For a second, Ted thought the guy peeking around the corner was Matt—or maybe Larry, the mechanic from Dewton who doubled as the delivery guy for the lumberyard. Then he wiped the water out of his eyes and realized the guy was way too small and frail to be either one. Matt was taller and Larry was stockier—and neither one of them had black hair and a goatee and looked like the least breeze would blow them off the mountain.

A stranger. And I’m naked. Whoops. Good thing he wasn’t here ten minutes ago when I shifted. Because shifting in front of a human? Yeah, that was a sure way to bring the council down on his ass, especially after what Dr. Kendrick had told him this morning.

Ordinarily, Ted would have shifted back to his bear form and shaken the water off to get dry—he’d only stopped out here to shower because he’d run afoul of an illegal dump site when he was lumbering back up the mountain after Matt had dropped him off in town. So he didn’t have a towel. Or clothes.

Awkward.

Well, it was his place, damn it. Wasn’t he entitled to privacy here? He wasn’t expecting anyone until Rusty arrived next week, so he should have been able to parade around as naked as a mole rat if he wanted, with no one the wiser.

And even though shifter blood ran hotter than human, and he’d already started to put on the padding around his middle in the run-up to winter hibernation season, it was still damn cold in the wind off the lake.

“Sorry. I—” he gestured to his body “—wasn’t expecting company.” If he could just get the guy to go around to the front of the lodge, Ted could shift and dry off. Wouldn’t help the no-clothes situation, but he had a stash in the lodge, and a cache inside the tree line for emergencies—or when he was running the Bigfoot scam. He sighed. Can’t do that anymore either.

But the guy just kept staring at Ted, his eyes behind those rectangular hipster glasses getting bigger and bigger. Which had the unfortunate effect of—what did Dr. Kendrick call it? Sympathetic reaction? Because Ted’s dick started to keep pace.

I’m a married man now. I need to keep it in my pants. When I have pants. He turned his back. “Could you, you know, go back to your car until I get dressed?”

“I don’t have a car.” The guy’s voice sounded like he was trying to get the words out past someone’s fist.

“You too? Yeah, my truck’s in the shop, so—” Ted slapped himself on the forehead. Not relevant. “If you’d just go around to the porch, I’ll be there in a minute and you can let me know what you need.”

The guy let out a noise that sounded like “Awp!” But since that wasn’t a word, it couldn’t have been what he’d said. Ted took it for a yes because when he checked over his shoulder, the guy was gone.

“Whew.” He shifted back to his bear, heat singing along his bones as the shifter magic reformed his body. He sighed in relief. Ordinarily the itch from the fur sprouting through his skin drove him nuts and he’d search for the nearest tree to rub against, but today he was too damn glad of the heat.

A little thrill raised the fur along his spine. I’ll have a husband to rub up against soon. Would Rusty like Ted’s bear form? Or would it be insensitive to shift since Rusty couldn’t? He should have asked Dr. Kendrick about that this morning, dang it. For Rusty, I can keep it together, control my shifts. He’d known marriage would take some compromises. If shifting in secret was one of them, at least it would give him practice being “discreet.” That ought to make the council happy.

He shifted back, the energy drain from the second shift making him a little light-headed. Making a mental note to eat an extra helping at dinner to make up for it, he ducked through the back door of the lodge into the mud room—the only room that held anything but sawdust and building materials. He pulled on a pair of jeans that could use a wash and an old flannel shirt with a stain on the front from when he was changing the oil in his truck. Sheesh. He needed to upgrade his spare wardrobe if he was going to be getting random uninvited visitors.

I need to upgrade it anyway. He glanced at his wedding band, a grin stretching his cheeks. I’m married now. Time to step up my game.

He stepped back outside, closing the door behind him. It didn’t stay closed, of course. He really ought to fix the latch and put in the locks. Although why bother? Nobody but Larry ever came up here. Larry and little random hipster dudes.

Yeah. About that. Ted strode around the lodge and there the guy was, standing on the top step of the porch with his arms wrapped around his middle. He’d be kind of cute if he weren’t wearing an expression like he’d just stepped in a steaming pile of bobcat scat.

Still, he was a visitor, and how often did Ted get those? He smiled and held out his hand. “Hey. Sorry about the . . . um . . . casual dress, but I wasn’t expecting anybody. Ted Farnsworth.”

The visitor glared up at Ted, not offering his hand—or his name—in return. “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting you. Where’s Casimir?”

Ted blinked. “Who?”

“Casimir Moreau. Are you the caretaker?” He glanced around at the obviously unfinished lodge. “I can’t say much for your abilities, if that’s the case.”

Ted scowled. “Here now. There’s no call to get nasty. The lodge is under construction, and it’s not like I invited you up here.”

“I’m here to meet Casimir. I don’t understand . . .” The guy suddenly seemed so lost and confused and cold that Ted’s anger vanished.

“I’m not sure who this Casimir guy is, but who are you?”

He looked up—even standing on the top step of three, he had to look up at Ted. Jeez, the guy was little. “I’m sorry. I’m just so . . .” He still didn’t hold out his hand, but he bobbed his head in a weird little bow. “Quentin Bertrand-Harrington.”

Ted nodded in return, since hand-shaking was apparently off the table. “Nice to meet you. That’s some double-barreled name you’ve got there.”

Quentin shrugged, and a faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “It’s tradition in my family. Blame it on stubborn ancestors.”

“Huh. Interesting.” The only tradition in Ted’s family was for everyone to get as far away from each other as possible. But that was a bear-shifter thing.

Quentin gazed around him like somebody who’d just woken from a nap and still hadn’t figured out he wasn’t in a dream anymore. Ted could relate. He felt the same way pretty much all winter. “Where is this place? I can’t see any part of Portland.”

Ted laughed. “Of course not. Portland’s nearly a hundred miles east of here.”

Quentin’s eyes got big again. “A hundred miles? But . . . but the Supernatural Selection driver said he—”

“Wait. Supernatural Selection?”

Quentin’s expression closed down, turning wary. “Yes. Do you recognize the name?”

“Do I?” Ted beamed, holding up his left hand and waggling his ring finger. “They found me my husband.”

Relief flickered across Quentin’s face. “Oh thank the gods. You’re a supe, then?”

“Yep. Bear shifter.”

“And your name is Ted? Half the bear shifters I know are named Ted.”

Ted scowled at him. “That’s an exaggeration. Half the bear shifters are female. Though now that I think of it . . .” Ted scratched the back of his head. “Some of them are called Ted too, although more of them are Winnies. But you’ve got a good mix of Smokey, Yogi, Baloo, and now and then a Fozzie, if the poor guy’s parents had a weird sense of humor.”

“You can’t be more original than that?”

Ted sniffed. “It’s tradition.”

Quentin cracked a smile. “Fair enough, bear shifter Ted. No wonder you didn’t mind the cold.”

“If I’d known you were part of the community, I wouldn’t have made you run away. Although”—he waggled his finger again—“married, so probably shouldn’t be flashing my junk to random guys.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Quentin swallowed and looked down at his feet, faint pink staining his cheeks. “As it happens, I’m married too. I’ve just come from Boston to meet my husband, and I thought the driver was supposed to drop me at his home. But they left me here.” He glanced around. “I don’t understand. Unless . . . do you have a vampire retreat hidden somewhere nearby?”

“Vampires? Here? No way. Those jokers wouldn’t come so far from the city. No food supplies.” He studied Quentin more carefully. He didn’t have any obvious supe markers—but then, most supes didn’t. It was how they were able to pass for human, and why the Secrecy Pact worked. “You’re married to a vampire? Really? That’s . . .”

Quentin raised his chin defiantly. “Weird? Perverse? Stupid?”

“I was going to say ‘brave,’ but I guess you have some feelings about it. How long have you guys been together?”

“We haven’t. That is, we’ve signed the contracts, but we haven’t met. That’s why I’m somewhat at a loss here.”

Ted rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, remembering the feel of the enchanted needle piercing his flesh, and the three witches intoning the binding spell. “Yeah, the signing in blood thing was intense. I just signed mine yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Quentin’s gaze sharpened. “Where’s your husband, then?”

“Oh, he’s not arriving until next week. Some kind of big to-do with his old clan. The chief’s heir is getting engaged or something.”

“But you were together to sign the contracts, right?”

“No.” Ted drew out the word, not entirely sure where Quentin was going with these questions. He sounded almost accusatory. “It was by proxy, in the Supernatural Selection office.”

Quentin grew paler, if that was possible. He’d probably pass for a vampire, if he wasn’t standing in the sunlight. “I signed at the supe notary. Yesterday.”

“So?”

Quentin whirled and tottered, nearly falling off the step. Ted reached out and steadied him. “Careful. Not too steady on your pins.”

He jerked away with a gasp. “Never mind that.” He dug through a leather messenger bag, embossed with his initials in gold. Jeez, this guy probably had gold-plated everything. He pulled out a glossy folder with the Supernatural Selection logo. Ted recognized it—he had one himself, with Rusty’s dossier and his copy of the mating contract. “They messengered this to the notary’s office, but with the suppressant, I barely registered . . .” He opened the folder, rifling through pages until he must have found the one he wanted, because he froze, staring down at it, all remaining color leaving his face. “I don’t understand. How could this happen?”

“What?”

Quentin held up the contract, pointing to the stupid “party of the first part” clause at the top that Ted always skimmed over. The first party, of course, was Quentin Bertrand-Harrington. But the party of the second part . . .

Ted Farnsworth.