Read A Christmas to Bear Online
Authors: Carina Wilder
A Christmas to Bear
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The first four books in the Wolf Rock Shifters Series are available here:
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he first book
of the Sought by the Alphas Serial can be purchased or borrowed via Kindle Unlimited here:
The Billionaires and Curves Series is available here:
Billionaires and Curves (Taken With You) Trilogy
C
arina Wilder is
the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of the Wolf Rock Shifters series, the Sought by the Alphas serial and the Billionaires and Curves Trilogy.
C
opyright
© 2014 by Carina Wilder
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
F
rozen crap on a stick
.
The ski was broken. At least it seemed to Aria that it was as she ground her teeth in a numb–fingered attempt to repair the faulty gear. The metal binding which was meant to secure the ski boot to the ski itself was being an asshole, if that was an appropriate title for an inanimate object.
This was at best a poor start to a Christmas vacation which was meant to be relaxing. In what had initially seemed like a sensible move, Aria had deliberately abandoned her family this year in order to take some time for herself, away in the quiet mountain town of Wolf Rock. Nothing was ever quite so torturous as a holiday spent with relatives after the end of a relationship, and avoiding masochistic activities seemed advisable at the very least.
The very thought of all those sympathetic family members’ eyes, silently inquiring:
Are you okay? Incidentally, I don’t really care, but it’s my duty to ask because of DNA.
I know it’s utterly inappropriate to ask this, but why exactly did you break up? Don’t spare any details.
So listen, I’m going to flaunt my own happiness, my 2.3 perfect children and my Porsche in front of you. Because it’s Christmas.
Yup. She’d made the right choice in taking off.
After all, what had gone on in her personal life was none of her family’s business. The facts were simple: the relationship had ended because Aria and her boyfriend had grown apart, and that was all anyone needed to know. The truth was, of course, that “grown apart” meant that Aria had kicked his sorry ass to the curb when she’d found him playing hide–the–woefully–undersized–cucumber with his assistant. In
her
bed. On
her
sheets. Needless to say, they’d long since been burned into a pile of foul–smelling ashes.
It was now just a question of inhaling deeply and appreciating the fact that she was beginning life again as a single, strong, confident woman who had no need of a man. Of course, convincing the women in her family of that fact was impossible, which was yet another reason to run far, far away from them. They were all under the impression that a woman without a man was like a pump without a stiletto heel: barely functional, unattractive and pointless.
But Aria would show them. At the very least, she intended to prove to herself how nice a holiday could be for a single woman. And so far, it sucked on a massive scale. The first day had consisted thus far of fourteen attempts to get a damned boot to click into place, and instead the ski was rejecting her like an incompatible organ.
Her eyes scanned the horizon for help as she continued to fidget uselessly with her equipment. No part of her
wanted
to ask for assistance; it would defeat her resolution of being an independent and powerful woman. But damn, why was the stupid ski being so uncooperative? And why did she feel an urge to weep like a six–year–old girl who wanted her mother? None of it fit into her master plan.
The young man who’d rented her the gear was busy assisting a family whose matching red designer ski outfits conveyed the impression that their ineptitude would cause them to plummet off the mountain to their deaths in half an hour’s time. No one who dressed like that could actually ski, surely. The amount of hairspray in the mother’s hair alone was enough to prove that athletics and aerodynamics were not the family’s number one priority.
Yep, they’ll definitely be a pile of dead bodies in no time,
thought Aria.
The beautiful fools.
When he’d finished securing the beautiful, perfect, irritating–as–all–hell family into their own apparently functional equipment and sent them up the slope on the ski lift, the employee looked over and read Aria’s expression: helplessness mixed with quiet rage.
“Can I help you?” he asked, approaching tentatively. Something in the young woman’s face read, “Don’t come near me; I may not bite but I’ll very likely try.”
“Yeah, this thing’s being a total fu–not working,” Aria replied, trying once again to secure the binding with frozen fingers, and trying harder not to issue a chain of unladylike expletives.
“Okay, let’s take a look,” the man said, crouching in front of her. Her nerves calming, Aria eyed him as he examined her boot, sizing him up in the way that newly–single women did with men who were potential rebound flings. Her mental computer scrutinized him as though judging potential compatibility:
Cuteness scale: 8.3. Subject shows promise.
Age: 18 or so.
(Too young. Probably terrible in the sack.)
Size: Skinny. Smaller than you, Aria.
Skinny men are weak and crushable.
Reject. Reject. Reject.
Scanning horizon for more suitable male creatures.
No viable candidates. You are destined to die alone.
The employee, who seemed at first to have no more luck than Aria with the binding, looked like one of the
norms
who populated the mountainside: a wiry, nature–loving human who worked in the mountain town because it was pretty, and more likely still, because he liked to play Hacky Sack and smoke weed. But his type was boring and paled in comparison to the shifter population, which was the primary reason Aria had chosen this spot for her holiday. The men of Wolf Rock were allegedly strong, large and beautiful. The women were large in the same soft way Aria was. Admittedly, they were beautiful as well, though she wasn’t nearly as interested in staring at them. But she was realizing quickly that shifters and ski hills didn’t mingle. Everyone she’d seen thus far was human. Skinny, superficial, annoying humans.
It wasn’t so much that she was seeking male attention; she just wanted to feel as though she could blend in. And though she was no shifter, she could probably pass for one in a pinch. At least here, she wouldn’t have a mother barking at her over the holidays to lay off the treats, or a grandmother hinting that her proportions were all wrong. When she’d seen her nana at Thanksgiving, the old lady had sized her up with a poetic assessment: “Your waist is doughy. You’re too tall. Your breasts aren’t right. And those thighs! My goodness. You were lucky ever to catch a man in the first place.”
It’s easy, after all
,
when you’re ninety and emaciated to bitch at everyone else about how they should look. It’s one of the great perks of old age.
At last the young man, who seemed to have been making pointless clicking sounds with Aria’s gear for a quarter of an hour, pushed some metal bit into place and said, “There, all set. You can head up the hill now.”
“Thanks,” said Aria, standing up with all the unsteadiness of a fawn taking its first steps. She felt herself redden under the employee’s gaze.
“You
do
ski, don’t you? If not, you can take a beginner’s lesson on the bunny hill,” Mr. Not–So–Cute–Anymore suggested, becoming an instant irritant.
“Yes, I can ski. It’s just been a while,” said Aria.
Also, piss off
, she thought, directing a glare in his direction. He seemed to get the hint and walked away, leaving her to feel like an ass for her hostility. He was, after all, only trying to be helpful.
After a few minutes spent growing accustomed to the skis, Aria managed to make her way towards the chairlift, whose quiet solitude was a relief. Despite the fact that it was only a few days before Christmas, the hill wasn’t overrun with skiers, and for an all–too–brief moment the place seemed to belong to her and no one else. No small talk on the lift. No one asking why she was alone for the holidays. For now, at least.
She watched the landscape move in slow motion under her as figures moved down the mountain on their skis, some smoothly, some more like sloths making their way down an inch at a time. It was Aria’s hope that she would be in the former category, though there was a certain appeal to the latter.
As the lift ascended, she saw something which struck her as odd: a solitary figure, standing at the edge of a wood. No skis; no colourful gear. Just a man, and a large one at that, looking up towards her. Even from a distance Aria could see that he was a handsome thing; well–built, with the sort of square jaw that denoted manliness.
But even as she began to get a good look he disappeared into the trees. He must have been a park ranger, she thought, or one of the ski hill’s employees.
When she arrived at the top and managed to leap off the lift without incident, she perused the white landscape, which was blinding under a clear blue sky. Around her in the distance were snow–capped mountain peaks which made her own hill look very small in comparison. To her left, a few parents and their kids were heading down what looked like the easy slope so Aria moved away, choosing instead to tackle a slightly more ambitious descent. She hadn’t lied when she’d said that she could ski. In fact, she’d been great at it when she was, oh, fourteen or so. Ten years ago. Still, didn’t they say it was just like riding a bicycle?
No. No, they didn’t.
No one ever said that.
Shit.
For a moment she collected herself, breathing in the dry cold of the mountain air and allowing herself time to take in the view. The town lay far below. Down the hill to her right was the snow–coated forest where she’d seen the mystery man: a seemingly endless series of tall trees of various sorts, their boughs held down by the heavy white layer which coated them. Before her, leading to the base of the slope was a sea of white, marked by the tracks of all the skiers who’d descended already, reminding her that it was in fact possible. This was her intended trajectory.
And she could only hope to make it down in something vaguely resembling a straight line.
By the edge of the woods she noticed a series of signs which appeared to exist purely for the tourists’ amusement. They were decorated with pithy sayings like, “Enter Here and You Risk Being Killed Horribly,” or, “Don’t Feed the Bear. Or Talk To Him. Don’t Even Look at Him.”
Very entertaining,
Aria thought as she examined them. Cute, even. Everyone knew that wildlife wasn’t a serious issue in a town populated by shifters. No animal was stupid enough to come close.
But now she was just distracting herself; procrastinating. It was time to act. She’d let herself go careening down a mountainside. Alone. The strong, independent, solitary woman who didn’t need a man, or indeed even a family. It was just her and Mother Nature, out to conquer the great beast that was this mountain.
All of a sudden the plan seemed flawed. Maybe the mountain didn’t really need conquering. Or maybe someone else should do it.
“Screw it,” she muttered. “Smile, Aria. Smile.”
This was her mantra these days. All that had happened recently sent her into frequent fits of sullenness, which struck her as a far less attractive trait than any excess weight or unseemly physical imperfection. Somewhere she’d read that if you plastered a smile on your face it actually improved your mood. Her conclusion after many attempts was that this tactic didn’t apply to women who’d been screwed over by narcissistic asshats who couldn’t keep their inadequate man–bits in their pants, but still, smiling had to be a good thing, right?
And so with the phony smile in place came the joy of throwing herself off a virtual and almost literal cliff. Down a mountain. It seemed like as good a way to speed into her new single life as any. Her eyes sealed shut, Aria took a deep breath and pushed off with her poles, shoving her body over the slope’s edge with what could only be described as a little too much confidence.
It’s not so steep, is it? It’s just a slope. A gentle slope,
and I’ll glide down it slowly, with the grace of a slightly overweight lily floating along the surface of a pond
, she told herself, lips still curled up into a determined grin.
And at first she was almost successful, tapping into her brain to access the information she’d learned years earlier during her lessons. Her speed was good; posture good; everything good. Knees bent, muscles relaxed. Excellent. It really was like a bicycle. Sort of.
When she’d managed to make it down a third of the slope, her mood evolved into something like comfort. This was
easy
, and she was doing great. The chalet was getting closer by the second, and soon she’d be back on the chairlift, making her way up for another run. So good did she feel about her performance, in fact, that she began to speculate that those around her were probably watching, thinking, “Wow, she’s amazing. She must be an Olympian, that one.” It was in the moment when Aria forgot the merits of modesty that things began to go wrong. Somewhere around the point when she pondered whether she could win a medal in the giant slalom, things took a literal turn for the worse.
As though she now found herself on a sheet of ice, she seemed suddenly to be accelerating, heading towards the forbidden, bear–filled forest instead of the nice, easy, welcoming white fluff that was meant to lead her to the bottom of the hill. She tried once again to access the deepest reaches of her brain to recall the moves she’d known so well in her teens.
Okay, Aria.
Turn.
Lean.
Shift your weight this way..
No. Not that way.
THIS way.
And as she threw her centre of gravity to the left, she saw movement to her right. It was only for a moment, but her eyes dashed towards it, spotting the man again. The one she’d seen from the lift. This time he was closer, leaning against a tree with an amused smirk on his face as he watched her.
Good lord, he was a beautiful thing. And distracting enough to throw Aria even further off course, which caused her once again to fling her weight to the side. The resulting sound was soft one, but a distinct, sickening one.
The binding on her ski had given way again, releasing her booted foot into a state of instability that reminded Aria of trying to ice skate drunk in her youth. And as her legs began to splay open, she found herself doing another impersonation of a newborn fawn, this time one who was shooting down a mountain at thirty–five miles an hour. The choice had become clear: do the splits at supersonic speed. Or, maybe slightly less likely to cause death: pull the boot free of the ski and hope for the best.