Page 3 of Asking Fur Trouble

“Thank you, Darian.” Gerri guided Bess through the room with proprietary ease.

Their booth sat in a secluded corner with a perfect view of both the door and the small stage where a woman played a haunting melody on an instrument Bess had never seen before.

“First things first,” Gerri announced once they were seated. She snapped her fingers, and Darian appeared with two martini glasses filled with iridescent liquid. “Drink.”

Bess took a tentative sip and gasped as the flavor bloomed across her tongue—citrus and spice and something deeper, like memories of summer nights distilled into liquid form. Heat radiated through her body, dissolving tension she hadn’t realized she was holding for so long.

“This is incredible,” Bess admitted, taking another sip.

“Now, tell me about this boss who makes you work until ten on a Friday night,” Gerri prompted, her eyes gleaming with interest that seemed both professional and personal.

Perhaps it was the strange martini or the surreal setting, but Bess found herself pouring out every frustration. The endless claims, the perpetually dangled promotion, and the way Martin took credit for her detailed work while blaming her for any delays.

“Three years,” Bess said, slicing into the truffle risotto that had appeared without her ordering it. “Three years of canceled dates and lost weekends. My friend told me today that my vagina is growing cobwebs.”

Gerri threw her head back and laughed. “Your friend has a valid point. What was the last truly exciting thing you did?”

Bess opened her mouth and mumbled, “I... went to a seminar on insurance regulations.”

“Oh, honey,” Gerri placed her small hand over Bess’s. “That’s not living—that’s extending your work hours with educational content.”

“Well, what would you suggest?” Bess asked, surprised by the defensive edge in her voice.

Gerri leaned forward, her eyes suddenly flashing that strange gold Bess had noticed earlier. “How about an adventure that would make even your wildest dreams seem tame? A journey to another world and a date with a shifter prince.”

Bess nearly choked on her risotto. “I’m sorry, a what prince? In another world?”

“A shifter. Someone who can change forms. And yes, on another planet. One where the sky is purple at sunset and the oceans glow at night.” Gerri’s expression remained completely serious. “I can take you there. Tonight.”

“Right.” Bess laughed nervously. “And I suppose we’ll fly on your spaceship?”

“Not exactly, but close.” Gerri’s smile didn’t waver.

Bess set down her fork. This woman was clearly delusional—charming and generous with her expensive dinner, but delusional, nonetheless. Yet something about Gerri’s unwavering certainty made Bess hesitate.

“Look, I appreciate the fantasy you’re offering, but I have work tomorrow and?—”

“Work that crushes your spirit and steals your joy,” Gerri interrupted. “Work for a man who doesn’t value you.”

The truth of those words hit like a punch to the gut. Bess stared at her half-empty martini. When had her life become so... predictable? So empty?

What if this is real?a small voice whispered inside her head.What if there are worlds beyond this one and possibilities you’ve never imagined?

Bess suddenly pulled out her phone, her heart beating faster. Before she could change her mind, she opened her email and typed:

Martin, I quit. - Bess Campos

She hit send then downed the rest of her martini in one gulp.

“Okay,” Bess said, her voice shaking with either terror or exhilaration. “Take me to this other world and introduce me to your shifter prince.” She took a steadying breath. “Either I’m about to have the adventure of a lifetime, or I’m following a lunatic after foolishly abandoning my career, and honestly, both options sound better than processing the Westfield portfolio tomorrow.”

Gerri’s smile was incandescent. “That’s the spirit! Now finish your risotto. Interstellar travel requires proper nourishment.”

Bess laughed, dizzy in the aftermath of her decision. Three years of predictability and postponed happiness shed in a moment of either pure bravery or utter stupidity.

THREE

Charov dug his climbing claws into the yellow cliff face of Mount Sarakon. The rush of adrenaline surged through his veins as he hauled himself up another ten feet, his muscles bulging beneath his form-fitting climbing gear. The two suns of Nova Aurora beat down on his broad shoulders and cast twin shadows on the rock face below.

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