Page 9 of Claimed By the Grumpy Shifter

I disappear into the back room, using the few minutes alone to try to pull myself together. This is crazy. I'm reading way too much into everything he says and does. Just because he's buying flowers doesn't mean he's interested in me. Just because he asked about my favorites doesn't mean—

But when I come back with the preserved peonies, pale pink and still achingly beautiful despite being dried, he takes them from my hands like they're made of spun glass.

"They're perfect," he says.

"They're fifteen dollars," I manage.

He pulls out his wallet and hands me a twenty without taking his eyes off the flowers. "Keep the change."

I ring up the sale with shaking hands.

"Thank you," he says, but he doesn't move toward the door. Instead, he stands there holding the flowers, looking at me with that intense stare that makes me feel like I'm the only person in the world.

"You're welcome," I whisper.

I should say something, ask him about his day, comment on the weather, or do any of the normal things people do during normal transactions. But there's nothing normal about this, nothing normal about the way he's looking at me like he wants to devour me whole.

"Christine," he says finally, my name rough on his tongue.

"Yes?"

He holds out the flowers—the peonies I told him were my favorites, the ones he bought without asking the price.

"These are for you."

My heart stops. Actually stops beating for a full second before starting up again at double speed.

"What?"

"The flowers. They're for you." He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You said they were your favorites."

"But... but you said they were for someone special. Someone you wanted to get to know better."

"They are." His lips curve in something that might be a smile if it didn't look so forced. If it didn't look like he hasn't smiled in a long time.. "I want to know everything about you, Christine. What you like, what you dream about, what makes you laugh."

I stare at him, speechless. This can't be happening. Men like Marc don't pursue women like me. They don't buy us flowers or look at us like we're something precious. They don't—

"I can't accept these," I say weakly, even though every fiber of my being wants to snatch them out of his hands and hold them close.

"Why not?"

"Because... because I barely know you. Because you're my neighbor and this could get complicated. Because I don't understand what's happening here."

"What's happening here," he says, his voice dropping to a rumble that I feel in my bones, "is that I'm trying to court you."

Court me. Not date me or hook up with me or any of the casual terms men my age usually use. Court me, like I'm something worth winning.

"Marc..."

"Have dinner with me." It's not really a question, more like a gentle command. "Tonight. Let me take you somewhere nice."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

Because you look at me like you want to own me, I think. Because something about you makes me want to do stupid, reckless things. Because I'm already half in love with you and we've known each other for less than twenty-four hours.

"Because it's complicated," I say instead.

---