Bear Anchor (BBW Shifter Romance) (FisherBears Book 2) Read online

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  Bear Anchor Title Page

  Bear Anchor

  Bear Anchor

  Bear Anchor

  Bear Anchor

  Bear Anchor

  Bear Anchor

  Bear Anchor

  Bear Anchor

  Stick Around!

  The Becca Fanning Kindle Unlimited Library

  Edward Title Page

  Edward

  Owen Title Page

  Owen

  Colby Title Page

  Colby

  Jacob Title Page

  Jacob

  Holden Title Page

  Holden

  Alec Title Page

  Alec

  Rock Title Page

  Rock

  Jackson Title Page

  Jackson

  Clay Title Page

  Clay

  Rust Title Page

  Rust

  Breakwater: Leo Title Page

  Breakwater Leo

  Breakwater: Rick Title Page

  Breakwater: Rick

  Breakwater: Custer Title Page

  Breakwater: Custer

  Breakwater: Hyde Title Page

  Breakwater: Hyde

  Breakwater: Dom Title Page

  Breakwater: Dom

  Adam Title Page

  Adam

  Sam Title Page

  Sam

  Winston Title Page

  Winston

  Ian Title Page

  Ian

  Joel Title Page

  Joel

  Dietrich Title Page

  Dietrich

  Ben Title Page

  Ben

  Kurt Title Page

  Kurt

  Hart Title Page

  Hart

  Reinicke Title Page

  Reinicke

  Daxton Title Page

  Daxton

  Knox Title Page

  Knox

  Amir Title Page

  Amir

  Beck Title Page

  Beck

  Slade Title Page

  Slade

  Matthew Title Page

  Matthew

  Mark Title Page

  Mark

  Luke Title Page

  Luke

  John Title Page

  John

  Bartholomew Title Page

  Bartholomew

  Bear Chopper Title Page

  Bear Chopper

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  Bear Anchor

  FisherBears II

  by

  Becca Fanning

  One

  A shadow loomed over the circulation desk just as a throat cleared, cutting into the comfortable silence of a slow Tuesday afternoon. Irina Vasiliev looked up from her computer screen into a pair of amber eyes framed by horn-rimmed glasses. Eyes the color of honey, like the stuff her grandmother used to make medovik with: raw and sweet and sticky.

  And now she craved the layered honey cake, longed for the familiarity, the comfort of it. Medovik had been Babushka’s favorite recipe. Generations of Vasiliev women had made it, back to the days when her ancestors had lived in a tiny fishing village on the Baltic Sea. Irina’s grandparents had been the first generation in America, and they clung to their traditions with an iron grip. She could remember the old woman standing over the stove time and time again, whisking, whisking, whisking. “You must whisk like devil, Irochka, or eggs cook,” she’d say in her thickly accented English. Irina hadn’t made the cake in years, not since Babushka had died.

  But she thought she’d like to dust off the recipe now. Comfort and security were rare commodities in her life these days. The routine of preparing the cake, as well as eating it, savoring it, would be a balm to soothe her tired soul. She wouldn’t be able to eat the whole thing herself, but perhaps she could bring some in for her co-workers. She took mental stock of the ingredients in her pantry. She would need to stop at the market for sour cream and more flour. Maybe this weekend, she thought.

  The large man standing in front of her cleared his throat, and she shook her head, trying to banish the visions of medovik dancing through her head. I’ll add berries this time, was her final thought on the subject. It’s still early in June. Strawberries should be in season.

  She looked up at the man again. “Can I help you?” she asked politely.

  “I put in a request last week,” the man said, holding up a call slip. “I got a call earlier that my book is in.”

  She took the slip from him, along with his library card. She glanced at the title printed neatly on the small scrap of paper, raising her eyebrows. They didn’t get many requests for Kierkegaard at the Sitka Public Library, unless one of the students at the University was writing a last-minute paper.

  “Let me take a look,” she said. She turned from the desk, walking to the back room to retrieve the library’s only copy of Either/Or.

  She returned a moment later to see that another man had joined the first. The newcomer seemed younger, rangier, than the man in the glasses, long and lean where his companion was solid, almost stocky. He was turned away from her, facing the first man, but she could just make out a scowl twisting his mouth. “You already read all this stuff!” He rocked back and forth on his heels, as though standing completely still was beyond his capabilities.

  “I have,” the man in the glasses agreed, calmly and indulgently, like they’d had this argument many times.

  “So whaddya need to read it again for? You ain’t in school anymore, Sherman.” The second man brushed his hair out of his eyes. It was pale, white-blond, like the finest silk. It was beautiful hair, but much too long. It hung in his face and curled over his ears, like he was a mop-topped kid in a boy band. She had the strangest urge to offer to cut it for him. “You don’t need philosophy while we’re out on the boat.”

  “I don’t read because it’s useful. I do it because I need it to thrive. ‘Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty,’” the man in the glasses quoted.

  “‘Anyone who keeps learning stays young.’” Irina finished the quote before she’d even realized she’d spoken.

  The younger man turned to her, at last giving her a good look at him. He all but took her breath away, he was so beautiful - but in a contradictory way. A study of opposites. Delicately sculpted cheekbones in a deeply tanned, slightly weather-beaten face. That white-blond hair, but with dark eyebrows and lashes. Full, almost feminine lips above a square, strong jaw. His accent sounded vaguely southern, a rarity here in Alaska. And his eyes were almost identical to his friend's, though the two men looked nothing alike otherwise. Deep amber, exactly like honey. Curious.

  He smiled at her in a perfunctory way, observing those social niceties that Irina had never been any good at. His eyes skimmed over her, taking in her unremarkable features and plain clothing, noting the bun and headband she used to tame her thick, unruly hair. He seemed to almost look through her, as though she was the least interesting person he'd ever come across, and she was surprised to find herself a little indignant at the idea. Blending into the background had been her goal in l
ife after her marriage ended. She no more wanted to attract a man than she wanted to be mauled by a bear.

  So why did she feel a sudden flash of ire that this beautiful young man was so obviously not attracted to her?

  “That a quote from one of your philosophers?” the blond man asked, turning back to the one he’d called Sherman. He drummed his fingers on the desk, and Irina had to ball her hands at her side to keep from holding them still. She couldn’t stand fidgeters.

  The other man laughed lightly. “Henry Ford,” he replied, his eyes smiling at Irina from over the top of his glasses. “You a student of Industrial Age history?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “My grandmother taught it to me.” Babushka had collected little quotes about education and learning, writing them down on little cards. It’s how she’d learned English back when she’d emigrated to America, more than sixty years ago.

  “Oh, how sweet,” came the library director’s voice from behind her. Irina’s smile vanished like smoke in a breeze at the arrival of her boss. She turned to see Betsy looking at her reproachfully. “Irina never tells us anything about herself,” the older woman continued, now speaking to the two men on the other side of the desk. “And she’s so dour. Always frowning. She’ll never catch a husband that way,” she tittered.

  Irina frowned, as if Betsy had somehow extracted it from her. The antiquated idea of wanting to “catch a husband” would have been laughable, had Irina not abandoned her sense of humor in Anchorage. If the older woman only knew why Irina kept to herself, she’d never be so flippant.

  Irina made no answer. She didn’t have the patience not to snap at her boss today. She turned back to the two young men in front of her. “Will that be all?” she asked, scanning Sherman’s library card, then the Kierkegaard volume.

  “Where’s the movies and stuff?” the blond man asked. He was fidgeting again, now shuffling his feet and rolling his shoulders. He looked like the kind of man who would probably still be twitching in his coffin. That dour enough for you, Betsy? Irina thought.

  Wordlessly, Irina pointed him in the right direction.

  “You need a library card to check things out, Finn,” Sherman called after his friend. Finn. Interesting name.

  Finn turned around, scowling. “Then I’ll just use yours.”

  Wouldn’t he want one of his own? Irina mused.

  Sherman shook his head. “No, he doesn’t read much. He prefers to watch TV or listen to the radio. Sports radio,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  Irina knitted her brows. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. “How could anyone not like to read?” she asked. She couldn’t fathom a life without books.

  Sherman chuckled. “I’ve been asking the same thing for years.” He shrugged. “He’s not much into intellectual pursuits. Makes living with him very difficult sometimes.”

  Oh. Irina had a sudden burst of comprehension. She might have laughed, it was so ironic. Here she’d been drooling over a man a decade younger, an unattainably gorgeous man who hadn’t looked twice at her. Her pride was soothed by the knowledge that it wasn’t so much her that was undesirable to him, as it was all women.

  “I suppose opposites really do attract, then,” she said.

  Sherman looked confused for a moment, then laughed, a full belly laugh. “No, no. It’s not like that. He’s my brother.” He shook his head, still laughing.

  Irina frowned in confusion. She thought it indelicate to ask how Sherman, with his dark chocolate skin, could be the brother of a man like Finn, whose features were as European as they came. And both men looked to be about the same age, twenty-five at most.

  Though they do have the same eyes, Irina thought as Sherman continued to laugh. I suppose it’s not so implausible after all.

  Behind her, Betsy tutted.

  “Sir, this is the library,” the older woman hissed. Irina looked around the two-story building. There was almost no one there. A quick glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows told her why: it was a glorious Alaskan spring day. The sun was shining, the air was warm, and the clouds were fluffy and bright, free of the pendulous gloom of oncoming rain that had shadowed the previous week. The residents of Sitka no doubt preferred to enjoy the good weather outside. But despite the lack of library patrons to disturb, Betsy was glaring at Sherman as though he’d let out an air horn in the main reading room.

  Sherman immediately sobered. “My apologies, ma’am.” He nodded at Irina, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Thank you,” he said, holding up the book.

  She acknowledged him with a nod, ready to return to looking busy. But heavy footfalls and noisy breathing caught her attention.

  “Sherman, help me pick. I don’t know which one Lila would want,” Finn called as he approached again. His arms were laden with VHS tapes. He dumped them all on to the desk, and Irina jumped back, watching them cascade onto the counter with an almighty clatter.

  Irina narrowed her eyes. She hardly knew Finn, but he was already starting to grate her nerves. He didn’t read, he didn’t respect library property, he couldn’t stand still.

  And he didn’t want her. Not that she cared, but still.

  Betsy huffed behind her. “Really,” she cried.

  Irina had forgotten her boss was still standing behind her. She turned. “Sorry, did you need something?” she asked, pasting a mask of politeness onto her face. The sooner Betsy left, the sooner Irina could finish assisting these two strange men and get back to doing almost nothing.

  Betsy scowled. “Someone called the library’s main line for you a few minutes ago.”

  Two

  Irina froze. “Who?”

  No one should be calling for her. She had no friends or family in this town, no ties to this southeastern stretch of the state. It’s why she’d picked Sitka. No one would think to look for her here.

  Betsy narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know, they wouldn’t leave a name.” The older woman sniffed. “I thought I made it very clear when you were hired that personal calls are not allowed on the main line. We’re not running a dating service here, Irina.” She let out a long-suffering sigh.

  Irina swallowed a wave of nausea, too distracted to point out that she’d never once received a phone call in the two months she’d been working here. “It was a man?” Betsy nodded irritably. “What did he say?”

  “He asked if you were working today.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  Betsy huffed again, her nostrils flaring. “I told him you were the only reference librarian on duty today, and that you were not to be disturbed.”

  Irina clutched the desk behind her for support. “What did he sound like?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.” Betsy clucked her tongue and patted her helmet of gray hair. “Really, Irina, if you’ve had a spat with your boyfriend, it’s none of my business.” Her tone indicated a lofty disinterest in the sordidness of Irina’s alleged love life. Her eyes, however, watched Irina keenly, belying her curiosity.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  Betsy pursed her lips, as though the possibility that Irina was casually dating someone had confirmed all her worst fears about her. “Well, whoever he is, tell him to call your cell phone next time.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone,” Irina said in a faint, shaky voice as Betsy stalked away, her gray head bobbing almost angrily.

  Irina closed her eyes, breathing slowly in and back out. trying to stow the gnawing panic back down in the dark place in her gut it had crawled from. Charles. He’d found her. Oh, God, he’d really found her. She needed to leave. She need to get out, get far away. He would kill her. He said he would kill her if she left again.

  A throat cleared behind her. The two young men, Finn and Sherman, were still standing there on the other side of the desk. Finn continued to riffle through the videos like a man on a mission, muttering comments to himself. Sherman watched her over the top of his glasses, frowning slightly.

  “You okay, ma�
�am?” he asked, his eyes full of friendly concern.

  “Fine,” she squeaked. She cleared her throat, swallowing down a sob. Irina did not cry. “I’m fine.”

  He looked at her dubiously. It seemed as though he wanted to say something more, but Finn interrupted.

  “Sher-man, seriously. I’ve narrowed it down, but I don’t know which one to pick,” he said, holding up two VHS tapes.