Page 55 of Sweet Heart for the Bear

My chest is tight, my Bear prowling just beneath my skin, restless with the need to pull her into my arms and keep her there.

She steals the air from my lungs, and I don’t even want it back.

“Hey,” she says, smiling as she leans up on tiptoe to kiss my lips.

“Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet.”

“Not at all. I missed you in bed,” I say and nuzzle her neck, wrapping my arms around her from behind.

So soft. So warm.

She has one of my shirts on, and the hem brushes against her thighs as she moves.

She’s so tiny compared to me.

Cute as fuck.

“I like you in my clothes,” I tell her, and she giggles.

“I had no choice. Someone ripped my dress,” she says and flips the pancakes over.

“Sorry about that,” I murmur, letting her go reluctantly so she doesn’t get burned while she cooks.

I could never let her get hurt.

My Bear chuffs his agreement.

I pull two dishes down from the cabinet and pour our coffee while Carina fills our plates with pancakes, eggs, and bacon.

The smell alone is enough to make my stomach tighten with hunger, and as if on cue, it growls loud enough to make her laugh.

“Guess we worked up an appetite,” she teases, cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink as she flicks me a glance over her shoulder.

I smirk, enjoying the way her blush deepens. “Guess so.”

We settle in at the island, eating together like we’ve done it a million times before.

It all feels so natural.

Comfortable.

Like being with her last night. The way she fit me. The way my body instinctively pulls toward her even now.

Mine.

She talks about the pizzeria and her sisters, her voice alive with warmth and laughter as she describes the sheer chaos of family dinners—the shouting over who gets the last slice, the lovingly brutal way her sisters tease each other, the way her sister MJ always manages to make way too much food and then insists she box leftovers and brings it to the nearby shelter, like they do with their daily leftovers from the pizzeria.

She tells me about their book club, and I’m intrigued to learn it’s not the high-brow literary kind I expected, but a full-blown paranormal romance appreciation society.

“Wait,” I interrupt, trying not to sound too amused. “You and your sisters read about things like Dragons, Werewolves?” I ask and yes, I am fishing for info.

She laughs, taking a sip of coffee. “Oh yeah. Werewolves, Vampires, all kinds of Shifters. Even a Kraken one time. Our group chat is basically just unhinged discussions about book boyfriends with fangs, claws, or wings.”

Interesting.

Mental note: Find out which books she likes best and prove to her that reality is way better than fiction.

She moves on, telling me more about the pizzeria, about the elderly customers who try to bribe her for extra garlic knots. Sometimes they offer with actual cash.

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