Page 10 of The Bear's Fated Mate
Mostly though, they were friends.
Kaylee: And then Crystal gave you a public relations task? How is PR even remotely related to the hostile takeover of another corporation?
Lara: Beats me, but at this point I’m willing to do anything to get my family to spill the beans. It made sense that no one let me know what was going on while I was at school the past few years, but I’ve been home for six months now. It’s time they let me into the backroom conversations.
Amber: Well, let’s take this as a positive move. I can tell you that Crystal didn’t simply make up a job to test your loyalty. Tonight is a big deal, so she’s trusting you with a real situation.
Lara: I’m not sure how you know this stuff, but thank you? I guess that means I have to actually be nice to people. How weird is that?
Kaylee: Stop pretending. You *are* perfectly nice
Lara: What I am is looking for the barfing emoji
Amber: I agree with Kaylee. You’re a great person—who incidentally can knock the knees out from any linebacker who’s getting handsy. Honestly, I think you’ll be good at PR. Just don’t start a fight. Or end one. Or really…try to not use your ninja skills.
Lara: I thought you said I was nice! So, you’re saying if a “heated discussion” arises during the course of the meal, I shouldn’t flip any of my dinner companions to the floor and shove peas up their nostrils? No problem. Let’s hope there’s no one in attendance who ruffles my fur.
The little *typing* symbol showed up to indicate that Amber was formatting a text. It sat there. Vanished. Reappeared. Vanished.
Amber:is typing…
She was doing it again. Amber had this annoying habit of wanting to share something and then having to reword it fifty million times.
Kaylee: For God’s sake, just spit it out.
Lara: What she said.
Amber: …
Amber:Fine. I was debating whether I should warn you, because no one is supposed to know who else has been invited, but you’re my friend. I didn’t know what to do with the fact that I was contacted by the organizers, which means I know most of the invitees. Alex is going to be there, and that’s all I have to say, and good luck, and oh my God, don’t kill him.
Lara read the ramble with increasing concern, pausing when she hit the most important detail in Amber’s message.
Alex was going to be there.
Great.
Fantastic.
She had no idea what was going on with the Orion pack and now suddenly she was attending some extravagant dinner with Alex where she had to have opinions about the fancy food when all she was going to be thinking about was how much she wanted to climb him like a tree?
Her sister had ordered her to get closer to people. People like…Alex?
Peachy keen, jellybean.
She was about to send off another message when a sleek, black stretch limo pulled up in front of her. The passenger door on the far side opened, a head popped into view, and she froze.
Even pre-warned, the first sight of the bear shifter had her mesmerized. He unwound his long limbs and muscular torso to glide to a standing position. His head pivoted toward her as he made his way around the back of the limo and strode closer like the predator he was.
A very delicious-looking predator dressed in an immaculate black suit with a crisp white shirt peeking out from beneath narrow lapels. His hair was perfection except for one unruly curl that was barely long enough to dip tantalizingly over his forehead. He was clean-shaven, yet the hint of a heavy beard shadowed his firm jaw.
Perfection and desire served up in Armani.
He stopped a foot away, pulling off his sunglasses to let her glance into his deep brown eyes, his pupils visibly dilating as he examined her.
She knew she looked good. Her slinky sea-coloured dress clung to her curves, and her five-inch heels sparkled like stardust. Her long hair was piled on top of her head in a more formal upsweep than the usual ponytail, every inch neatly in place except for the tendrils hanging on either side of her face. Diamond earrings and a simple diamond drop necklace completed her outfit.
His eyes flashed, and a low sound rumbled up from his chest and—damn it—a needy pulse struck squarely between her legs.
