Charmed by the Bear: Bluebell Creek Book #1 Read online

  Charmed by the Bear

  Bluebell Creek Book #1

  Olivia Arran

  Arran Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 Olivia Arran.

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

  Edited by nikkiheat

  Cover Design by Wilson Rowe

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  Contents

  1. Leigh

  2. Drew

  3. Leigh

  4. Drew

  5. Leigh

  6. Drew

  7. Leigh

  8. Drew

  9. Leigh

  10. Drew

  11. Leigh

  12. Drew

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  1

  Leigh

  I flopped back onto the bed, clutching my phone to my ear. “Remind me again why I’m doing this?” My eyes roved around the cramped motel room, last decorated circa 1950, if the brown, patterned wallpaper and gold tassels hanging from the bedside lamp were anything to go on. Or were gold tassels more of a sixties thing? I didn’t bother to hold back a shudder, since no-one was around to witness it.

  “Cheer up, Leigh! It can’t be that bad.” My best friend’s voice was my only lifeline, but right now, she wasn’t helping.

  I bolted upright. “Cheer up? I’m in the middle of small town hell!” I wasn’t one for melodrama, but this was Mags. Since sharing a room in college, I’d given up trying to hide anything from her. My induction into her inner circle had consisted of way too many tequila shots and admitting (under threat of losing chocolate privileges) that I suffered from a love/hate relationship with the color orange. I was a redhead—not a gentle auburn or classy strawberry blonde, think tomato ketchup with a side of mustard—and with creamy Irish skin that sprouted freckles in protest of a glimpse of sunshine, orange wasn’t my color. As a child, a therapist had told me that it wasn’t unusual for people to associate different emotions with colors, especially if someone had suffered emotional upset or loss. That they were often used in therapy to help a person learn to cope, as a trigger to adjust a mood or lift someone’s spirits. To me, orange was the color of happiness. It was what I remembered of my mother, vague memories tinted with the color of sunsets, burning bright enough to warm that place inside of me that hadn’t been old enough to understand grief, but too faded to provide the real memories I needed as a girl growing up alone in a man’s world.

  Floating on tequila, my first time away from home and my first time drinking, I’d babbled on and on about the color orange and Mags had understood. She was an artist, so she viewed the world through a kaleidoscope of colors. To her, it was normal.

  We’d woken up the next morning, wiped crusted drool off our faces, gone out for bagels and coffee, and been best friends ever since.

  She also was the only person who knew I loved dancing with my eyes closed, even though I had no rhythm. That I hated tomatoes (because of the seeds—evil things), and that I had an obsession with watching DIY shows and restoring old, abandoned furniture. She was also the only person in this world who understood my love/hate relationship with my father. Then again, she was my only real friend. I wasn’t very good at the whole ‘opening up’ thing required when extending the olive branch of friendship. Therapists had labeled me a guarded, but emotionally balanced six year old child. The box had been ticked and I’d been discharged and labelled a success. Yeah, my mother might be gone, but I was just fine.

  Mags had informed me that one day I would explode in a fireball of emotional overload and the world would be as it should be.

  I loved that girl, but it wasn’t going to happen. Structure, goals, and a ten year plan were my coping tools, the only way I knew how to survive. How I’d been taught to survive. Growing up, emotion had been a dirty word, used as an example of how not to act.

  Magdalena ‘call me Mags or I’ll slap you with my paint brush’ Salto hummed back at me, and I could visualize her tapping her chin as she tried her hardest to understand my plight. “Small towns can be quaint.”

  “Quaint isn’t in my wheelhouse.” Or my ten year plan.

  Another hum, then, “Treat it like a mini vacation. Tons of rich folk pay a fortune to go to those country places.”

  I strode across the room, yanking the blinds to one side so I could peer out of the window at the street below. Small town stores and way too much green stuff, same as last time I checked. “Big sprawling spa resorts.” I snorted, though it came out sounding more like a stifled scream. “Not the same thing. The partners wanted me out of the way.” I was sure of it.

  “You’re being paranoid.” Mags’ soothing voice stroked my frayed nerves, attempting to prod them back into place. “Pull this off and they’ll give you that promotion they promised, hmm?”

  I pouted. “That’s what they said.” Geez, I sounded like a five year old, not a successful business woman of twenty-nine years.

  My friend clucked her tongue at me, though she could have also been chewing on the end of one of her many paintbrushes that served as decor in her tiny apartment. “You’ve got cabin fever, that’s all. When was the last time you left your room?”

  I had to think about it. “The site visit on Tuesday.”

  “And it’s Friday now.”

  “I didn’t come here to have fun.”

  “It’s Friday night,” she sang back.

  “You’re not out.”

  “The night is still young.” A pause, then, “I just wiggled my eyebrows at you…”

  My mouth tilted at the corner. “And I felt their power all the way over here.” I huffed out a breath, letting the blinds drop back. “Fine, I’ll go out.”

  “Where to?”

  “Mags, there’s only one bar. My choices are limited.”

  “Ooooh, it is quaint!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Good thing I love you.”

  “Love you too, babe. Have fun and have a shot of tequila for me. You never know, you might find some country stud to dust off the cobwebs with.” She made a lewd noise, letting me know exactly what kind of cobwebs she was talking about. “Maybe even take a walk on the wild side?”

  No-one had ever called Mags subtle. “Shifters aren’t really my thing.” Not that I’d actually bumped into any around here in Bluebell Creek. Mustn’t be any packs or clans living local, which suited me just fine.

  “Honey, what woman in her right mind wouldn’t like a man with big muscles, stamina for days, and who’s hung like a—”

  I shook my head. “Stereotypical, much?”

  “From everything I’ve heard, it’s true. And it’s not stereotyping if it’s a biological fact of life. Shifter men are the perfected version of the human male.” She purred the words, sounding more than a little heated. “Plus, they’re loyal, monogamous, and family orientated. What more could you hope for?”

  “Hmmm, what about, say, a personality?” I laughed.

  She cleared her throat with a wry sounding chuckle. “True. But then there’s the fated
mate thing. Two people can’t be fated to be together if they won’t get along, right?”

  I couldn’t even begin to wrap my head around the idea. It just sounded so … abstract. To give up that much control to an idea of something. “I’ve got my fingers crossed for you, sweetie.”

  She huffed, the line crackling with her exasperation. “Hey! We were talking about you getting laid.”

  “And that’s my cue to hang up. Bye!”

  She snort-giggled. “Yay, you go getchu some! Bye.”

  I placed my phone on the bedside table, plugging it in when my eye twitched at the sight of only 75% charge. Work called to me from the small desk over by the window, but maybe Mags had been right. I let out a grumble under my breath. She usually was. I needed a break. I deserved a break. Before I’d even made a conscious decision, my phone was back in my hand and my purse on my shoulder. I slid my feet into my sensible, low heeled court shoes, and I crept out of the door. One little drink wouldn’t hurt, it’d show me just how much I wasn’t missing in this town, and then I could happily put in a couple more hours before hitting the sack.

  * * *

  A wall of humid air wrapped around me as I stepped into the bar. The happy chatter of voices raised in toasts and gossip filtered through my initial shock at the crowded mass in front of me. This place was packed! Plaid shirts brushed shoulders with scuffed, worn leather. Risqué sequins sparkled alongside demure high necked lace. Once I’d caught my breath, having sucked in a startling gulp of hops and perfume scented air, I averted my eyes from the enquiring eyes turning my way and moved toward the bar.

  Or what I hoped was the bar. Scuffed wood beneath my feet steadied me as I gripped my purse tight, twisting my body through gaps when I could find them. An elbow jostled my arm, a shriek of laughter came from behind me. I risked a quick glance to situate myself and caught sight of the strangest thing I’d ever seen in my life: an older lady sat head and shoulders above everyone else—literally on someone’s shoulders—clapping her hands in the air in time with the music, a manic grin on her face. Dressed in worn denim and a western style shirt, she even had what looked like a—

  I squinted, just to make sure. Yep. She had a cuddly toy bear squished under her arm. Wearing a tiara. With a hoop in its nose.

  The vigilante elbow decided to make another attempt on my ribcage and I dodged it, sliding through a recently opened gap and grabbed the edge of the bar. It felt like I’d run a marathon, or escaped being trampled by a herd of wildebeests. Smoothing my bangs down, I adjusted the strap on my purse, keeping a tight grip, and nudged my way toward an empty stool, claiming it in a show of daring defiance to the surrounding crowd. Inside my chest, my heart fluttered, sweat beading at the base of my spine as the music swirled around me, cranked up enough to drown out the roar of voices.

  One drink, then I can leave. My fingers tightened around my purse strap, the leather biting into my skin.

  “What’ll it be, darling?”

  My eyes whipped up from where I’d been examining the bar’s scarred, wooden surface. It was immaculately clean—I’d tested it with a discrete finger before resting an elbow.

  Friendly blue eyes stared back at me. Aquamarine blue, with specks of brown skimming the iris. Stunning.

  I blinked, and the whole picture came rushing into view. Square jaw dusted in dark stubble. A mouth set in an easy smile, flashing straight, white teeth. Straight nose. Tanned skin. A small scar bisecting an eyebrow, making the viewer’s eye skip for a second, allowing a moment to appreciate the whole, utter gorgeousness that was the man in front of me.

  I leaned back on the stool, my tongue pressing against my lips, checking that they were still sealed and not drooling. Holy hell. The man was huge. Big and built, he had to be at least a couple of inches over six foot.

  “You okay there?” He was staring back at me, an intensity in his eyes that hadn’t been there at first glance.

  The noise of the room came back with a pop, sweeping away the moment with a reality check. “Yes, sorry.” I cleared my throat. “Tequila, please.”

  His eyebrows arched as he rested an elbow on the bar. Dark hair dusted his skin, his hand large and capable looking. “Are we celebrating or commiserating?”

  “Commiserating,” I replied, instantly cringing at the invitation to carry on a conversation. Mags would be proud, I decided, stifling a sigh as he pushed away from the counter and turned to get my drink without another word. Even when I attempted conversation, I was lame.

  He lifted a bottle and tilted it at me in question and I just nodded. Tequila was tequila. I wasn’t a snob, they all tasted like they were trying to burn a new hole in my gullet. Sliding my hand into my purse, I watched with amusement as he tossed a shot glass in the air before sliding it onto the counter, upending the bottle with a flick of his wrist. His hips swayed in time to the thumping beat, denim clinging to a drool worthy ass and bulging thighs. Muscles flexing. Twisting. Damn. Maybe Mags had the right idea… It had been a long time.

  A shot glass appeared in front of me, along with a salt shaker and a slice of lime. With a start, I offered him the first note I’d grabbed.

  “This one’s on me.” He retook his place at the bar, leaning into me, a second shot glass in his hand. A smile danced around his lips, amusement lighting his eyes.

  Totally busted me checking him out. Heat rushed to my face, which meant I was now glowing like a beacon. Irish skin, gotta love it.

  “No, I couldn’t—”

  “Darling, you look like a woman who needs to take a load off and kick back. Whatever or whoever you’re running from, you’re safe here.” Scooting my glass closer to me, he clicked his against mine, waiting until I automatically lifted it up. “Cheers. Welcome to Bluebell Creek…” He tilted his head in silent question.

  “Leigh,” I managed to answer, despite the fact that the way he was staring at me was sending confusing signals zipping through my body, heating it up at an alarming rate.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Leigh. The name’s Drew.” He winked and tossed his drink back, forgoing the salt and lime.

  In a daze, I followed suit, the liquor burning a path down my throat, adding to my already out of control heat problem. My stomach flip-flopped at the sight of his easy smile, the crinkles around his eyes as he chuckled, as if sharing an inside joke.

  “Another, my lovely Leigh?”

  My lips pursed themselves all on their own. “Do you flirt with all of your customers?” Damn, that tequila was strong. Or maybe it had something to do with the lack of food sitting in my stomach.

  His smile widened, crooked at the corner. Scooting closer, his eyes widened the tiniest fraction. Trying, and failing, at innocence. The man was probably born with a devilish glint in his eye. “Just being friendly, lovely Leigh. You’re new in town; I wouldn’t be fulfilling my job as the local bartender if I didn’t show you a good time now, would I?”

  Every muscle in my body froze at the light innuendo. Or, at least, I thought it was. His tone was light and cheerful, his body language respectful. He wasn’t leering or making a pass.

  Or was he?

  Where was Mags when I needed her to translate for me?

  Taking my silence as an answer, he twisted at the waist and grabbed the bottle he’d left on the counter, topping our glasses up. “Bottom’s up.”

  We threw them back and he let out a low grumble, smacking his lips together. When he lifted the bottle again, I nodded. “Haven’t you got other customers to serve?”

  He shrugged, the snug material of his t-shirt pulling across his shoulders and caressing his wide chest. “My brothers have it covered.”

  “Brothers?”

  He jerked a head toward two men I hadn’t even noticed, both moving behind the bar with a fluidity that spoke of familiarity. Big and muscular ran in the family, that’s for sure.

  “It’s all hands on deck tonight because of the party. That’s Curtis.” He nodded at the brother with dirty blond hair, who was wearing slack
s and a shirt, a tie knotted loosely around his neck. “And that’s Ronan.” He indicated his other brother, who was slightly thicker around the chest, his hair a coppery brown, if I were to use his close cropped beard as a guideline, since his head was mostly shaved. Ronan wore jeans, like Drew, but his shirt was black and white checked, sleeves rolled up to show off colorful ink, and a silver bolt threaded through his eyebrow.

  I toyed with my empty glass, brushing away the offer of a top-up. I was well beyond my usual limit of zero. “You’re all brothers and all working behind a bar. One brother looks like a banker. Another like a biker,” I mused, shocking myself at the sound of my own laughter.

  “And what am I?” Drew murmured, tapping his chin and not confirming or denying my assessment. His expression was one of mischief, open and friendly.

  Tequila fuzzed my brain, turning everything lovely and squishy. Lovely. He’d called me lovely.

  Time to go home, before I launched myself over the bar and embarrassed myself. Someone cranked the music up even higher, the whooping energetic and enthusiastic. I leaned closer. “You, my lovely Drew…” I paused for effect, or it might have been to find my tongue at the look on his face when I turned his own words back on him. He looked confused, something clouding his brilliant blue eyes. “You are trouble.” Throwing a handful of cash on the bar, I slid off my stool and sauntered off into the crowd.

  2

  Drew

  It was like being hit in the head with a baseball bat, the revelation rocking me so hard I couldn’t breathe for a minute. Could only watch the gorgeous firecracker waltz away from me, swinging her hips in a hypnotic dance that had my dick straining against my jeans and my mouth watering in anticipation. Walking away like she hadn’t just slid straight into my life, crashed my heart, and become my everything in the single, defining moment that I’d finally caught her scent.