Her older sister Ginger had come here two years ago on a mini vacation, and she’d promptly caught the eye of the incredibly hot wolf-shifter sheriff, and now the two of them were away on their babymoon. What did Coral have to show for her stay here? So far, nothing but a pasty faced photographer following her around making sleazy sexual innuendos, and the world’s most boring newspaper job.
Depressed, she clicked on the website that she’d minimized, and it opened again, filling the computer screen. On the website was a picture of a ridiculously handsome man with close cropped brown hair, caramel brown eyes, and sensual lips that looked soft and perfect for nibbling on. She’d pulled it up from an internet search.
The picture was of Flint McCoy. He was a bear shifter and a multi-millionaire businessman come back to Blue Moon Junction to help his family renovate their turn of the century farmhouse and expand Sweet Stuff, their honey and jam business. He was also the man responsible for making Coral feel like even more of a failure than she already felt when she’d applied for the internship at the Tattler. She’d been trying to land an interview with him since the day she’d arrived, for a standard puff piece for the newspaper’s feature section, and his secretary had repeatedly blown her off.
The last time she’d called, half an hour ago, his secretary had accidentally failed to disconnect the connection after she talked to Coral. Then she’d heard his voice in the background saying “Was that the pain in the ass newspaper reporter again? For God’s sake, I’ve got work to do. Tell her I died.”
“Then she’d have to write a story about that,” the secretary reasoned.
“True. Just tell her I’ll be busy night and day for the next few months, will you?”
“I’ve tried, and she just won’t give up. Can’t you give her ten minutes of your time so she’ll quit calling?” his secretary wheedled.
“No,” he grumbled. “I hate reporters, they’re nothing but trouble.”
And then the connection had cut off.
Great. If she couldn’t even land a feel-good puff piece interview, what chance did she have of succeeding in the journalism world?
It didn’t help that looking at his picture did strange things to her anatomy. She could feel her nipples swell every time she looked at his handsome face, and an urgent pulsing that throbbed between her legs. It happened every time that she glanced at the picture, which was many times a day, strictly for research purposes, of course.
She couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to gently nibble on that lush lower lip. Bears ate a lot of honey. Would he taste like honey?
Well, there was no point in mooning after him, anyway. Even if he didn’t loathe reporters, Coral wouldn’t be his type. She’d grown up in New York City, land of the pin-thin fashion model, and she knew the drill. She was a weird anomaly, a wolf shifter who was fat, thanks to the fact that her mother was not a wolf. Her mother was a witch. A well padded, size 18 witch. Coral and all of her sisters had inherited the chub gene, which made them stand out like a freakshow attraction among shifters. Most shifters weren’t fat.
Handsome millionaires like Flint would never give a second glance to a full figured girl like her. They always came accessorized with skinny, hungry, but undeniably beautiful arm ornaments who had job titles like “lingerie model” or “socialite”.
Annoyed, she clicked off the website that featured his picture. It had been taken at some business function in Seattle, where he ran an import export business. Looking at the picture was just making her feel even more inadequate. Since there was no chance she’d ever get an interview with him, there was no need to keep looking at his smug handsome face, she thought, with a sharp twinge of regret.
“Coral, my plant is dying again.” Bettina, the receptionist, plopped an African violet plant down in front of her.
“Your plant, my hopes and dreams, all the residents of the Golden Acres nursing home…” Coral muttered, glancing at the wire basket which held half a dozen obits that needed to be typed up. “What isn’t dying around here?”
“What?” Bettina settled into a chair next to Coral, looking puzzled. She was a beanpole thin girl with brown hair which she wore severely parted down the middle, and a healthy smattering of freckles on her face.
“Nothing. Ignore me. I’ve just got my crabby-pants on today.”
Coral stared at the African Violet plant and concentrated, and the drooping leaves perked up. A couple of tiny buds appeared, and then unfurled into flowers. Thanks to their mother, all of her sisters had cool powers, and she had the ability to make plants grow…slightly faster. All her houseplants were always green and very healthy. In high school her nickname had been the Jolly Green Giant.
She handed the plant back to Bettina.
“Stop over-watering it,” she said. “You’re smothering it with love.”