The dishes are done.
Not just done. Put away. The counters are wiped clean, the floor swept, even the dish towel folded neatly over the oven handle. I left this kitchen with dirty plates in the sinkand grease on the stove, and now it looks like no one ever cooked here at all.
He did this. After I went to bed.
I stand there for a long moment, trying to make sense of it. He was rude to me all evening. Told me he’d rather eat his mother’s food. Barely spoke during dinner. And then, what? Waited until I was asleep to scrub the pots and pans himself?
The man is paying me to clean. That’s literally why I’m here.
I shake my head and start the coffee maker I spotted yesterday. Whatever is going on in Tolin’s head, I’m not going to figure it out on an empty stomach.
The bathroom door opens down the hall.
I freeze, coffee scoop in hand, as heavy footsteps approach. And then Tolin rounds the corner into the kitchen, and my brain goes blank.
He’s not wearing a shirt.
Just low-slung pants that hang off his hips. His chest is bare, broad and muscled, the kind of body that comes from years of physical labor. Chopping wood. Hauling logs. Whatever it is bear shifters do on mountains.
And the scars.
They’re not just on his face. But there are others too. A thick ridge across his collarbone. A starburst pattern on his left shoulder. Claw marks raking down his ribs, old and faded but still visible against his deep brown skin.
He’s been in fights. A lot of them, from the look of it.
I drag my eyes up to his face and find him watching me. His dark eyes are unreadable, his jaw rigid beneath that well-groomed beard. He looks like he didn’t sleep well. Like he’s been awake for hours, stewing in whatever thoughts keep a man like him up at night.
“Morning,” I manage.
He grunts. Which I’m starting to think is his version of hello.
“Coffee?” I gesture at the machine, which is now gurgling to life.
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“Right.” I remember now. He prefers water. “There’s a fresh pot anyway, if you change your mind.”
He doesn’t respond. Just moves past me to the refrigerator, close enough that I catch the scent of him. Pine and woodsmoke and something deeper, earthier. It cuts through the chemical smell of cleaning solution that still clings to my skin and hair.
I must reek. Last night I only washed up, too tired to do more than splash water on my face. I’d showered before leaving my apartment, but cleaning solution got on me while I loaded my car. And today I’ll be deep cleaning—more solution, more chemicals, more of that sharp artificial smell that makes even my own nose itch.
Now he’s standing in front of the open refrigerator, all seven feet of him, blocking my access to anything useful.
Seven feet. Nearly seven feet, at least. I’m not short at five-seven, but next to him I feel tiny. He’s got to duck slightly when he goes through doorways. His shoulders are so broad they seem to fill whatever room he’s in.
And those hands. Massive. The kind that could span my waist with room to spare.
I look away before he catches me staring again.
“I’m going to start on the deep cleaning today,” I say, keeping my voice professional. “The living room first, then the bathroom. I’ll stay out of your way.”
Another grunt.
“Is there anything specific you want me to focus on? Or avoid?”
He closes the refrigerator and turns to face me, a container of his mother’s food in his hand. “Just do your job.”
The words are flat. Not cruel, exactly, but not kind either. A dismissal.
