I turn to face him, keeping my expression neutral. “Okay.”
“Don’t go in my bedroom. Don’t touch anything in myoffice. The guest room is at the end of the hall on the left. That’s where you’ll sleep.”
“Got it.”
He hesitates, like he wants to say something else. I notice the scar on his cheek. Up close, I can see how deep the marks are. Three jagged lines, healed but permanent. Someone did that to him. Or something.
“The storm is going to get bad,” he finally says. “Stay inside. Don’t try to leave.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
Another pause. Then he turns and walks out without another word, the front door slamming shut behind him.
I stand perfectly still, listening to the sound of his truck starting. The engine rumbles, headlights sweeping across the windows as he backs out. Then he’s gone, the noise fading into the howl of the wind, and I’m alone.
I exhale slowly, my shoulders dropping.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I press my palms flat against the counter and close my eyes, replaying the last twenty minutes in my head. The way he snapped at me for being late. The way he corrected his name like I’d insulted his ancestors. The way he looked at me when I took off my coat.
That last part sticks.
I’m not imagining it. When I turned around and caught him staring, the hunger was right there on his face. It vanished the second I noticed, replaced by that cold, hard mask, but it was there.
Not that it matters. Men look. It doesn’t mean anything. And even if it did, I’m not interested. Especially not in a man who treats people like inconveniences to be managed.
I push off from the counter and survey the kitchen. The groceries are half unpacked, bags still scattered across thecounter and floor. The pantry is partially stocked. There’s work to do.
But first, the floors.
He tracked snow and mud all through the cabin, stomping in and out like a man who’s never heard of a doormat. The entryway is the worst, puddles of melted snow mixed with dirt from his boots. The living room has footprints leading to the fireplace. Even the kitchen floor is gritty under my socks.
I find a mop and bucket in the small utility closet off the kitchen. The cleaning supplies I brought are still in my bag, but his basics will do for now. I fill the bucket with hot water and a splash of floor cleaner, then get to work.
The rhythm of mopping is soothing. Back and forth, back and forth, watching the grime lift from the wood. My mind wanders as I work.
He’s even worse in person. Not just grumpy, but mean. Sharp-edged in a way that feels intentional, like he’s trying to drive people away. And based on what Derrick said, he’s been successful. Every employee runs. Every single one.
But I didn’t run.
I don’t know if that makes me brave or stupid. Probably stupid. I need the money too much to walk away from double pay, even if the client is a seven-foot wall of hostility with a chip on his shoulder the size of this mountain.
I finish the entryway and move to the living room, careful to skirt around his precious chair.
The cabin is deceptively large. From the outside, it looked modest, a simple A-frame tucked into the mountainside. But inside, it opens up. High ceilings with exposed beams. A stone fireplace that takes up most of one wall. Large windows that probably offer stunning views when they’re not covered in swirling snow.
It could be beautiful, this place. Cozy and warm, the kind of cabin you see in magazines. But it’s neglected. Dust on the mantle. Cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. A layer of grime on the counters and windowsills.
He lives here alone. That much is obvious. No woman’s touch, no family photos on the walls, no signs that anyone else has ever made this place home.
Just him. And his chair. And his rules.
I finish mopping and dump the dirty water down the kitchen sink, watching it swirl away. Then I return to the groceries, putting away the rest of the canned goods, the dry pasta, the bags of rice and flour.
The pantry is large, with deep shelves that could hold enough food for months. Which makes sense, I suppose. Bear shifters hibernate. A month of vulnerability while the bear rests.
That’s why he’s so desperate to get this place stocked. That’s why he’s paying double. He’s about to be helpless, and he knows it.
