should I wear?”
***
For Mick, the world had turned to ash.
His film schedule needed another four days of principal photography at the location, and then some last pickup shots to be finished up at the studio.
He got the location finished in three. Everyone else was galvanized into efficiency and productivity by the sight of the Russian Bear, who now appeared to be ten feet tall and five feet across the shoulders, with eyes like lasers and voice a whisper of precision.
Not that he lost his temper. That was the most terrifying aspect. He never so much as raised his voice. But even the top star, who had been high maintenance all along, cooperated meekly, giving flawless performances on the first take. The other stars fell right into line.
On the fourth day, everyone arrived at the studio to find memos in bullet points laying out exactly who was going to do what to finish. Mick himself had vanished.
Everyone knew he had some kind of man cave up in the mountains somewhere. Wife number two had complained bitterly about that on Oprah. What kind of man would prefer spending his free time in some mountain dump, even a state-of-the-art dump, when he could afford to take his wife shopping in Paris? Or renting her a house at Cote d’Azure? Or buying a luxury yacht to take her to Antibes? Or anywhere but some cabin in the woods outside of hippie-dippie Idyllwild?
But off he went, and apparently alone. Probably, the news gossips surmised, to read scripts and figure out what his next fifty million dollar blockbuster would be, and who would star in it.
Mick knew what everyone was thinking because he forced himself to watch the news and read the insider gossip online. He did it to try to get his head straight. He was lucky enough to work in a profession he loved, he had earned respect and admiration and tons of money. He also had tons of responsibility and expectations. He was the last person who should be mooning around because of a woman he barely knew.
Mate , his bear said, forcing his way to the surface. Again. Mine.
She doesn’t want me , he told the bear.
She’d made that crystal clear by leaving without so much as a note. Or even a text. And though he’d furtively checked for messages a few hundred times, there had been nothing.
His office had all her data, of course, but he hated the idea of being a creepy stalker. She hadn’t given him the info. Therefore he wouldn’t use it.
Mick tried to ride out his mood, but all that did was throw him back in memory to the intense pleasure of riding side by side with Shelley, in bed with Shelley, kissing Shelley. The first sight of Shelley in that leather biker getup. The even hotter sight of her naked.
The sound of her low, breathy laugh. The smell of her tea tree shampoo.
The taste of her on his tongue, sweeter than honey.
So he parked his bike and prowled around his hideaway house, surrendering completely to his bear. For days he wandered all over the mountains, letting the bear revel in the immediacy of bear life, experiencing all the sights and sounds of the forest in the hope of getting his bear—and his memories of Shelley—out of his system. Once he managed that, he could reclaim his rational mind and get back to work.
That seemed to be going fine . . .
Until the afternoon he found himself at the rustic cabin, sniffing for traces of Shelley’s scent. Then he knew that his bear would never stop looking and longing for his mate.
Mick transformed back into a man. And then he had a very, very long hike across the mountain, until he came to his house again.
Okay , he told his bear. You win .
He drove down the mountain the night before the wrap party.
Shifter shapes keep you honest, if you let them , his grandfather had said. Be good to your bear, who sees the world simply. He will be good to you, and the both of you will live a long and happy life side by side with your mate.
His grandmother said the same thing—as had all the shifters in their
***
For Mick, the world had turned to ash.
His film schedule needed another four days of principal photography at the location, and then some last pickup shots to be finished up at the studio.
He got the location finished in three. Everyone else was galvanized into efficiency and productivity by the sight of the Russian Bear, who now appeared to be ten feet tall and five feet across the shoulders, with eyes like lasers and voice a whisper of precision.
Not that he lost his temper. That was the most terrifying aspect. He never so much as raised his voice. But even the top star, who had been high maintenance all along, cooperated meekly, giving flawless performances on the first take. The other stars fell right into line.
On the fourth day, everyone arrived at the studio to find memos in bullet points laying out exactly who was going to do what to finish. Mick himself had vanished.
Everyone knew he had some kind of man cave up in the mountains somewhere. Wife number two had complained bitterly about that on Oprah. What kind of man would prefer spending his free time in some mountain dump, even a state-of-the-art dump, when he could afford to take his wife shopping in Paris? Or renting her a house at Cote d’Azure? Or buying a luxury yacht to take her to Antibes? Or anywhere but some cabin in the woods outside of hippie-dippie Idyllwild?
But off he went, and apparently alone. Probably, the news gossips surmised, to read scripts and figure out what his next fifty million dollar blockbuster would be, and who would star in it.
Mick knew what everyone was thinking because he forced himself to watch the news and read the insider gossip online. He did it to try to get his head straight. He was lucky enough to work in a profession he loved, he had earned respect and admiration and tons of money. He also had tons of responsibility and expectations. He was the last person who should be mooning around because of a woman he barely knew.
Mate , his bear said, forcing his way to the surface. Again. Mine.
She doesn’t want me , he told the bear.
She’d made that crystal clear by leaving without so much as a note. Or even a text. And though he’d furtively checked for messages a few hundred times, there had been nothing.
His office had all her data, of course, but he hated the idea of being a creepy stalker. She hadn’t given him the info. Therefore he wouldn’t use it.
Mick tried to ride out his mood, but all that did was throw him back in memory to the intense pleasure of riding side by side with Shelley, in bed with Shelley, kissing Shelley. The first sight of Shelley in that leather biker getup. The even hotter sight of her naked.
The sound of her low, breathy laugh. The smell of her tea tree shampoo.
The taste of her on his tongue, sweeter than honey.
So he parked his bike and prowled around his hideaway house, surrendering completely to his bear. For days he wandered all over the mountains, letting the bear revel in the immediacy of bear life, experiencing all the sights and sounds of the forest in the hope of getting his bear—and his memories of Shelley—out of his system. Once he managed that, he could reclaim his rational mind and get back to work.
That seemed to be going fine . . .
Until the afternoon he found himself at the rustic cabin, sniffing for traces of Shelley’s scent. Then he knew that his bear would never stop looking and longing for his mate.
Mick transformed back into a man. And then he had a very, very long hike across the mountain, until he came to his house again.
Okay , he told his bear. You win .
He drove down the mountain the night before the wrap party.
Shifter shapes keep you honest, if you let them , his grandfather had said. Be good to your bear, who sees the world simply. He will be good to you, and the both of you will live a long and happy life side by side with your mate.
His grandmother said the same thing—as had all the shifters in their
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