But the rare steak smell is making my mouth water.
She knows how to cook for shifters?
If she doesn’t, I can use it as an excuse. Pick apart her technique, criticize her seasoning, drive her away with my disapproval. It would be easy. It would be safe.
Because I’m not sure I can handle being around her otherwise. Not with the way my body reacts. Not with my bear tearing at my control, desperate to get closer.
I grab the bag and step out into the storm.
The cabin door opens easily under my hand. I stop just inside the threshold, stomping snow from my boots, and take in the scene before me.
She cleaned up.
The floors are spotless, no trace of the mud and slush I tracked in earlier. The groceries have been put away, the counters wiped down, everything in its place. A fire burns steady in the hearth, warming the room. And there she is, walking toward the table with a jug of ice water in her hands.
Fucking hell.
She’s still in that uniform. The simple polo and black pants that shouldn’t look good on anyone but somehow look incredible on her. The fabric stretches across her chest, hugs the curve of her hips, follows the round swell of her ass as she moves.
And her hair. God, her hair. It’s half-escaped from that bun, thick curls springing free around her face, refusing to be contained. I want to sink my fingers into it. I want to wrap it around my fist while I bury the other hand somewhere much warmer.
I rub a hand over my face and exhale.
What am I going to do?
If it weren’t for that stinky cleaning solution, I’d be on her already. Pressing her against the table. Showing her exactly what a grumpy bear shifter does when he’s pushed past his limits.
But the chemical smell clings to her like a barrier, sharp enough to make my nose itch. I can’t get past it. Can’t catch what’s underneath.
Maybe that’s a blessing. Maybe it’s the only thing keeping me from making a terrible mistake.
She sets the water jug down and looks up at me, those striking olive-toned eyes meeting mine. Her expression is cautious but hopeful.
“I was hoping we could start over,” she says. She gestures toward the table, where two plates sit waiting. “I’m Imani.”
“I know your name.”
Her smile falters, just slightly. She recovers quickly, walking around the table toward me with her hand extended.
“I can put those away for you,” she says, reaching for the bags from my mother.
I should let her. That’s what she’s here for. That’s what I’m paying her to do.
Instead, I hear myself say, “I’d rather eat my mother’s food.”
The words land like stones.
Her face falls. Not dramatically, not with tears or anger, but something worse. A quiet sadness that dims the light in her eyes. Her hand drops back to her side.
My bear snarls at me. Angry. Protective of her, which makes no sense at all.
I don’t like hurting her feelings. The realization lands hard. I’ve been cruel to every employee Derrick has sent me. I’ve made them cry, made them quit, made them flee down the mountain like I was chasing them with teeth and claws.
But this one. This woman.
I don’t want to see that look on her face again.
I push the bags into her hands. Then I kick off my boots, hang my coat on the hook by the door, and walk to the table.
