But something about this one is different.
My bear won’t settle. He’s pacing, agitated, trying to force the shift. He wants to go back inside. He wants to be near her.
I don’t understand it. She’s covered in that chemical smell from Derrick’s cleaning company, the sharp artificial scent that always makes my nose itch. I can barely catch anything underneath it. Just a faint whisper of something sweet, something warm, something that makes my mouth water.
It’s probably her shampoo. Or her lotion. Something mundane that my stupid bear is latching onto for no good reason.
I grab the last of the bags and head back inside, bracing myself.
She’s made progress while I was gone. The pantry doors are open, cans and boxes lined up on the shelves. She works steadily, doesn’t look up when I enter.
Professional. Focused. Not here to make friends.
Good. Neither am I.
I set the bags down and lean against the counter. She’s already unpacking, sorting through everything.
She reaches for a bag of brown sugar and pauses, glancing at me.
“Where do you want this?”
“Top shelf. Left side.”
She nods and stretches up again, and I find myself staring at her ass.
Enough.
“We need to set some ground rules,” I say, my voice harder than it needs to be.
She lowers onto her heels and turns to face me, expression neutral. Waiting.
“This is my home,” I continue. “I have certain expectations. The kitchen needs to be spotless at all times. Dishes washed and put away immediately after use. No clutter on the counters.”
She nods. “Understood.”
“The bathroom as well. Clean towels daily. No water spots on the fixtures.”
“Of course.”
I push off from the counter and walk toward the living room. She follows at a distance, hands clasped in front of her like a student awaiting instruction.
I stop in front of the fireplace and point at my chair. The worn leather one by the window, where I sit every night and stare at the trees.
“This chair,” I say slowly, making sure she understands, “is mine. You don’t sit in it. You don’t move it. You don’t touch it. I don’t like it smelling like the employees. Like that chemical cleaning solution.”
Something shifts in her expression. Her jaw hardens almost imperceptibly.
“You’re very particular,” she says evenly.
“I’m paying you double to deal with particular.”
“You’re paying me double to clean and stock your pantry.” Her voice is calm. “Not to be insulted about how I smell.”
My bear goes still, surprised. The other employees never talked back. They just nodded and scurried away, eager to avoid my wrath.
This one is looking me dead in the eyes.
“I’ve heard about you,” she continues, and there’s something sharp underneath that pleasant tone. “Everyone at Shadow Suds has heard about you. The grumpy bear shifter who runs off every worker Derrick sends. I came anyway because I need the money and I don’t scare easy. But I’m not going to stand here and let you make me feel like garbage for doing my job.”
