as strong as they are now.

But it’s not the time or place to indulge them, so I push them down and turn my attention back to shuffling things around on the counter and making sure everything’s ready when Holly is.

Only a couple of short minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open and Holly steps out.

Cheeks pink, hair hanging in damp waves around her face, her petite frame draped in my shirt and pants, the sight of her sends a strange lurching sensation through the center of my chest, bringing all those unreasonable instincts right back to the surface.

A small island separates the kitchen from the living space, and Holly settles onto a stool there, leaning over her crossed arms as she watches me work.

“Did you find everything you needed in there?” I ask, keeping my gaze focused on the sauce that doesn’t need any more damn stirring.

“I did. Thanks again for… well, for all of this.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her she doesn’t need to keep thanking me, but I’m still half-convinced anything I try to say to put those worries of hers at ease will only make them worse, so I just murmur my acceptance of her thanks.

Silence falls for a few moments, and when I chance a glance back over my shoulder, I find her looking curiously at the open cupboard next to the stove.

“Do you do a lot of canning?” she asks, gesturing toward the various jars of vegetables and preserves lining the shelf.

I nod. “I keep a garden on the south side of my property and grow enough during the summer to have me pretty well-stocked for the rest of the year.”

Holly perks up a little at that. “I’ve always wanted to get into gardening. Someday, I mean. Having a condo in the city doesn’t give me a whole lot of room for planting things.”

“Portland?” I guess.

“Seattle. I live pretty close to downtown and work for a biotech company.”

I raise an impressed eyebrow. “Scientist?”

“Software developer,” she says a little ruefully. “Not as sexy as coming up with new miracle drugs, but it pays the bills.”

“Sounds pretty impressive to me.” I dish up our pasta and salad and hand a plate across the counter to her.

She takes it with an abashed smile. “It’s… it’s alright.”

Circling the counter, I take the spot at the opposite end of the island and set my own plate down before returning to the kitchen and getting us both a glass of water.

“What about you?” Holly asks, changing the subject as she twirls a bit of pasta around her fork. “What do you do for work?”

“I own a woodworking business,” I tell her, settling into my seat. “Furniture, mostly, and I work out of a shop I built next to the house.”

Holly hums her response before she takes a bite, and I very determinedly don’t look at her, even as she hums again—lower, and more appreciative this time.

“This is incredible.”

“It’s a pretty simple dish,” I say with a shrug, trying not to let my ego inflate any more than it needs to.

But, as we lapse into silence and dig into our meal, I find it’s a losing battle.

I catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, and the sight of her sitting there doesn’t do any favors for the instincts I’m doing my damndest to keep at bay.

She’s safe, warm, fed, cared for, and my grizzly reaffirms how much he likes that with a low, satisfied rumble.

Holly glances over, and for a few mortified seconds I almost think I let the sound escape, that she heard me rumbling at her. But she doesn’t look upset, or like she’s ready to bolt, so maybe I’m in the clear.

“I get the feeling you’re probably sick of me thanking you,” she says with a small, chagrin smile, “but I’m going to have to at least one more time. Thank you, Irving, truly. For dinner, and the rest of it.”

Another swallowed rumble, and I murmur what might be a ‘no problem’ or a ‘that’s alright’, but it’s a little hard to tell with how loudly my grizzly is making his godsdamn satisfaction known in the corner of my mind I’ve relegated him to.

Conversation flows easily while we eat. Holly offers a few more details about the type of work she does, describing how she creates computer programs that let the company’s scientists leverage data to gather new insights about their work. In return, I tell her a little about the apprenticeship I did with a master carpenter when I was fresh out of high school, and how much more I feel like I still have to learn.

Midway through our conversation, it strikes me that it’s been years since I had one even remotely resembling it.

Most of the people and paranormals I see and talk to on a regular basis are mountain folk. And while we’re not any better or worse up here than anyone who lives in a city and leads a different kind of life, this conversation with Holly only serves to highlight how very different those lives are.

It’s refreshing, on one hand, to hear about her home and her job and enjoy the soft cadence of her voice as she talks about everything waiting for her back in Seattle.

On the other hand, it puts a strange weight in the bottom of my gut—a weight I’d swear was disappointment if I didn’t know better—to be reminded again she’ll be off this mountain and back to that life in just a couple of days.

After we’re finished eating, I deposit our dishes in the sink, and Holly wanders back into the living room to look out the windows at the snow still falling hard and fast outside.

I settle into a chair at the side of the room, and she sinks down on the couch. She pulls a blanket over her lap, watches the embers crackle in the hearth, and looks so damned cozy and adorable that I have to battle the urge to go cuddle up next to her and make sure she’s got all the warmth she needs.

“So,” I say, venturing slowly back into conversation, though it almost seems a shame to disturb the peace of the moment. “What was it that brought you all the way out here?”

Holly shoots me a quick glance, a bit of color climbing her cheeks, and she takes a few seconds to think before she answers. Her eyes turn back to the fire and her expression falls, all her calm and satisfaction melting away.

It’s the same look she was wearing earlier when I asked if there’d be anyone searching for her—some combination of frustration and guilt, maybe even a bit of shame, and I regret my question immediately. I remember how hollow she sounded when she said she’d come on this trip all alone, and I want to kick myself for spoiling the mood.

“It’s… a little complicated.”

I’m about to change topics, or let her know she doesn’t have to answer, when she suddenly looks up at me with something resolved and heartbreaking on her beautiful face.

“It started with a breakup.”