The BBW and the Beast: A Shifter Retelling of Beauty and the Beast (A BBW Shifter Fairy Tale Retelling Book 1) Read Free Page B

paperback.
    “Please?” Bel asked, trying to ignore the sour taste begging left in her mouth.
    But Mr. West wasn’t done. Now his gaze burned through her armor of winter layers in a single glance. Bel's core clenched as she imagined his calloused hands against her smooth skin. He had hands that had worked hard, that knew how to take wood or stone and mold it into something else. How to control with a single touch.
    Her fear gone, another hot sensation took up residence in her belly. Bel wished for the terror’s return.
    Finished with his analysis, the man folded his hands together on the table with a disturbing sense of finality. “How about a bargain, Ms.…”
    “Booksmore.”
    Mr. West’s eyes sparked with something Bel hoped to God was only anger. “I need a maid.”
    That, Bel admitted, was certainly true. While it was charming, the interior of the farmhouse was in serious need of repair. In the kitchen alone, Bel counted three rusty appliances. The floors were dusty and scratched, and underneath the smell of fresh wood lingered the damp odor of mildew. But that didn’t mean that she could be that maid.
    “You really don’t want me cleaning your house. Talk to anyone who knows me. When I do the dishes, I somehow make them dirtier.”
    Was it her imagination, or did the man’s tongue dart out and lick his lips when she said the word ‘dirty’? She decided it was. “Trust me, it would take forever.”
    “That’s not a problem,” he said.
    Great. Not only was Mr. West an asshole with anger management issues, he was an asshole with anger management issues who seemed to want to see her suffer.
    “There must be something else I can do for you,” Bel said.
    His gaze fell to the zipper of her jacket, which was only half-undone. An image flashed through her mind of him pulling the rest of it open with his teeth.
    “I-I’m a New York Times best-selling writer, for example,” Bel said, vowing not to let their chemistry get in the way of business. ”Maybe you need someone to, I don’t know… ghostwrite your memoirs.”
    Even through his slight beard, Bel could see his distaste. “I have enough people bothering me as it is. A book is the last thing I need.”
    “I wouldn’t have to write about—” She waved her hand. “Never mind. So you need cleaners. I actually have a friend who’s the best of the best at professional organizing. She owns a company in New York. Her name’s — ”
    “No,” he said firmly. “It’s you I want.”
    There was no missing the double meaning this time, and Bel felt a flush creep up the back of her neck.
    Mr. West said nothing, not moving a muscle, simply waiting for her to yield. He didn’t even look worried.
    Bel took a swig of her hot chocolate, welcoming the burning liquid as it annihilated her taste buds. She wished it was spiked with vodka, a tradition her and Cynthia had picked up in New York after her book sales began to dwindle.
    “Okay, so let’s say I do help you. How long do you think you’d need me for?” she asked before taking another gulp.
    “A year,” he said.
    She pursed her lips to keep from spitting a fountain of hot chocolate at him, swallowed, and said, “A year?”
    “Did you make a million and a half dollars last year, Ms.— ”
    “Jesus, just call me Bel, please.” For all his woodsy appeal, when Mr. West called her by her last name, it made her feel eighteen again. But when he called her by her full first name, it was worse. Wet panties, trembling knees kind of worse. Oh for a time when she was too naive to recognize the signs.
    If his squared shoulders and spread legs were anything to go by, Mr. West could recognize them too.
    “I’m going to be your boss. So I’ll call you what I like,” he said. From anyone else, his words would’ve sounded smarmy, but Mr. West spoke with an old-school, stoic masculine authority that almost transcended political correctness.
    Almost.
    “As long as it’s appropriate,” Bel said, resigned.