Page 1 of Bear’s True Mate

1

ROSE

Ihated driving.

Not in the casual, offhand way most people said it. I hated it the way some people hated spiders or the dark. The kind of way that sat in my chest and made my palms sweat against the steering wheel. Every lane change felt like a gamble. Every semi-truck that roared past my little sedan sent a jolt of adrenaline through me that took ten minutes to shake off. And I’d been doing this for over six hours.

Six hours of white-knuckled, jaw-clenched, why-didn’t-I-just-fly-or-take-a-bus misery.

I’d stopped once for gas and a bathroom break at a rest stop that smelled like grease of some sort and cigarettes. The woman at the register had looked at me like she could see every bad decision I’d made in the last month written across my face, and she pitied me. Maybe she could. I hadn’t exactly been sleeping well, and the dark circles under my eyes weren’t doing me any favors.

Two weeks.

That was how long it had been since I’d packed a suitcase, shoved my laptop bag into the passenger seat, and left. Two weeks since I’d told Evan it was over and walked out the door while he stood in the kitchen telling me I was making a mistake. His words still echoed in my head.

You’ll be back. You always come back.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel. No, I wouldn’t. Not this time.

The GPS on my phone chimed, pulling me out of my head.

In one mile, turn right.

I exhaled a shaky breath and loosened my grip on the steering wheel. The road ahead had changed in the last twenty minutes. The flat stretch of highway had given way to something different. The trees thinned out, replaced by scrubby brush and patches of marsh grass, and the sky had opened up wider than it had been for hours. Beyond the road, I caught flashes of blue and knew it was the ocean peeking through the gaps.

My shoulders relaxed a little more at the sight.

When I’d found the listing online, I’d almost scrolled past it. A beach cottage in some little town called Driftwood Cove. One month. Furnished and walkable to town. The photos were a little cut off but had shown a small place with white siding and a glimpse of the ocean from the back deck. Inside, there was a desk near a window with an ocean view that looked almost too good to be real. The price had been reasonable enough that I didn’t have to think too hard about it, which was nice because thinking too hard about anything was something I couldn’t afford to do right now.

Honestly, it seemed perfect.

I needed somewhere to go. Somewhere Evan wouldn’t look for me. Somewhere quiet enough to sit down, open my laptop, and finish the book I owed my editor three weeks from now.

This place had checked every box.

Turn right onto Coastal Route 4.

I turned, following the GPS’s instructions. The road narrowed, winding through a stretch of trees before opening up into what I assumed was the edge of town. As I continued forward, the town unfolded in front of me like something out of a movie set. There was a cute Main Street with storefronts and awnings. I spotted a café with a chalkboard sign out front. There was a little shop with wind chimes made of sea glass hanging from the eaves, catching the sunlight. People walked around, smiling. Beyond it all, past the rooftops and the power lines, the ocean stretched to the horizon.

It was beautiful.

Not in the polished, resort-town way I’d expected. It was rougher than that and more real. The buildings looked like they’d been standing for decades, holding their own against the salty air and powerful storms. The sidewalks were cracked in places, and there were fishing nets strung up along a fence near what looked like a harbor or a marina.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could fully relax.

I followed the GPS through town, past the shops and down a side road that curved toward the water. The houses here were spaced farther apart, each one angled toward the beach. I rolled down my windows and enjoyed the scents of the water rolling in—salt, seaweed, and the kind of fresh air that didn’t exist back home.

You have arrived at your destination.

I slowed to a stop and leaned forward in my seat to look through the windshield at the house in front of me.

The listing had said it was a cozy beach cottage. I’d thought that would mean it was private, quiet, and perfect for writing.

What I was looking at was not what I’d been expecting.

It was a duplex.

Two units, side by side, sharing a wall down the middle. Same white siding, same coastal blue trim, but clearly two separate front doors and two separate lives meant to exist on either side. There was a massive truck in the driveway nearly taking up the whole space, and music coming from the other side of the duplex.