The Mane Squeeze

Book 4: Pride Series

by Shelly Laurenston

Genres: Humorous Fantasy; Humor & Satire

Synopsis

Growing up on the tough Philly streets, Gwen O'Neill has learned how to fend for herself. But what is she supposed to do with a nice, suburban Jersey boy in the form of a massive Grizzly shifter? Especially one with a rather unhealthy fetish for honey, moose, and . . . uh . . . well, her. Yet despite his menacing ursine growl and four-inch claws, Gwen finds Lachlan "Lock" MacRyrie cute and really sweet. He actually watches out for her, protects her, and unlike the rest of her out-of-control family manages not to morbidly embarrass her. Too bad cats don't believe in forever.



At nearly seven feet tall, Lock is used to people responding to him in two ways: screaming and running away. Gwen-half lioness, half tigress, all kick-ass-does neither. She's sexy beyond belief and smart as hell, but she's a born protector. She watches out for the family and friends closest to her but misses the fact that she's being stalked by a murderous enemy who doesn't like hybrids . . . and absolutely hates Gwen. Lock probably shouldn't get involved, but he will. Why? Because this is Gwen-and no matter what the hissing, roaring, drape-destroying feline says about not being ready to settle down, Lock knows he can't simply walk away. Not when she's come to mean absolutely everything to him.

Release date: December 30, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 432

Sample

As soon as the earrings and shoes came off, he knew it was a brawl.

A brawl he wanted no part of. Especially when he’d been trying to sneak out. And one of the hardest things for someone like him to do was sneak anywhere. Yet he couldn’t walk away, he couldn’t turn his back. This was his friend’s wedding, and he wouldn’t let a couple of cats ruin it because they couldn’t hold their liquor or their predatory instinct to maul. But maybe, just maybe, if he defused this fast enough, he could still make it out without being caught. The key was to prevent an audience. No audience, no witnesses, and sneaking away could continue.

There. A goal. He liked goals.

And with that goal solidly in mind, Lachlan “Lock” MacRyrie walked through the trees surrounding the Long Island, New York, property that held his friend’s wedding. He’d never been to a wedding at a castle before but it fit the style of the bride, who brought geekiness to a whole new level. In fact, she was the one who’d told him to go. Wait. That wasn’t right. She didn’t tell him to go. She’d told him to, “Make a break for it! Before the hounds of darkness come for you and destroy our plans to release our people from their enslavement! Go, Lachlan MacRyrie of the Clan MacRyrie. Go! And don’t look back, my friend!” It would seem strange to those who didn’t know her, but Lock knew it was simply Jessica Ward’s way of saying, “Could you look more miserable? Just go already!”

He’d never been so grateful, although it wasn’t Jess’s fault he was having a miserable time. He did a little better at full-human events since he mostly received the “shock and awe” reaction. But among his own kind, the reaction was much less…welcoming.

Not exactly surprising, though, when the predators knew what he was. Knew that he could shift to a ten-foot, fifteen-hundred-pound, silver-tipped grizzly bear whenever the mood struck him. How did they know? Because from early childhood, shifter parents taught their cubs and pups to recognize a few things: the cackle of a hyena, the roar of a male lion, the howls of nearby wolves, and the scent of a grizzly. For the first three on that list, the directions were simple: “If you hear one of those and we’re separated, call for me. Right away.” But when it came to the grizzly, the directions were much more…specific: “When you catch that scent, go in the opposite direction. If you stumble across one, do not wake it up. If you do wake one up, pretend you’re dead or climb into a tree. High into a tree. And if you get between a sow and her cubs—pray.”

Tragically, Lock couldn’t even argue that any of what the other breeds said was false, although it was perhaps blown a bit out of proportion.

In the end, though, none of that mattered, because he didn’t like parties, detested weddings, and being trapped in this tux was annoying him beyond reason. Normally, to save his sanity, he wouldn’t even attend something like this, but he couldn’t miss Jess Ward’s wedding. A more amazing woman, shifter, and friend a man could never hope to have, and that’s why Lock was going to undertake the painful task of getting between two snarling females before they started tearing into each other. He was almost on them, was only a few feet from getting past the trees and between them, with luck before blood was spilled, because nothing attracted shifter attention quicker than the scent of fresh blood—and, of course, two drunk chicks fighting.

Yet before he could take those last steps, she was there, shoving the two females apart before they’d made contact. With her fangs out, a low and deadly growl rolling past her lips, she held her arms out from her body to keep them separated.

“A mixed breed,” some lioness had sneered about her earlier in the evening when this feline had passed. The more politically correct term was, of course, hybrid. A ridiculously gorgeous hybrid, too, whom Lock had first caught sight of at the ceremony. At the time, he’d felt someone staring at him, but that wasn’t unusual. People stared at him all the time. Yet when he’d finally glanced over his shoulder, out of mere bear-curiosity, to see who it was…well, he’d looked right at her. And, for the rest of the evening—through the synchronized wild dog dancing, the county-wolf line dancing, and the incessant conga lines led by some annoying male lion—Lock had watched her any time she’d come into his line of sight.

It was hard not to watch her when she was wearing that deliciously thin sleeveless black gown, equipped with only two little strings tied around her neck to hold the delicate material up, displaying the shoulders of an Olympic swimmer, while the thigh-high slit slightly off to the side revealed the legs of an Olympic gymnast. Or maybe he was fascinated by that striking face with those almond-shaped, bright gold eyes; the small nose that made him think of a house cat’s muzzle; those full lips that made him think of nothing but hot, sweaty sex; and those almost razor-sharp cheekbones that made him think she might be nothing but trouble.

Was it really any surprise he’d been unable to look away—or that he’d spent most of the evening thinking about asking her if she wanted a drink? Yeah, he’d thought about it. He was a bear and bears were notorious thinkers. They’d study, they’d think, then they’d move. Unfortunately he’d never found the chance to move. Not with her flitting all over that reception. Not that she was being social, though. She wasn’t. He watched her talk to a few people, but mostly she seemed to be on the hunt for something or someone, her gold eyes ever watchful, ever scoping out a target. He was surprised the Marines hadn’t recruited her. They’d snagged Lock right out of college and placed him with the Shifter-only Unit. He could easily see her as one of his teammates. Then again, probably not a good idea. He wouldn’t have gotten much done if he was busy staring at her all day.

“Cut this shit out right now,” she snarled at the two females. Her voice was low, a little rough. He liked it.

“Back off!” one lioness said. “This whore’s mine.”

“Whore?”

“That’s it!” The hybrid let out a breath, lowered her arms to her sides. “That is it. Whatever Roxy O’Neill told you, it’s a load of crap.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I do. And if you weren’t on your fifth martini and you on your seventh Long Island iced tea, you dumb bitches would know that, too.”

“Watch how you talk to me.”

“I would, if I thought you had a brain in that fat lion head of yours.” Does she really think this is helping? “But you don’t. So cut this shit out right now or—”

“Or what?” the other lioness demanded. “What are you going to do about it, rescue kitty?”

The first lioness laughed and suddenly the two enemies had bonded over a new target.

The hybrid knew it, too. He could tell by the way her body stayed relaxed, but her gold eyes sharpened. This wasn’t her first time in a fight and she wouldn’t feel bound by shifter-etiquette to fight with only her claws and fangs. He’d bet cold cash that she was armed. Not with a gun—too noisy—but with something sharp that could be quickly used and tossed away before the cops came.

The two She-lions were up against something they simply couldn’t handle. Something deadlier than a mere feline or hybrid. They were dealing with a Philly girl. Or, as Lock also liked to call them, a Pennsylvania Pain in the Ass.

As a Jersey boy who’d spent many a childhood summer at the Jersey Shore with his vacationing parents, and then as a bouncer during the summer months when he was big enough to pass as “legal,” Lock had dealt with more than enough visiting Philly girls to last him a lifetime. He’d never known anyone—regardless of breed—who liked to argue as much as the Philly females. They could—and would—argue over anything. And God help you if you took it past arguing, if you took it into something physical.

How did he know this particular hybrid was a Philly girl? Because she had it spelled out in easy-to-read script on the gold necklace hanging around her throat.

Knowing he had seconds to end this before he was forced to call the cops or dispose of bodies—both of which he’d really like to avoid, if possible—Lock moved around the three females until he was upwind of them. A small, summer-night breeze passed and both She-lions raised their heads, their noses sniffing the air as their bodies tensed, and they seemed to sober up immediately. He watched as they slowly faced him, their dark gold eyes wide as they gazed at him in mute horror. He could have done a lot of things at that moment, but Lock didn’t need to. He kept the hardcore bluffing for his own kind.

Instead, all he did was curl his lip the tiniest bit and give off the softest, faintest grunt. Almost a hiccup. It worked like a charm, too, the two cats tripping backward, slamming into each other before they skidded on the damp grass and took off running into the wedding.

That left him and the hybrid. She hadn’t moved at all while the cats were scrambling around her, trying to get away. But now that they were gone, she faced him. Her bright gold gaze traveled from his head to his feet and back again. He knew she might run, knew she might take a wild leap for the trees. Not hard when she had those legs.

She did neither. Instead a slow smile spread over those lips and she said, “Jersey bear to the rescue.” Her head dipped a bit and she looked up at him through pitch-black lashes. “Because we both know what I would have done if they’d made a move on me, don’t we, Jersey bear?”

Uh…yeah, yeah. Sure. Whatever. The bear in him could care less about all that…he only knew he wanted the pretty kitty. He wanted to pick her up and carry her back to the closest river he could find and offer her fresh salmon, honeycombs with desperate bees still clinging to them, and never-ending sex. Yeah. Sex. Lots and lots of sex.

Grizzly-Lock was so focused on the feline standing in front of him, looking sexier than anything he’d ever seen—or even dreamed of—before, that he wasn’t at all aware of anything else. At least not until that hand roughly landed on Lock’s shoulder and a male lion snarled behind him, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing with my sister?”

Startled, Lock reacted the only way the bear in him knew how. With complete and utter violence.

Spinning around, Lock grabbed the cat by the neck, lifting him up. The male’s eyes grew wide, his hands turning into claws, but Lock chucked the imbecile fifty feet into the surrounding woods before he could do anything.

Jaw popping, the rage and fear ripping through him, Lock started to go after the big-haired bastard to neutralize the threat until there was no more threat, but the feline female jumped in front of him. “No, no, no, no, no, no!”

She placed her hands on his chest and he felt that touch go straight through his clothes and skin and right into him. Lock immediately stopped, his fangs and claws retracting. He’d never met anyone, who wasn’t family or a very close friend, brave enough to risk touching him when he was like this. Brave enough not to run off, leaving friends, lovers, and blood relatives to fend for themselves. And that alone startled him back to rational thinking.

“Please don’t,” she begged. “They’ll blame me and then the O’Neills will be responsible for another wedding brawl.”

Lock watched her closely, barely aware that another She-lion—How many did Jess know and invite to her damn wedding anyway?—had come out of the reception in time to see the male go flying.

“Brendon!” he heard the She-lion gasp as she ran after the cat. “Oh, my God! Are you okay?” Her voice was high and weak-sounding because of her fear for the male, making the predator in Lock want to follow and finish the job. To finish both cats and carry this feline off for that fresh salmon meal. But when his gaze followed the sound coming from the woods, the feline pressed harder against his chest to get his focus back.

“As it is,” she went on, her cool but tough Philly exterior disappearing in a flurry of panic and fear, “because of other people’s stupidity, we’ve been banned from three Catholic churches, two Protestant, and one of the Lutherans’. And there are several reception halls where we’ve been added to the ‘Do not allow’ list.”

Lock closed his eyes, more angry at himself than anyone else. “He startled me.” And he winced at the growl of his voice, sounding more pissed-off grizzly than rational human.

“Everybody knows you don’t grab a bear from behind. Not if you like having your face attached to your head.” She rubbed her hands against his chest and Lock’s eyes nearly crossed. She had painted nails that, although not ridiculously long, were longer than any he’d seen on predator females, with each nail painted dark red and elaborately decorated with flowers and other designs in black. It must have taken her hours to get those done, and the feel of them through his clothes was making him crazy. He should hate those nails. He normally considered that sort of thing tacky or gaudy, but damn if that look didn’t work on her. And because it worked on her—it was really working on him.

“This is all my fault,” she went on, oblivious to the effect she was having on him. “It’s a domino effect that only my mother can cause, and I’m sorry. I was trying to keep an eye on her, but she got away from me.” Mother? What did her mother have to do with this? Neither She-lion who’d been about to fight looked old enough to be her mother.

Swallowing, trying to keep his desire to maul in control, Lock motioned toward the woods. “That’s your brother.”

“Him?” She laughed. “No. He just wants to be. He’s the half-brother of my half-brother. And the female who went in after him is his twin, who I really hate, but that’s another story. Which makes her the half-sister of my half-brother, but neither of them have a blood connection to me.” Lock was busy trying to place all that in some semblance of a family tree in his head when she tossed in, “Life in the Pride. It’s not for everybody.”

“I have one set of parents and one sister,” he admitted, “and I’ve never been more grateful.”

“I’m sorry about all this.” She pulled her hands away and he almost made a grab for them so he could put them back where she’d had them. “Why don’t you go before someone comes out here wondering what the latest drama is? I’ll take care of this.”

One side of him yelled at him to stay, to spend more time with the Philly feline, but his more rational side told him to get the hell out while he still could.

Because really, what was he going to do with a woman like her? Like most bears, he liked things calm and quiet, and something told him that even a moment with this woman would never be that.

“Thanks,” he said, taking that first step back from her.

“No problem.”

He told himself he didn’t see regret in her eyes as he turned to walk away. He told himself, as he waited for his SUV at the valet station, a hot but clearly high-maintenance feline like her would never be interested in an average grizzly like him. He told himself, as he got into his SUV and drove away, that she would have only tolerated his quirky nature for as long as he could give her things or buy her things or pay off her debt for her.

And by the time he’d made it to Long Island’s Southern State Parkway, he’d nearly convinced himself that all that was the truth.

Now this was living. A warm breakfast that eventually stopped moving, a lovely swim in a big, empty lake, and now a chance to relax in the tall grass under the last of the summer sun.

Yeah. Gwen O’Neill could so easily get used to this.

Like most Philly and Jersey shifters, this wasn’t Gwen’s first time at Macon River Falls Park, where the deer were plentiful and the land full-human free, but it was definitely her first time in the “rich part.” The section of Macon River Falls owned by some of the richest Prides, Packs, and Clans in the Tri-State area. When she and her best friend, Blayne, had pulled up in Gwen’s work truck two days before, the guards at the gate leading to the private properties wouldn’t let them pass until they’d spoken to Brendon Shaw himself and he’d vouched for them. Then the guards had acted like Gwen and Blayne were hookers hired for the weekend. Whatever. Gwen didn’t let a stranger’s bullshit get in her way of a good time. Family, however, was a different story.

Some days she was convinced that her family made sure their bullshit got in the way of Gwen’s good time. She believed that so much, she had almost turned down Brendon’s offer. He was the half-brother of her big brother Mitch, but with Mitch in Japan until the Christmas holidays and her mother off to some expensive spa with Gwen’s aunts and cousins for this Labor Day weekend, Gwen knew she’d be without any go-between to help her deal with Bren’s constant need to prove they were all “family.” Then last week sometime, it hit her—if she came to Macon River this weekend that would mean no Mitch, no Ma, and according to Brendon, no Brendon twin, Marissa “I’m a pissy slash” Shaw. And that meant, for Gwen at least, no bullshit to deal with—for once.

Gwen would actually be able to go somewhere and relax. Simply relax. She mentioned it to Blayne and got an extremely enthused, “Oh, my God! We absolutely have to go! Free-range hunting! Yay!” Of course, Blayne had that type of response when Gwen mentioned stopping by a diner for breakfast before work. “Oh, my God! We absolutely have to go! Pancakes! Yay!”

Grinning, her long feline tongue hanging out of her mouth, Gwen rolled onto her back and stared up at the blue sky.

Nope. This was “bullshit-free” living all right, and Brendon was at least tolerable. Of course, he was also wonderfully busy. He hadn’t just invited Gwen and “a friend.” He’d invited the New York Smith Pack wolves and the Kuznetsov wild dog Pack. Normally, that much canine in one place would turn Gwen into a hissing, slashing house cat. But she had a secret weapon. She had Blayne and everybody loved Blayne. She was cheery, sweet, funny and, more importantly, she managed to turn herself into a human shield for Gwen. She blocked anyone Gwen didn’t want to be around, somehow knowing who that was without Gwen saying a word. Blayne had a gift and Gwen used it for all it was worth.

Uh…what was that?

Rolling onto her stomach, Gwen listened carefully, positive she’d heard something.

Her ears twitched and turned, trying to locate the source—and they did. It was Blayne, who’d wandered off her own way nearly two hours before. Gwen recognized her friend’s yelps of pain, the sounds intermingling with that of unknown canine growls and snarls.

Gwen took off running, using Blayne’s scent to guide her. When she saw bushy tails above the tall grass, she lowered herself to the ground and low-crawled closer.

They had Blayne surrounded. At first growl she thought it was some of the Smiths who’d maybe decided they didn’t like Blayne and her confusing wolfdog ways after all. But no, it wasn’t the Smiths. Their scent didn’t match and their coats were much lighter than those of any of the Smiths, and a hell of a lot more raggedy, too. Remember, people, conditioner—it’s your friend.

Gwen’s teeth snapped together as she watched them slapping Blayne around. Tragically, it wasn’t the first time Blayne or Gwen had been on the receiving end of group attacks by Packs, Prides, and Clans. As hybrids, they were often alone, making them easy targets for those who didn’t like the idea of mixed breeds dirtying up their precious gene pools.

Blayne was going head-to-head with a She-wolf, a really big one, with twelve other wolves attacking her from behind. With so many on her, she wasn’t getting a chance to defend herself properly. Even worse, Blayne was neither Alpha nor Omega. She was Blayne. And she had a high tolerance for crap until she didn’t anymore—and that’s when sweet, pretty Blayne would snap and what started out as general bullying turned into something that would either get Blayne killed or mean that the rest of the weekend was spent trying to figure out where to hide the body parts. Neither of which Gwen was in the mood for.

Standing up on all fours, she sprinted forward, shooting through the tall grass and right into the middle of the Pack before any of them even realized she was there. She tackled the female who’d been fighting with Blayne, the two of them rolling away in a snarling, snapping mess of fur and claws. While Gwen dealt with the female, Blayne was able to turn on the other wolves.

Gwen knocked the She-wolf away from her and into a tree, momentarily stunning her, which gave Gwen time to check up on Blayne. As always, she was holding her own, even with her smaller wolf body and tiny dog feet, but Gwen could see the whites of her friend’s eyes. A sure sign Blayne was about to lose it. Gwen had to break Blayne’s concentration now or clean up the destruction later. She sprinted at Blayne and caught hold of the back of her neck as she kept going right by her. Blayne yelped, more from surprise than pain, but it got the reaction Gwen needed, forcing Blayne to focus on something else. She dropped her and the two friends kept running, the Pack right on their ass.

Gwen couldn’t run for long, though. She was a natural sprinter, but she didn’t do marathons. So she needed to get the wolves off their ass because the fact that they were following meant this was no longer a simple—but painful—“teasing” of the mixed breed.

Turning her head, looking for a way out of this, Gwen caught a scent she’d been taught to recognize before she could even shift. She’d also been taught to run away from that scent. Far away, as fast as she could go. But that wouldn’t happen now. Now she was going to use it to her advantage.

Gwen turned, steering Blayne with her body, the Pack staying right on them. As they neared where she wanted to be, Gwen pulled out ahead. Blayne sped up to stay by her side, but when Gwen was about ten feet from her destination, Blayne hit the brakes, so to speak. Her too-small wolfdog paws digging into the soft dirt, trying to stop and ending up flipping backward, the Pack trampling right over her.

Perfect. Just what Gwen wanted.

Homing in on her target, Gwen leaped up as a wolf paw hit her on the hind leg at the same moment. Pain tore through her limb, but she ignored it, instead focusing on where she was landing.

And where she landed was right on his back, biting down on the thick lump of muscle between his shoulder blades while her body slid across and off him. Considering his size, he moved faster than anything she’d ever seen. In one fluid movement of violent, cranky, startled muscle, the grizzly boar rose, unleashing his full rage on all who were near. What was probably seven feet as human was now an easy ten feet on his hind legs. What was about three hundred and fifty or so pounds of human muscle was now fifteen hundred of grizzly muscle. And what had once been asleep was now awake.

And pissed off.

The wolves tried to stop in time but they couldn’t, and they slammed right into those enormous claws that were slashing and ripping wildly. The bear-roar sent calm birds screeching from the trees and Gwen got to her feet behind the grizzly, watching as he tossed two-hundred-plus-pound wolves into trees or lobbed them thirty feet out into the grass with no effort at all. She was enjoying every second of it, too, until that damn She-wolf came at her from the side, her fangs tearing into Gwen’s already wounded hind leg. Gwen roared and hissed at the same time, going at the female again. Before she could get to her, though, before she could slap the crap out of her, there was suddenly a big bear ass coming right for her.

The Pack of thirteen turned out to be a Pack of twenty-three. They came out of the trees, charging the bear, startling him again and forcing him back. And back he moved.

Normally not an issue, until Gwen realized she was at the top of what the brochures called one of Macon River’s “scenic” cliffs. Across the chasm was one of the falls, beneath that was part of the raging river.

Gwen tried to dodge out of the bear’s way, but he must have felt her behind him and turned, his paw already swinging out. Yet when he saw her his small brown eyes grew wide and although he managed to not use those four-inch claws to rip her face open, his forearm still caught her and the strength of it sent her flipping back. She landed flat on her stomach, her legs dangling over the cliff’s edge, while she caught hold of the ledge with her front claws. But the ground was softer in this spot and her three-hundred-pound tigon form was simply too much. She slid over the side, her claws leaving gouges in the dirt, so she quickly shifted to human, hoping her lighter weight would help. She was able to grab hold of a branch with her hand, but it started to break away almost instantly.

“Shit,” she blurted out. “Shitshitshitshit!”

Then the biggest human arm she’d ever seen was reaching down, big long fingers catching hold of her hand.

“Hold on! I’ve got you!” he called out. She looked up into that face and immediately recognized him. The bear from the Smith-Ward wedding who’d chucked Brendon Shaw into the woods like a five-pound sack of potatoes. She recognized those dark brown eyes, that handsome if almost painfully sweet face, and that great brown hair with silver tips she’d stared at all through the wedding ceremony. And he recognized her, too. The pair locking gazes in a shocked moment of clarity.

Feeling the strength of the hand that gripped her so tightly and relieved that she knew the bear, Gwen began to smile…

Until that first bit of wet dirt hit her face and after a heart-stopping moment of feeling the ground beneath them begin to buckle from his weight, the bear rapidly hauled her up. But it wasn’t fast enough. The earth gave way beneath him, raining down on Gwen, forcing her to look away. Yet she still managed to see that big, human male body tumbling forward—right into her.

She screamed as they went freefalling, tumbling through the air. Instinctively she shifted back to her cat form, knowing it could handle more damage than her weaker human one. But still—for this level of fall, she didn’t have much hope. And all she could think was I can’t believe I’m going to die in fucking New Jersey!

But before her life could flash before her eyes or she saw any white tunnels with her dead relatives waiting at the other end, Gwen felt long, unbelievably strong, fur-covered arms wrap around her, pulling her in close to all that hard muscle.

She buried her head against the bear’s furred body, held her breath, and together they slammed into the rushing river beneath them.

The salmon were everywhere, leaping from the water and right into the open maws of bears. But he ruled this piece of territory and those salmon were for him and him alone. He opened his mouth and a ten-pound one leaped right into it. Closing his jaws, he sighed in pleasure. Honey covered. He loved honey-covered salmon!

This was his perfect world. A cold river, happy-to-die-for-his-survival salmon, and honey. Lots and lots of honey…

What could ever be better? What could ever live up to this? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

A salmon swam up to him. He had no interest, he was still working on the honey-covered one. Yet the salmon insisted on staring at him intently…almost glaring.

“Hey!” it called out. “Hey! Can you hear me?”

Why was this salmon ruining his meal? He should kill it and save it for later. Or toss it to one of the females with cubs. Anything to get this obviously Philadelphia salmon to shut the hell up!

“Answer me!” the salmon ordered loudly. “Open your eyes and answer me! Now!”

His eyes were open, weren’t they?

Apparently not, because someone pried his lids apart and stared into his face. And wow, wasn’t she gorgeous?

“Can you hear me?” He didn’t answer, he was too busy staring at her. So pretty!

“Come on, Paddington. Answer me.”

He instinctively snarled at the nickname and she smiled in relief. “What’s the matter?” she teased. “You don’t like Paddington? Such a cute, cuddly, widdle bear.”

“Nothing’s wrong with cute pet names…Mr. Mittens.”

She straightened, her hands on her hips and those long, expertly manicured nails drumming restlessly against those narrow hips.

“Mister?” she snapped.

“Paddington?” he shot back.

She gave a little snort. “Okay. Fair enough. But call me Gwen. I never did get a chance to tell you my name at the wedding.”

Oh! He remembered her now. The feline he’d found himself daydreaming about on more than one occasion in the two months since Jess’s wedding. And…wow. She was naked. She looked really good naked…

He blinked, knowing he was staring at that beautiful, strong body. Focus on something else! Anything else! You’re going to creep her out!

“You have tattoos,” he blurted. Bracelet tats surrounded both her biceps. A combination of black shamrocks and a dark-green Chinese symbol he didn’t know the meaning of. And on her right hip she had a black Chinese dragon holding a Celtic cross in its mouth. It was beautiful work. Intricate. “Are they new?”

?