1 Striker S triker held the camera . He squinted until his left eye closed. It was another magazine shoot. Another day on the waterfront, battling wind and mist. He wiped the lens on his camera again. He was tired of this shit. Tired of the models. Tired of the crews. It wasn’t art. It was propaganda. He watched the model through his lens while the crew tried to hold umbrellas to shield her hair and makeup. “I think we’ve got enough,” he grumbled to the assistant the magazine had assigned to him for the day. “You sure?” The intern didn’t look convinced. Striker didn’t care. “I am. We’re not going to get anything else today. Break down the set.” He turned from the scene. He shouldn’t have taken the job. He knew that. But he was searching for something. Something that would inspire him again. Ever since he pushed Cassie away he hadn’t been able to put a full collection together. He hadn’t had a successful exhibit in over a year. The magazine shoot was only a way to pass the time and keep his name current. There had to be a way to find inspiration again. Photography was his passion. It had been his life, but now all the scenes looked gray. He opened the hatch on his SUV and began unlocking his camera cases. He unscrewed the lens and wrapped it in a soft cloth before carefully tucking it inside. He wanted Cassie to be his mate. She was beautiful and young. Interesting and funny. But his bear knew she wasn’t the one. Cassie wasn’t meant for him. She wasn’t the woman who would have his cubs. He slammed the trunk closed. It kept happening. He’d meet a woman and take her on a date only to walk away the next morning with the realization he was wasting his time. His bear was getting fucking tired of it. “Mr. Highland, what do I tell the magazine about the schedule?” The assistant raced to Striker’s car. “Tell them I’ll get them the damn proofs. We have enough for today.” Striker realized he had growled slightly at the kid. It wasn’t his fault the photographer was stuck. He climbed into his vehicle, slamming the door closed. The intern knocked on the glass. Striker rolled down the window. “What? What is it?” he asked. “Will you be here tomorrow?” The rain fell on the assistant’s head. Striker huffed. “Yes. I’ll finish.” “Thanks, Mr. Highland. See you in the morning.” Striker pressed the window button as he sped away from the set. He didn’t want to do this again tomorrow, but he had signed a contract. He drove home, unpacked his gear, and headed to the fridge for a beer. He popped the cap off using the counter. His apartment was a large loft built over a men’s clothing store. He used it as a studio and as a place to crash when he slept. It looked like a bachelor pad, and he knew it. He sank into the couch and turned on the TV. He didn’t want to look through the shots he had. He didn’t care. They would all look the same. The girl with the same vacant look in her eyes he had, straining to hold a pose. She didn’t inspire him. Nothing did. He threw the remote on the coffee table. He couldn’t stay here. His bear was restless. He wanted his mate, and Striker wasn’t doing anything to find her. He walked to his dresser and pulled out a few T-shirts, boxers, and jeans. He pulled an overnight bag from under his bed and began stuffing the clothes inside. Everything else he needed would be at the house. He would assess the pantry supplies when he arrived. Whatever was missing he would have delivered. He would call the magazine on the way and tell them he’d finish when he got back in town. There was no way he could stay in Seattle with his bear feeling like this. He threw the bag over his shoulder, picked up his camera case, and headed to his car. In two hours he would be at Highland House. It might be the only place he could put his life back together.
2 Presley P resley clutched the steering wheel in her hands. Her knuckles were