Page 4 of Bear and Book

A little girl waved at me from a second-story window like I was a cartoon superhero. It hit me right in the chest. The wolves had always been the town’s golden children and understandably so.

They were the first shifters to settle here, the ones who ran a successful local business and helped out during wildfires and community fundraisers.

But we bears? We were newer. Bigger. Rougher around the edges.

Folks didn’t quite know what to make of us when we arrived, especially with Rafael's resting murder face and Dorian’s dramatic eye rolls. But something had shifted.

It wasn’t just that people tolerated us now. They trusted us. They relied on us.

After a few seasons of baking contests, harvest festivals, and town-wide events where we passed out chocolate croissants with honey glaze, the people of Sugarpaw Springs had started to see us as theirs.

And me? I was proud of that.

Proud to be part of a town that didn’t just accept us, but welcomed us. Proud to wear the Bear and Bun apron like it was some kind of soft, cinnamon-scented armor.

Proud to haul firewood and mop floors and make the world a little cozier, one honey bun at a time. This wasn’t just a stop on my wandering.

Sugarpaw Springs had become something else entirely.

It was home.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the sharp scent of wet earth and pine. Rain still pattered lightly against the leaves overhead.

Somewhere down the road, Cassian was fixing a busted awning while Beau and Dorian helped shore up the town library’s roof.

My boots squelched through the mud as I walked, heading toward my next assignment. Beau had said I was needed over on Pine Street. Something about a waterlogged shop.

I didn’t know it then, but that soggy little bookstore was where everything was about to change.

Chapter 2

Elias

The bell above the door didn’t ring when I pushed it open.

It should have rung. It always rang. Just a soft little chime, barely audible over the creak of old floorboards and the ever-present hum of the heater in the back. But now? Silence.

The storm must’ve knocked it loose. Add that to the growing list of things that needed fixing.

I shoved the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside. My boots squelched on the soaked rug just inside the entrance, my vintage Persian rug, mind you.

I exhaled slowly through my nose. I didn’t even bother closing the umbrella. I just shook it out onto the puddle already forming on the floor and leaned it against the wall.

The smell hit me first.

Damp paper. Warped wood. A hint of mildew just starting to creep in. It smelled like heartbreak. Like rot and lost things. Like a part of my soul had started molding.

“Perfect,” I muttered. “Just perfect.”

Rain still pelted the street behind me, but it was nothing compared to the night before.

The storm had howled like it had a personal vendetta against my roof. Judging by the current state of the place, it had succeeded.

Half the ceiling in the nonfiction section was sagging. One of the upstairs windows had shattered, letting rain soak the carpet and dribble all the way down the staircase.

Water had pooled near the romance shelf in little silver-edged puddles.

Paperbacks lay limp and bloated where they’d fallen off the shelves, their covers curling like they were trying to crawl away.