Boarlander Bash Bear 2(3)

Too bad butt-faced Fred Lawson had snuck in early and stolen her favorite spot in the back corner where the sunlight didn’t blind her. He gave her a sneer when she shot him a glance over her shoulder. Ten years ago, she’d graduated valedictorian in high school, while he’d finished salutatorian and never really gotten over it. Canker sore.

“Hi,” she said with a wave for the waitress.

Dana was always super nice, and Emerson pretended they were friends. Good gracious, desperation probably clung to her like a second skin. Dana must’ve seen that, too, because she gave a tiny, disappointed smile as she meandered over to her table with a pen and pad in hand. Emerson would try not to talk her ear off this time.

Hurriedly, Emerson angled her computer away, then ordered a cup of coffee and the pie of the day. Cherry, her favorite, and she believed in signs, so she was definitely going to get some good news in her email today.

And sure enough, when she clicked on the blinking email icon that told her she had unread messages, there was one from the Saratoga Hometown News with a job. She was a freelance copy editor for articles and worked for several different papers. Saratoga was the most consistent with jobs, but it was a small town, and there wasn’t enough office space for all the personnel, hence her work-from-home gig.

But when she read the title of the article, her heart sank to the soles of her shoes.

Shifters: The Biggest Threat to Humanity.

Emerson heaved an internal groan as she read the first paragraph. Bartleby Gordon was up to his usual tricks, trying to turn the town against the shifters who lived in Damon’s mountains. She borderline hated him. Partly because his articles were always so presumptuous, self-serving, and self-righteous, but also because she was pro-shifter, and these lunatic rantings were poison.

This was the job, though, and the more she considered it, the more she thought it was good that she was the one editing this article. She always managed to take the sting off his vitriol when she edited for him. Maybe that’s why Margee, her boss, floated her these crappy jobs. She was pro-shifter too.

Gritting her teeth, Emerson sucked up her pride and replied to Margee that she would take the assignment, and that the deadline was fine. It was a short one, but okay. She lived in a two-room duplex with nothing to do, the new Thai food restaurant on speed dial, and a plethora of pet plants. No responsibilities other than work. For now.

With a quick glance around, she opened the tab for the upscale sperm donor website. If all went well, she would have more to live and work for soon. Things hadn’t worked out like she’d dreamed when she was a kid, but she’d accepted she would just have to make her own destiny and create the family she wanted, with or without a partner.

The bell above the door dinged, but Emerson was too engrossed to pay much attention. She was busy reading the different profiles of the donors. If she didn’t put her order in today, Dr. Mallory said she would have to wait another month. And Emerson was so incredibly tired of waiting. She had been ready to be a mom for a long time. All that was left to do now was pick the perfect donor.

“He looks like a serial killer,” a man called over the diner.

Emerson shot a glance behind her, and sure enough, the giant of a man at the counter was looking right at her. And holy waffles, it was Sebastian “Bash” Kane.

“Oh, my stars,” she whispered, mortified as she slammed her laptop closed.

She watched in utter horror as he meandered toward her with long, powerful strides. His boots clomped loudly on the tile floors, and the coffee in his hand sloshed over the sides of his mug with his movement, but he didn’t seem to care. He knew her. Knew her! He’d read her message on bangaboarlander.com, and now he was here to embarrass her.

Hand’s shaking, she patted down her hair, but that was pointless because her corkscrew curls were as wild as ever, and now her cheeks felt like she’d splashed them with kerosene and lit a match.

Bash wore a white, V-neck T-shirt that clung to his ripped shoulders and hung perfectly around his tapered waist. His legs flexed against his jeans with the holes placed just right at his knees and on his thighs, and oh Mylanta, she was staring. Purposefully, she jacked her attention up his muscular neck to the designer dark scruff on his jaw, then up to his emerald green eyes. He had a nice smile for a man who was about to put her on blast for that stupid message.

To her shock, he sat heavily in the chair across from her, and she cringed as the legs of the chair screeched across the floor. “Cheers,” he said, clinking his mug against hers too hard, spilling the top inch off her own coffee. His hadn’t spilled anymore on account half of it was already sitting in the saucer under his mug. He gulped the rest down and said, “Did you see the way his eyes were empty? He ain’t a good man for you. You need someone with soft eyes.”