Page 24 of A Very Beary Christmas
I had heard people talk about certain moments in their lives when something changed, and I knew this was one of those moments. When she looked right into my eyes, I felt it in my very soul. The energy between us shifted, growing stronger, deeper. As her eyes widened, I knew then that she felt it, too.
“Chloe ...”
She lowered her gaze shyly, then abruptly sat up when she spotted what I had left for her under the tree. “Oh my God. Is that ...?”
“Rufus?” I finished. “Yes.”
Both hands came up to her mouth.
I got up and grabbed the bear, putting it in her lap.
My mother had worked her magic on that ratty old thing in the days following Chloe’s disappearance, wanting it to be ready for her when—if—she returned. His seams had been mended, the missing eye replaced, and the matted fur had been washed and brushed until it looked like new. The result was a far improved version of the ratty thing Chloe had left behind.
She hugged him to her chest, and I irrationally felt a pang of jealousy.
“I can’t believe you kept him.”
“He’s been waiting for you to come back, Chloe. We all have.”
She blinked, her eyes already shining with unshed tears.
“I made you something,” she blurted out suddenly, then got up, looking adorably anxious. She went over to the tree and pulled out the painting I had been ogling earlier. “Do you like it?”
I set the tray aside and stood up. “I love it,” I told her honestly. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I loved her, too, but I didn’t. I needed to tell her the truth before I just blurted that out. “Tell me something, Chloe. Why do you always include that bear in your paintings?”
Her gaze drifted downward, and she bit her lip.
I moved closer. “Why, Chloe?”
“Because he reminds me of you,” she said quietly. “It’s weird, I know. But I have these dreams ...” She broke off and cleared her throat.
“What dreams?” I prompted.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
I took the canvas from her hands and propped it against the sofa. Then I took both her hands in mine and led her back to the couch. When she tried to sit beside me, I tugged her onto my lap. She was hesitant at first, then she melted against me. It felt good—holding her like this.
“Try me.”
“I have these dreams. Some of them are about stuff that happened when I was a kid. Others are more recent. In all of them, though, I’m in some kind of trouble and this bear, the one in my paintings, comes to help me. Weird, huh?”
I didn’t think it was weird at all. As her mate, it was only natural that her subconscious would manifest me in some form when she felt threatened or afraid.
“How does he help you?” I asked, lightly stroking her arm.
“He protects me,” she said quietly. “If someone’s hurting me, he destroys them. If I’m cold or frightened or feeling lonely, he pulls me into his arms and holds me until I feel better. But that’s not even the strangest thing.”
“Oh?”
“No.”
“What is, then?”
She hesitated. “The bear isn’t a real bear at all. In my dreams, the bear is you.”
