Bearly Tamed

Coffee and Complications

Lena

I wasn’t going to look for him.

Really.

I just happened to wear makeup for the first time in a month. Totally unrelated. Also coincidental: the fact that I wore the jeans that made my ass look like I did squats—despite very obviously not doing squats. Ever.

And okay, maybe I’d unbuttoned my shirt just one button lower than usual. Just for airflow. Because weather. Not because I’d dreamed about a certain mountain man growling my name in the woods like he was trying to ruin my life in the best way possible.

Totally unrelated.

“Your broody boyfriend’s back,” Tammy said, nodding toward the window as I wiped down a table. “Table nine. With his ‘I want to devour your soul’ eyes locked on your backside again.”

“He is not my—wait, is he actually staring?”

“Like he wants to be the cream in your coffee, sugar.”

I walked away before she could say anything else that would make my n*****s rebel against my dignity.

Logan was sitting exactly where he always sat: in the corner booth, back to the wall like he was casing the place for danger—or more likely trying to keep the world from looking at him.

His eyes met mine the second I turned.

It felt like being hit with heat and gravity at the same time.

I forced myself to stroll over like a normal person and not someone who was actively fantasizing about climbing him like a redwood.

“Coffee?” I asked, pulling out my pad even though he always ordered the same thing.

“Yes.”

That voice. It slid down my spine like whiskey and bad decisions.

“Anything else?” I asked.

His gaze dropped to my mouth. “Yes.”

…Oh.

OH.

Okay, he was playing dirty now.

I cleared my throat and smirked. “I meant food, mountain man.”

He smiled—barely. But it was there. “Do you eat here when you’re not working?”

“Only if I want to feel terrible about my life choices,” I said, then paused. “Why?”

“I want to take you to dinner.”

My heart did something violent behind my ribs. “Excuse me?”

He sat back, eyes calm, voice even. “Dinner. You and me. A proper one.”

“With you?”

His brows lifted. “Unless there’s another six-foot-five man with a beard and a ‘protective stalker’ vibe lurking around town, yes.”

I barked a laugh. “That’s what you’re going with? Protective stalker?”

“You seem to like it.”

“I seem to tolerate it.”

“You wore lipstick today.”

I blinked. “So what?”

“You’re not hiding.”

God help me, I blushed.

“Okay,” I said, trying to regain control of this conversation before I spontaneously combusted. “Let’s get a few things straight.”

His eyes narrowed, alert, like I was about to throw a punch—which, honestly, was not off the table.

“Number one: I don’t date. I’ve got enough emotional damage to qualify for my own Lifetime special. Number two: You’re intense. Like, weirdly intense. Like you probably know how to field dress a moose.”

“I do.”

“Not a compliment.”

He smiled. “Wasn’t taking it as one.”

“And three,” I added, pointing a finger at him, “I don’t trust men. Period. Especially the kind that look like they’re made of testosterone and unsolved trauma.”

“Fair,” he said, standing slowly.

Jesus, he was big.

Up close, Logan was unfair. Tall enough to block the sun. Muscles that looked earned, not sculpted. Tan skin, forearms dusted with dark hair, and veins that made me deeply uncomfortable in a hot, dirty way. And his scent—woodsmoke, pine, and something rich I couldn’t name—wrapped around me the moment he moved.

He leaned closer.

“I’m not asking for your trust,” he said softly. “I’m asking for dinner.”

My breath caught.

And before I could stop myself, I whispered, “One.”

“One?”

“One dinner.”

His eyes flared. “That’s all I need.”

Oh no.

That was definitely not all he needed.

And God help me, it might not be all I wanted, either.

----------

Logan

I had no business asking her out.

She was human. Hurt. Healing.

But the bear was done waiting.

She’d walked in wearing jeans that clung to her curves like they were painted on. Her chestnut hair was in a loose braid over one shoulder, and her eyes sparkled with bite and caution and something wild.

She smelled like vanilla, citrus, and heat.

And when I saw the lipstick? My claws nearly came out.

Mine.

I wanted to strip it off with my teeth. Mark her. Make her mine in every way a man—and a bear—could.

But I asked for dinner.

Because she deserved that. Not a claim. A choice.

Still, as she walked away, hips swaying, I could feel the bond wrapping tighter, like a noose and a promise.

She said one dinner.

I’d take it.

But after that?

She’d never walk away again.