Shifter Scrooge, page 4
“Ooh, I got it! So, we both know it’s almost Christmas, and I have the perfect idea!”
“Idea for what?”
“I know what we can do!” the little troublemaker shouted, making him hunch over as the sound grated on his supernatural auditory senses.
She had an idea about what they could do, huh? Well, so did his Tiger and it involved way fewer clothes. Striker shook his head. What was he thinking? This human was off limits.
But she smells fantastic. Bet she tastes good too. What’s wrong with a little Ho Ho Ho spirit?
No, no, no!
“Do you have to yell?” he growled.
“Ooh, sorry, You must have sensitive hearing. Anyway, I have just the thing,” she replied, unaware of his momentary discomfort. Her eyes were twinkling as she clapped her hands.
“Look, Bea I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever it is count me out,” he tried, but the woman was ignoring him and digging through her bags.
“You sound like the Grinch, or Mr. Scrooge, you know,” she teased, stopping once she found what she was looking for.
“But I am going to turn you into a believer in all things Christmasy, Striker the Scrooge. Trust me!”
“No, really. I am fine without any commercially trumped up holiday nonsense.”
“Next thing I know you’ll be saying bah humbug, won’t you?” Bea asked, hiding something behind her back.
Fuck she was adorable. Those pajamas were supposed to look silly, he was sure, but the way they fit her outlined every curve and nuance of her female shape. The woman was fucking fine as hell, and it had been a very long time since Striker had indulged.
No. Keep it simple. Hands off.
Bea’s grin widened as she held up the thing she’d found in her bag. Oh no. This was awful. It was something from his fucking nightmares.
“Is that a, a gingerbread cookie cutout?”
“Yep! We can bake Christmas cookies!”
Cookies? Noooooo!
“I don’t eat cookies.”
“Everyone eats cookies, big guy. Come on, you can roll me some dough and I’ll do the cutting,” she replied, and sashayed away with her fine as hell ass swaying to and fro.
Striker’s hands fisted at his sides. There was no way in hell he was baking Christmas cookies with this female, no matter what his Tiger thought of her form in that lunatic outfit.
Bah humbug was right!
Chapter Four
Holy Holly Berries.
I am stranded in a cabin with the hottest man alive, and he totally hates me. What the heck, Santa? Haven’t I been a good girl all year? Can’t I just have this one, please?
Bea didn’t usually get down about the way she sometimes rubbed folks the wrong way. After all, not everyone could handle her own quirky brand of awesomeness, but the idea of the enormous and ridiculously good-looking man hating her made her sad for some unknown reason.
“Cookies? Look lady—”
“It’s Bea,” she corrected him as she started taking out the stuff she’d brought from home to bake gingerbread men with her cousin’s family.
Yes, she was taking a shot here, but what else could she do? There was no way Bea was walking her fluffy butt back to Maccon City, and she was not going to try siphoning gas out of his truck to put into her hatchback. First off, that sounded gross in more ways than one.
Gasoline in her mouth? Um, no thanks.
Second, her little hatchback had barely made it up the mountain with a smattering of flurries. Looking outside, she saw an inch had already accumulated, and since she did not feel like dying in a ditch somewhere, Bea was staying put. Mr. Tall, Sexy, and Grumpy was just going to have to deal with it.
“Stop! Look, you can’t do that here. Okay? Hey, I said stop.”
“Stop what?” she asked, laughing at the stern look on his face as she preheated the oven.
“I don’t even know if the oven works,” he said, but she just laughed harder.
“Oh my gawd. Don’t you know Lena and Keeton run a ridiculously successful catering company? If there is one thing I know my cousin has, it’s a fully operational commercial grade kitchen,” she said, and pointed to the top of the line Subzero Wolf appliances.
The oven beeped, and Bea just grinned getting to work on lining the baking trays she’d brought with her with pre-cut sheets of parchment paper.
“Doesn’t matter if the oven works, the answer is still no,” Striker, or as she started to call him in her mind, Striker the Scrooge, grunted.
“No, what?”
“No, you can’t stay here, and absolutely no to baking cookies.”
“Look, I am sure Keeton values your friendship, so let me assure you his wife would be seriously pissed if you let her favorite—okay I might be stretching the truth there, but I am definitely in the top three—cousin go marching outside to her untimely death because you have something against my awesome cookies, which you have not even tasted yet.”
His lips twitched after her long speech, and Bea couldn’t help but note his eyes were a deep blue green color, more teal than emerald or sapphire. They were crystalline and shockingly clear. Beautiful, she thought and blushed at her own fanciful turn of thought.
The man was enormous, muscular, and he hadn’t smiled once. He certainly wasn’t a conventional sort of guy, definitely too masculine to be called beautiful. But when did Bea ever follow conventionality? She would never tell him so, but to her, right then, with the snow falling visibly through the skylight above, and the ceiling to floor windows behind him, Striker sure was pretty.
From his curly hair with its strange white highlights to those glittering eyes, the tight, bronzed skin covering ropes of thick muscles that corded his body, and the way he seemed completely sure of himself just about made her knees weak.
What would it be like, she wondered, to crawl up his body and have leave to reach out and touch all that strength with her own hands? Would he be passionate or standoffish? Something about him told her he was reserved with just about everything in his life. He looked so rigid standing there even without his shirt on. His hair was combed back, and his expression unreadable.
She had to fight the desire to reach out and mess up those curls, to tickle him until he fell to the floor in a fit of laughter. Gosh, what did his laughter sound like? She felt her curiosity grow as she brought out the rolled up gingerbread dough she’d already made the night before, along with little containers of sprinkles and candy decorations, and an entire bag of powdered sugar to make royal icing.
He seemed momentarily stunned as she worked, and Bea was kind of glad. All his shooing her away was starting to take its toll. But wouldn’t it be nice if he was happy she was there? If he wanted to spend the holidays with her in her silly pjs, making cookies, and maybe sitting with her by the fire, just watching the snow fall. It was a nice little fantasy. But that was all it was, she reminded herself.
Don’t be silly, Bea. He’s not for you, she chided herself.
Heck, what was wrong with her? He wasn’t any of her business. She had no call to wonder about his laugh or any part of him, for that matter. Her attraction to this man was completely unfounded, bordering on ridiculous. Just look at him, for Pete’s sake!
Okay, so maybe she was sort of using the gas thing and the snow as an excuse to stay put. He seemed like the kind of guy who would know how to MacGyver a way out of there for her, but if she were being honest, Bea just didn’t want to go. Her apartment was so cold and bleak, far too empty for her to go back alone. And Striker was interesting. Like really interesting.
“Woman, do you listen?”
“I hear you, Striker, I really do. But the fact is, I am not leaving, and we might as well enjoy the night. Now, do all those muscles actually work or are they just for show?” she asked, eyeing him and the hard as fuck gingerbread dough she laid out on the granite counter on top of a little bit of flour.
Ten minutes later, and mumbling under his breath, Striker was wearing a tank top over his sweats and an apron tied around his waist, much to Bea’s disappointment. But on the plus side, he was rolling out the thick, firm cookie dough, as if he’d been born to do it.
“How many more cookies do you plan on baking?” he growled the question as she filled another tray.
The entire cabin smelled delicious, like sugar and spice, and her tummy was growling by the time she had the first three sheets cooling on the wire baker’s rack near the windows. Bea popped a gumdrop in her mouth and hummed a carol as she organized the decorating station.
“That’s the last log,” she said, nodding at the one he was working on.
“Good,” he mumbled.
“Then we can decorate and chow down!”
“I don’t eat cookies,” he told her with a glare.
“You really are a Scrooge, aren’t you?” she asked, choosing to talk through his grumpiness rather than ignore it.
“What?”
“You. I mean, you volunteered to watch this place during the holidays, so I am guessing you either just broke up with someone, or you hate Christmas. So, which one is it?” she asked.
Striker stopped rolling out the last sheet of dough and turned to face her. His head was cocked to the side, and the sight of him stole her breath away. He was a stranger. A handsome one. But Bea felt drawn to him, safe, too, which was odd.
“You ask a lot of questions, Beatrix Annmarie Constance Gallo,” he mumbled.
“I know, it is one of my many annoying traits,” she replied with a saucy wink.
What could she say? Bea had always been a talker. She ate another gumdrop and mixed some natural food dye into the tiny bowls of icing she’d made. Talking was just a way for her to feel relaxed in other people’s company. It took the focus off her and onto them when she asked questions and offered fun facts and tidbits of info she’d gleaned from her years of reading, listening, and watching everything from documentaries to podcasts, romance novels, and crossword puzzles.
“Why do you do that? Call yourself annoying?” he asked and canted his head again as he waited for her to answer.
He sure was handsome, she mused. Way out of her league, but she was taking a breather from men, anyway. Wasn’t she? Especially men who seemed really into their workout routines.
Ugh. Tom.
She shook her head to stop herself from thinking about that guy and refocused on Striker the Scrooge with the striking eyes and the sexy as heck eight pack. Did he really need that? She wondered and rolled her eyes, taking a moment to herself before she replied.
“I don’t mean to sound like I am putting myself down. I’m not one of those girls looking for compliments to feel better about herself,” she informed him. “I just like to keep things light, you know? Besides, I know where I stand with you, and I have no reason to be on my best behavior,” she replied with a shrug.
“Where do you think you stand with me?”
“Oh, that one is easy,” she said, snorting as she put the next tray in the oven. “I am totally safe with you.”
“How do you know that?” he asked, stalking her across the kitchen. “I could be a serial killer. A poacher. Some monster looking for a sweet innocent like you to entertain myself with. Hell, Bea, I could just be a lunatic who broke into your cousin’s cabin seeking shelter from the storm. I could be the most dangerous man you ever met, little girl. What makes you think you can trust me?” he growled.
Gulp.
Her heart was thudding heavily inside her chest and her back pressed against the counter almost painfully. Bea had to lean her head back to look at him, and what she saw shocked her speechless. Heat. Awareness. And something else lurked in his steady gaze. Oh, and Striker’s eyes were blazing. The teal color so intense she thought she must be imagining it. He was trying to frighten her. That much she was sure of, but the oddest thing happened instead. Bea’s blood warmed inside her veins as long dormant parts of her stirred to life.
He really was devastatingly gorgeous, and she wondered, not for the first time since she stepped over the threshold, if maybe she really didn’t know what she was getting herself into. Maybe those outrageous things he said held some truth.
“I don’t know, but I do. I trust you, Striker.,” she said, and that more than anything seemed to shock the shit out of the man.
He frowned, pushing off the counter slowly, and Bea felt cold almost immediately. She turned around, the pleasure she’d found in baking suddenly muted.
“I’ll keep you safe while you’re here, Bea. You can trust in that,” he announced, then turned away from her and started washing the utensils and bowls they’d used.
The oven timer went off and Bea took out the last of the cookies, placing it with the others on the rack. She found the little speaker Lena had kept in the kitchen and grabbed her cell phone. She chose a Christmas playlist and grinned to herself when Striker groaned.
“Woman, I said no caroling,” he grumbled, but it was too late.
Bea was sashaying all over the place, singing off key along with Mariah Carey, but not attempting her famous whistle note. Striker had turned off the faucet and was drying his hands, but she didn’t pay him any mind, continuing to sing while she decorated the delicious little gingerbread man she was working on with blue icing and white sugar crystals.
“That’s it,” Striker growled, and took one of the undecorated cookies, putting it in her mouth so she would stop singing. “Try singing carols now, Trixie the Troublemaker.”
Striker grinned wickedly, but Bea was holding back a laugh of her own when she nipped his finger.
“You think a cookie can stop me from singing? Oh, ye of little faith,” she said with a mouthful of cookie, then continued to sing while she chewed.
Striker shook his head and moaned again, but she wasn’t about to let him off that easy. She picked up the gingerbread man she was decorating and pushed it into his mouth before he could close it.
“Damn, that’s good,” he growled, eating that bite, and taking another from the cookie she still held in her hand.
His grin was contagious as he licked icing from her finger, and she didn’t know how it happened, but the next thing she knew, Bea was on her tiptoes, and she was licking the sprinkles off the corner of his mouth. That teasing lick turned into something else when he caught her waist in his hands and lifted her body against his. Then they were kissing, using lips, tongues, and even teeth as they came together in a whirl of gingerbread flavored passion.
Maybe it was the snow falling outside. Or the fact it was almost Christmas. Could have been the song. Or the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and spices in the air. Or maybe it was because Striker was like the perfect embodiment of her most vivid fantasy man come to life. Who could say? Bea didn’t know how it all happened, she just knew she didn’t want this kiss to end.
Please don’t stop.
Chapter Five
What the hell am I doing?
Since the moment she knocked on the door, this woman held his attention like no one else ever had. She was gorgeous, curvy, and outspoken. The perfect balance of adorably shy, free spirited, self-aware, and courageous. Why else would she have driven alone at night in the snow to a cabin in the middle of a fucking mountain?
Total badass queen.
And his Tiger could not agree more. Striker had Keeton’s cousin-in-law wrapped around him like a boa constrictor, and his inner beast had never felt so fucking happy in his whole life. The monster inside him liked this woman. A lot.
And wasn’t that sending warning bells ringing inside his fucked up brain? Shit. He had to stop this. And he would. In a minute. Or twenty. He had no business making out with the sexy little normal. She wasn’t like him. Didn’t know the monster he harbored inside, or the lifestyle he’d led.
Striker was not a good man. He wasn’t mate material. He was a killer. Ruthless. Methodical. And un-fucking-salvageable. But for one crushing moment, he wished like hell that he was worthy of a woman like her.
Mine, growled the Tiger, but he pushed the beast back down. No way would he let that motherfucker near her. Selfish creature would have him claiming her, dooming her to a life with him. And that was just unconscionable.
Bea moaned as she rubbed herself against him, and Striker went fucking cross-eyed. He needed more of her than he was getting through the fluffy onesie she had on, and before he could talk himself out of it, he’d unzipped the front.
“Holy fuck,” he growled as he took in what lay beneath that ridiculous Elf pajama.
He smelled her mortification before he saw the red staining her cheeks. She was panting, disheveled, her hair mussed from his hands, and so beautiful she stole his breath from right out of his lungs. She might be human, but there was no doubt in his mind, the woman was magic.
“Oh, this is uh, well, this isn’t what it looks like,” Bea murmured, but made no move to cover herself up.
Thank. Fuck.
“Then you better explain it to me, Trixie the Troublemaker, cause to me it looks pretty damn hot.”
“What?” she asked, eyes wide, as if she really didn’t believe him. “You think I’m hot? What about my belly? My rolls? I mean, my boobs are too small, and my hips are too big.”
Striker frowned. The truth sounded with every syllable she uttered, and something inside him snapped. Who the hell was it that made her feel less than? This woman was gorgeous as fuck. Sweet, soft, warm, and ripe for plucking. She was a wet dream come to life. A Playboy centerfold with curves who had heart and spirit.
“Woman, I don’t know what the hell you’re yapping about. What I see are some pretty fucking fantastic tits in a naughty little negligee I couldn’t have made up. Shit, I was right about calling you Trixie the Troublemaker. Feel all this trouble you made in my pants,” he growled and straightened, flexing his hips against the apex of her thighs so she could feel how hard he was for her.
“That for me?” She asked, and her hazel eyes shimmered with gold flecks in the flickering firelight.
