Mate Wanted for Christmas by Angelique Voisen

Author:Angelique Voisen [Voisen, Angelique]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Evernight Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

I’m unable to hide the surprise from my face. The last thing I expected was for Pat to ask something so personal, but I didn’t mind. “They fed me alright, but I’m retired. It’s not obvious, but my leg got shot awhile back.”

“You limp a little,” Pat observed.

I have a feeling he wants to say more, or ask more questions, but he lets the silence sit while we stuff ourselves.

“Sorry,” I mumble, helping him clear the plates to make way for dessert.

Pat frowns. “What the hell are you apologizing for?”

“This isn’t the romantic dinner you envisioned and I’m not the perfect dinner guest.”

“You’re not Jack, and you can never be,” Pat says so softly I barely hear the words.

I don’t understand the strange stab in my heart, or the underlying anger waiting to burst forth, so I keep my mouth shut.

Pat isn’t done though. “But I’m glad. I prefer knowing the real Jacob, not an actor playing my dead mate.”

I pause at that. “I didn’t fulfill the role you wanted me to play.”

Pat lets out a breath. “I didn’t expect anyone to answer my ad. It’s wistful thinking on my part. Despite what you may believe, I’m not crazy. I’ve put Jack’s ghost to rest a long time ago, but I still have my bad days.”

“Like tonight?” I ask, remembering what little I knew about Pat.

‘Eccentric Werebear Millionaire Goes Berserk on Christmas Eve’—that’s the title of the article I’ve read.

Pat nods, looking distracted again. “I’m going to get dessert.”

He brings the impressive cheesecake in. The otherwise perfect cake is decorated with red and green Christmas icing, making it slightly tacky, but the taste is delicious. I devour two slices, while Pat makes us both cups of coffee.

“Let me help you wash up,” I offer.

He blinks, but nods. I’m grateful for the work, because I’ll take any excuse to linger on. The clock in the kitchen reads ten minutes to midnight. I take five minutes to load the dishes in the washer and put the leftovers in neat containers. I find Pat looking out the wide glass windows of his living room.

The view of the city stares back at us, miniature and silent. Falling snowflakes create a light white dusting over rooftops strung with blinking lights, dancing Santas and happy snowmen. We’re so high up I can’t hear the Christmas carols or the drunken voices from the neighbors.

“I hate holidays,” I say, announcing my presence. I have a feeling Pat knows I’ve been standing behind him and saying nothing for a couple of seconds.

“Feeling’s mutual,” he mutters.

Screw decorum. I approach Pat, noticing the way his back muscles tense up. Then I wrap my arms around his huge frame and bury my face into the curve of his back. I take a lungful of his scent. Pat smells a little of peppermint, bear musk and clean soap.

I don’t need to steal a glance at my wrist watch to know the clock’s struck midnight. “Merry Christmas, Pat,” I say, standing on tiptoe to kiss his unshaven cheek.

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