I scramble after him, dragging my suitcase behind me. He’s carrying the other. The wheels squeak like they, too, are exhausted by my life choices.
“Wait. What just happened?!” I gasp, catching up to him as he pushes through the hotel doors, not bothering to wait for the attendant to open them for him.
He doesn’t stop until we’re outside, where the cool air hits me like a reality check.
“You could have held back the fact that you were American,” he says, his voice flat. “We’re still grieving here.”
My eyes go wide. “Excuse me?How was I supposed to know the people around here were gonna discriminate against me—not for the content of my character, but for the seal on my passport?!”
“Calm down, Dr. King,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised.”
“Because I always heardyou peoplewere nice!”
His head snaps toward me. “First of all, watch how the hell you throw aroundyou people.Second—just because Canadians are nice, doesn’t mean we don’t haveteeth.We bite.”
I bite my lip at that.Yummy.
“So let me guess,” I say, folding my arms. “Not only is no one providing roadside assistance to us. But no one’s renting hotels to Americans these days, either?”
“Seems like it!”
“Because of a stupid trade war?”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Ever since your country nominated the orange orangutan, it’s been a shitshow and I haven’t had my favorite whiskey in months.”
I stare at him, stunned.
“Get in,” he orders, voice low, clipped, sexy as shit.
“Yes, sir,” I say, jumping up into the truck and sliding in with a grin. “I like it when you tell me what to do.”
He just shakes his head like he’s so over me but I’m honestly having fun getting under his skin. Then he shuts his door and starts the engine, hands firm on the wheel.
“So, uh…your place then?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not like I’m imagining what his shower looks like. Or his bed. Or what he looks like naked in said shower or bed.
He sighs like the universe is personally testing his patience. “Yeah. just for one night. We’ll figure out your car in the morning. I just need to make a stop on the way.”
I nod, biting back my smile as I buckle up. Inside, I’m doing a silent happy dance with jazz hands and a sexy little eyebrow wiggle.
Because ladies and gentlemen, I’m going home withThe Bear.
America may have declared war on beavers, butthis beaveris about to give Canada one hell of a peace offering.
Eli
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Eli,” I say to myself as I merge into traffic. “You’re going to let her sleep in the guest wing. You’re going to lock yourself in the master wing. And under no circumstances are you going to so much as glance at this loud, quirky, adorable woman.”
Simple. I’ve got this. She is no different than the others.
Right?
Right.
I’m not like most men. I don’t believe in giving myself over to just anyone. I don’t let people get close unless it’s intentional. And when I do let them in, I never do it with the expectation that they’ll stay. I allow myself the pleasure of falling. I give them whatever we can make of our time together. I love freely, fully—but I don’t hold women hostage to the idea of permanence. I don’t ask them to stay. I don’t beg. I don’t cling.
I let whatever we have, whatever we become, end when it’s supposed to. And it works for me.
Like I said, I’m a different kind of brother.
