Page 8 of Bear Naked Truth
Dangerous, she thought. The kind of man who could make her forget all her rules.
“You’re a strange one, Dorian Hawthorne.”
He smiled. “Takes one to know one.”.
4
DORIAN
Dorian had never believed in love at first sight, but he was starting to think maybe it came in stages.
First was scent. That hit him like a freight train the moment Autumn stepped out of her car—warm cinnamon, old paper, and something wilder, something that stirred his bear in ways no one else ever had. Then came her voice—cool and clipped, like she didn’t give herself away easily. But now?
Now, he was watching her laugh.
And he was toast.
They stood just insidePines & Needles, the warm, charming antique bookstore that doubled as the unofficial romantic epicenter of Celestial Pines. The lighting was soft and golden, dust motes dancing in sunbeams like lazy fireflies. Bookshelves curved and wound like tree roots through the space, whispering to each other when no one watched too closely.
Autumn was leaning against a table stacked with vintage poetry volumes, her eyes crinkling at the edges, mouth parted in a rare, real grin. Her laugh—low and a little scratchy—had just tumbled out at something Markus said, and Dorian didn’t even remember the joke.
Didn’t matter. He’d have carved that sound into the floorboards of Briar Hollow if he could.
“Alright, don’t let the bear fool you,” Markus was saying, his tone dry as the bone dust they kept in the shop’s back room. “Dorian looks like he bench-presses pianos, but the man once cried at a Hallmark commercial.”
“I didn’t cry,” Dorian muttered.
“You made asound,” Rowan added, perched behind the counter with a mug that readDon’t make me hex you. “Like a bear caught in an emotional trap.”
Autumn snorted into her coffee, and Dorian gave her a betrayed look.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
“A little,” she admitted, her voice lighter than he’d heard it before. “You were right, though. This place has a vibe. Not the haunted one like yours, way more relaxed and enjoyable.”
Pines & Needlesdidhave a vibe. Books arranged themselves based on who needed them, the back room occasionally ate people for a few hours of personal introspection, and the air always smelled like a blend of old stories and fresh bread. Markus and Rowan—the bookstore’s guardians—were as much a fixture in the town as Hazel Fairweather’s riddle-laced flower crowns.
Markus, all salt-and-pepper scruff and sharp eyes, had a way of seeing through people without making them feel skinned. Rowan was the softer one, all oversized sweaters and quiet knowing. Together, they curated love and literature like it was a religion.
Dorian sipped his coffee, trying not to stare at Autumn too much. It wasn’t easy. She had her brownish-blonde hair tucked into a haphazard braid, dark circles under her eyes that somehow made her look more enchanting than tired, andher combat boots were crossed at the ankles like she belonged anywhere she damn well pleased.
He wanted to touch her.
Not just for the fake-dating gig or to appease his bear. He wanted to reach over, tuck that one flyaway strand behind her ear, maybe press his palm to her lower back just to feel her lean in.
She hadn’t given him permission. So he didn’t.
But damn, it was getting harder to remember where the lines were and they had just started this charade.
“So,” Markus said, tilting his head toward Autumn. “Ghosts, huh?”
She nodded. “Whispers, mostly. Sometimes memories. I don’t see them in the classic sheet-and-chains way. More like… impressions. Emotional residue.”
“Must be exhausting,” Rowan murmured. “Carrying all that.”
“Sometimes,” Autumn said, eyes flicking briefly to Dorian before settling on the shelves again. “But better me than someone who doesn’t understand it.”
There it was again—that quiet strength. She wasn’t flashy, didn’t strut her power around, but when she spoke about the dead, her voice carried a weight that silenced the room.
