Page 11 of Claimed By the Grumpy Shifter

At 6:55, the front door opens.

And my world stops.

She's beautiful. Not just beautiful—fucking devastating. She's wearing clothes I've never seen before, something modest but somehow incredibly sexy, showing just enough skin to make my mouth go dry. Her honey-blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and she's done something to her eyes that makes them look bigger, bluer, impossible to look away from.

But it's the uncertainty in her expression that nearly brings me to my knees. She looks nervous, hopeful, like she's trying to be someone she's not sure she knows how to be.

"Hi," she says softly, her breath visible in the cold air.

"Hi yourself." My voice comes out rougher than I intended, betraying exactly how much the sight of her affects me. "You look..."

I trail off, because there aren't words for what she looks like. Beautiful doesn't cover it. Stunning falls short. She looks like everything I've ever wanted and never dared to hope for, wrapped up in black fabric and standing on my sidewalk like a miracle.

"Too much?" she asks, her hands fluttering nervously over her jeans.

"Perfect," I say immediately. "You look perfect."

The smile that spreads across her face is worth every moment of anxiety I've endured today. It's radiant, transforming her from beautiful to absolutely luminous, and I have to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her.

"Thank you." She ducks her head, a blush painting her cheeks pink. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

I glance down at my suit, suddenly self-conscious. "I wasn't sure what would be appropriate. I don't do this very often."

"Do what?"

"Date." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "I don't date much."

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. "Really? I find that hard to believe."

"Why?"

"Because..." She gestures vaguely at me, her blush deepening. "Because you're you."

I want to ask what that means, want to understand how she sees me, but before I can form the question, she shivers in the cold air. The protective instinct that's been riding me hard all day flares to life, and I immediately shrug out of my jacket.

"Here." I drape it around her shoulders, my hands lingering longer than strictly necessary. The jacket is huge on her, swallowing her slight frame, but she pulls it closer with a grateful sigh.

"Thank you. I should have brought a coat, but I was so nervous about everything else that I forgot."

"Nervous?" I open the passenger door of my truck, offering her my hand to help her up. "About what?"

"About this. About tonight." She accepts my help, her fingers small and warm in mine. "About the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing."

I want to tell her that she doesn't need to do anything, that just being herself is more than enough. That I'm the one who should be nervous, that I'm the one flying blind here. But the vulnerability in her voice stops me cold.

"Christine." I don't close the door, don't step back. Instead, I lean closer, close enough to see the flecks of silver in her blue eyes. "You don't have to be anything other than exactly who you are. That's all I want."

"What if who I am isn't enough?"

The idea that she could think she's not enough—this woman who makes flowers bloom and babies stop crying, who has more genuine warmth in her little finger than I have in my entire body—is so absurd it makes my chest ache.

"Then I'm even more fucked up than I thought," I say, and she lets out a surprised laugh.

"Language, Mr. Steel."

"Sorry." I grin, surprised by how easy it is with her. "But I meant it. You're..." I struggle for the right words, settle for honesty. "You're everything, Christine. Everything good in the world rolled up into one perfect package."

Her eyes go wide, and for a moment, I think I've said too much, revealed too much of the obsessive need that drives me. But then she smiles. Soft and wondering and so beautiful it makes my bear rumble with satisfaction.

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