Sam

I felt her gaze as acutely as if she had been touching me. My bear roused in interest, though I kept my eyes closed and my breathing even.

She stayed there for a few moments, then went back into the bedroom and closed the door.

Part of me had been hoping she would curl up on the sofa with me. An even larger part had hoped she would invite me into the bed with her. Neither had happened, and I had the stiff back and neck to prove it. Knowing that she was so near, scenting her in my space, made some other things pretty stiff, as well.

I waited until I heard her soft snores begin to rise. I chuckled, thinking that, with a snore like that, she would make a good bear.

I took care of business, including a quick shower and shave, then started the coffee. Her wake-up call was going to include hot coffee, fresh-squeezed juice, and an assortment of honey-iced pastries. Perhaps someday I would work up the courage to surprise her with something advanced like an omelet, but I didn’t want to scare her off with my lack of culinary abilities just yet.

By mid-morning, there was still no sign of Chloe, and my bear was pacing impatiently. I had finished off the first pot of coffee and was brewing a second fresh pot when my cell phone vibrated.

“Well?” my mother asked without preamble.

I laughed. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Mom. And I haven’t given it to her yet.”

“Why not?” she huffed. In the background, it could hear my nieces and nephews squealing and growling as they played with their presents. No doubt they had been up very early.

“She’s still sleeping. She was up all night painting,” I explained.

My eyes darted over to the canvas she had hidden behind the tree. My innate curiosity had gotten the better of me and I had checked it out. It was a picture of the two of us. Well, sort of. It was me in grizzly form, which she didn’t yet know about, and her. In the picture, she had her arms around the bear and her head buried in his neck. It had taken my breath away.

“Make sure you bring her up for Christmas dinner at three. The little ones should be tuckered out by then. I hope. I swear, the rascals stayed up all night hoping to get a glimpse of Santa. Your father had to be extra stealthy this year.”

I smiled, remembering the days when I would do the same, wondering if Santa had received my letter and hoping whatever hi-jinx I had gotten into during the year hadn’t landed me on the Naughty List. I also remembered another letter to Santa, one not written by me, but by Chloe, all those years ago. It was a little late in coming, but this year, I was going to make her Christmas wish come true.

When I finally heard her up and moving, I got off the phone with my mom and bolted over to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, she emerged from the bedroom before I could make it over there with the tray, looking adorably sleepy and tousled in flannel PJs covered in faded teddy bears.

“Merry Christmas,” she said. I swear my heart skipped a few beats.

“Merry Christmas. Now back in bed,” I commanded.

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s Christmas, and I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed.”

Her features softened as she looked at me with those big brown eyes. “I don’t want to go back to bed. I want to eat breakfast with you in here by the Christmas tree.”

I huffed, but inside, my heart was soaring. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

I followed her like an obedient cub, waiting until she got situated on the sofa, covering her legs with a throw, before I placed the tray in her lap. She then patted the area next to her in invitation and I joined her.

“I thought you were going to wake me up at dawn,” she said, picking up a honey bun and holding it out for me to take the first bite. I did, deliberately allowing my lips to brush her fingers. She blushed, and I didn’t miss the slight hitch in her breath.

“I was, but I figured you needed your sleep.”

“That was very thoughtful of you.”

“I’m a thoughtful guy,” I said, nudging her shoulder with mine.

“Yes,” she agreed softly, “you are.”

“It’s easy to be with you, Chloe.”

I had heard people talk about certain moments in their lives when something changed, and I knew this was one of those moments. When she looked right into my eyes, I felt it in my very soul. The energy between us shifted, growing stronger, deeper. As her eyes widened, I knew then that she felt it, too.

“Chloe ...”

She lowered her gaze shyly, then abruptly sat up when she spotted what I had left for her under the tree. “Oh my God. Is that ...?”

“Rufus?” I finished. “Yes.”

Both hands came up to her mouth.

I got up and grabbed the bear, putting it in her lap.

My mother had worked her magic on that ratty old thing in the days following Chloe’s disappearance, wanting it to be ready for her when—if—she returned. His seams had been mended, the missing eye replaced, and the matted fur had been washed and brushed until it looked like new. The result was a far improved version of the ratty thing Chloe had left behind.

She hugged him to her chest, and I irrationally felt a pang of jealousy.

“I can’t believe you kept him.”

“He’s been waiting for you to come back, Chloe. We all have.”

She blinked, her eyes already shining with unshed tears.

“I made you something,” she blurted out suddenly, then got up, looking adorably anxious. She went over to the tree and pulled out the painting I had been ogling earlier. “Do you like it?”

I set the tray aside and stood up. “I love it,” I told her honestly. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I loved her, too, but I didn’t. I needed to tell her the truth before I just blurted that out. “Tell me something, Chloe. Why do you always include that bear in your paintings?”

Her gaze drifted downward, and she bit her lip.

I moved closer. “Why, Chloe?”

“Because he reminds me of you,” she said quietly. “It’s weird, I know. But I have these dreams ...” She broke off and cleared her throat.

“What dreams?” I prompted.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

I took the canvas from her hands and propped it against the sofa. Then I took both her hands in mine and led her back to the couch. When she tried to sit beside me, I tugged her onto my lap. She was hesitant at first, then she melted against me. It felt good—holding her like this.

“Try me.”

“I have these dreams. Some of them are about stuff that happened when I was a kid. Others are more recent. In all of them, though, I’m in some kind of trouble and this bear, the one in my paintings, comes to help me. Weird, huh?”

I didn’t think it was weird at all. As her mate, it was only natural that her subconscious would manifest me in some form when she felt threatened or afraid.

“How does he help you?” I asked, lightly stroking her arm.

“He protects me,” she said quietly. “If someone’s hurting me, he destroys them. If I’m cold or frightened or feeling lonely, he pulls me into his arms and holds me until I feel better. But that’s not even the strangest thing.”

“Oh?”

“No.”

“What is, then?”

She hesitated. “The bear isn’t a real bear at all. In my dreams, the bear is you.”