Page 7 of Bear and Book

“I’m Leo,” he offered, like this wasn’t already going to be the longest afternoon of my life. “I work over at Bear and Bun. Cassian’s my roommate, and Beau said you needed a hand, so…”

Leo gestured around the room with both arms like he was presenting a game show prize. “Tada. Here I am.”

“Wonderful,” I muttered.

“You got a mop I can use? I’m great with mops. Swear I’ve only broken, like, two,” Leo said.

“That’s not—” I bit the inside of my cheek. “Never mind. Just don’t touch the rare books. Or the first editions. Or anything with gold leaf. Or actually, don’t touch anything unless I hand it to you.”

“Copy that!” Leo saluted. Actually saluted. “Point me at the danger zone, boss.”

I sighed, hard. “The backroom’s the worst. Water came in through the window. We’ll need to move boxes, dry things out, maybe set up a few fans,” I said.

“You got it. Want me to start hauling boxes out to the front?” Leo asked.

“Yes. Carefully,” I pointed out.

He wiggled his fingers. “Careful is my middle name.”

Somehow, I doubted that.

Leo disappeared into the back with all the subtlety of a charging moose.

I rubbed a hand down my face and reminded myself this was good. Help was good. Even if it came in the form of a dripping wet, too-happy, too-big-for-this-store bear shifter.

I glanced at the broken ring hanging around my neck.

Jason would’ve hated him. Too loud, too eager, not nearly cool or detached enough to be taken seriously. Jason liked his partners understated and obedient.

I wasn’t obedient anymore, and Jason wasn’t here. The memory of him stung like a paper cut in lemon juice.

I wrapped my fingers around the ring, thumb rubbing the curve worn smooth by years of worry. Then I slipped the ring back under my shirt and straightened up.

In the back room, I heard a crash and a sheepish “Oops.”

I winced, but still. It was hard to hate the guy.

Infuriating as he was, with that relentless grin and a personality like sunshine bouncing off a mirror, Leo worked hard. I’d expected him to get bored or make a mess of things, but no.

He’d hauled soggy boxes without complaint, patched a leak with duct tape like some kind of cheerful handyman.

Leo even found a way to prop open the back door to get the cross-breeze going without letting every mosquito in Sugarpaw Springs follow him inside.

And damn it, he smelled good. Warm and woodsy and just a little like sugar and cinnamon. Probably from all those mornings in that bakery of his.

It was like the universe had handed me a walking distraction wrapped in flannel and dimples. Not that it mattered. Guys like Leo, young, sweet, open-hearted, didn’t go for old foxes like me.

Not the quiet, bookish kind with more shadows than charm and a habit of pushing people away before they got too close.

Leo was probably like that with everyone. Smiling, helpful, a natural at making people feel like they mattered. It didn’t mean anything. He was just…nice.

Painfully nice and hot. Let’s not pretend I didn’t notice the arms. Or the way his t-shirt rode up when he lifted boxes.

Or the fact that even soaked and muddy, Leo somehow still looked like the poster child for "boy next door" shifter romance covers.

Leo was younger. Brighter. He lit up the room just by standing in it.

Me? I was a worn-down fox with a used bookstore and a list of regrets longer than my customer loyalty card punch list.