In one of the garden beds stood a sign.
The Bear’s Den.
I picked up my phone and typed the name at the top of my list of places to go. This place was destined to be something great. But what?
At the alpha’s side were stacked cans of paint and other building materials.
He hung his head and then shook it. Remodeling a big house was a task for more than one person. Surely he had hired workers? But none of them were in sight.
The man turned around and a gasp left my mouth. He was gorgeous. Not only tall but handsome with a beard and glasses. His T-shirt fit him like a second skin and outlined his muscles underneath. If Oliver Creek had these kinds of alphas, I would be moving on quickly.
Even though I was down the street, his deep-brown eyes fixed on me and I couldn’t have looked away if I wanted to. A smile played on his lips. My heart fluttered.
I raised my hand to wave, but he turned back to his project. Of course, I had no idea if the house belonged to him, but that was the story I made up in my mind. He’d bought it to fix up and soon it would be beautiful again.
Not wanting to seem like a stalker, I drove away but my chest ached a bit. Huh. That was weird.
Now to find this forgotten library and the place I’ll call home.
Chapter Two
Greg
When I made the decision to sell everything, divest most of my investments, and make a new start, it sounded like a great idea. To me. To my friends, my family, my sleuth—insanity. They begged me to reconsider, suggested I invest in an existing inn or B&B if I really wanted to be in the hospitality business.
Pointed out that I had no training, no experience, and no clue whatsoever how to remodel a building or run any kind of accommodations. My double master’s in business and finance had never leaned in the direction I now sought. But, every morning when I got up, exercised on a bike that went nowhere, drank a green smoothie of ingredients I didn’t really understand, and dressed in a designer suit I hated, I promised myself things would change one day.
Days, weeks, months, and years passed before my rising blood pressure and start of an ulcer brought me to the decision. Shifters didn’t ever get these conditions, but the healer said enough stress could kill anyone, and I was well on the way.
Oliver Creek was a dart I threw at a map. Research showed it to be a growing town with a strong foodie culture and not nearly enough places for people to stay. The logical choice would be to build a hotel, but further study revealed that the only place I could do that would be well outside the town limits. The walkability of Oliver Creek was one of its best qualities. Sure the vineyard and some of the farms were a short distance away, but most of the restaurants and shops lined the main street and those directly off it. If I wanted to own a hostelry of some sort that would be booked all year round, even if others opened, location mattered most.
And most of the available structures, those large enough to be transformed into convenient lodging for the foodies and other tourists, possessed historical status, making the type of changes I had in mind difficult at best and impossible at worst. None of the possible teardowns stood on lots big enough to build from the ground up unless I made a tower ten stories high. Which would not only look ridiculous but violate town rules.
Any sensible person would have thrown another dart, but my bear growled at the idea. He was, for some reason I could not fathom, determined to move to Oliver Creek. He’d never shown the slightest interest in where we lived, but after being in the city for so long, maybe he just liked the idea of a more rural area where he could let his fur down and run more easily and freely.
Even so, if I couldn’t find a place to run my business, we’d have to find another nice rural area. I had no desire to work remotely doing some of what I did now. That would only keep me isolated from people, and it was time for a more social existence.
Then, just as I was ready to let my Realtor know we were going in another direction, they sent me a text. A photo of a Victorian home that had been divided into apartments when the town was not doing well and that had not been maintained properly. Currently vacant, it had gone on the market just that morning. Without historical status, probably largely due to the abuse it had suffered, it would give me many more options than some of the others.
I bought it sight unseen—or at least only photo seen. My gut had never steered me wrong before.
But it might have now. Standing on the porch, nearly a year later, I was bruised, battered, and sore from long days spent rehabbing this old broken-down beauty. I had none of those skills, only the kind DIYers of YouTube to learn each skill. My blood pressure was perfect, not a sign of an ulcer, but as I lay inbed at night, all the aches did just as much to keep me awake. I faced a self-imposed deadline. No, I had not thrown every cent I had in to this project. But I had tied up the rest of my funds in long-term investments. If the doors were not open by the time the rest of my money ran out, back into business I went.
I’d done most of the heavy work already, either on my own or, where required, by licensed professionals. Electricians, for one. But where I could, I saved the extra money and built sweat equity.
On this day, spring’s warmth sought to push aside the long chill of wintertime, and I’d come outside for a breath of fresh air. Most of what I had left to do involved painting and other finish work, as well as installing the new appliances in the kitchen.
My neighbors were going about their business, few tourists passing on this quiet afternoon. We’d just come out of a cold snap, but warmer weather was expected, which was good for business. When more beds were available, it should help keep tourists here instead of just heading on to another destination at the end of the day.
The front garden still slumbered, but I’d planted thousands of bulbs in the fall, and the perennials were swelling, ready to burst forth. In the future, guests would be able to share the beauty of the garden in back as well, including the wisteria-draped gazebo. Someone had suggested I serve a high tea out there, but for present at least, I would simply follow more of a B&B plan with breakfast and maybe some small snacks available in the afternoon. Fresh cookies in the evening.
Our town—for I already thought of myself as part of it—had so many eateries, my guests would want to have their meals out. I had already begun to collect menus and such to keep on a rack near the front desk.
As I pictured the desk in my mind, the flow of smiling people coming in and asking where to get those amazing nut-buttersandwiches on freshly baked bread, the smokehouse brisket, and all the other delights, the sound of a car engine cutting off down the street caught my attention.
I turned to see a man peering out the window of the vehicle, in my direction. Was he noticing the sign I’d put up in the yard? It was not the final, of course, but I’d planted it there with the notion that passersby might remember and make a reservation for their next trip.
My bear rumbled softly, sounding eager, and for a moment, I almost left my porch to go speak to him. But what would he think? He hadn’t gotten out of the car or anything. No. I shook my head and cast a glance down at the cans of paint stacked up near my feet. There would be plenty of time for people when I finished my work.
