Page 4 of Enemies in Paradise

I watch her step back inside before I walk to the studio door. I just want a little peek. I mean, if this is going to be my home, and I can see past the mess of a shop, surely I have the vision to sort through this … what did Georgia call it? Locker room?

My hand is on the doorknob when barking startles me. I whip around to see a black dustmop thing charging toward me. I press myself against the door and put my hand on my hip, only to remember I left my sidearm at Georgia’s. I’m ready for the worst, but instead of ripping my throat out, I only have to endure muddy paws all over my pants.

A loud voice yells, “Molly!” and the dog runs to a blonde giant rounding the corner.

He has a long, shaggy beard—well, shaggy for LA—and is absolutely enormous. The reason people should lock their doors! Molly—I’m assuming that’s who the dustmop is—jumps on his legs, then darts back to me to do the same again, doubling down on the mud she’s already got on my jeans.

“Molly! Sit!”

The dog drops to all fours, turns in a circle, then sends her owner a sad look before obeying a second command to sit.

When the giant reaches her, he pats her head, and says, “good girl,” then turns a more wary eye on me. “Can I help you with something?”

I brush mud from my pants, then my hands, before looking at him. In LA I might be scared to be caught alone in an alleyway at dusk with a guy this size, but I’m not in LA and realize in the next instant that I know this guy; Georgia’s brother-in-law. Hisbeard is a lot bigger and his hair longer than the last time I saw him, but it’s definitely him. Bear Thomsen is hard to forget.

His real first name is also hard to forget, and since we’re definitelynotfriends, that’s what I use instead of his nickname.

“Hi. Bjorn, right?” I hold out my hand. “We’ve met.”

“I remember.” His mouth twitches beneath his beard, and his gaze drops to my dirty hand.

I pull it back and wipe it on the last remaining clean area of my jeans, which happens to be the butt. His eyes follow my hands, reminding me of our first meeting.

I was in Paradise for the wrap party forAt Home With Georgia Rose’s first season. I didn’t know anyone there besides Georgia, and I’d only come because she’d invited me to Paradise for, in her words, the break I needed from my job.

I’d wandered off to get away from the crowd. I took out my phone to play a game. That usually calms my nerves. But a few minutes later, when I glanced up from my phone, this huge guy was coming toward me. Normally, I wouldn’t have been bothered, but I’d backed myself into a spot between a gigantic oak and an old cottage.

He approached with a smile, but my pulse was already racing. I’d been cornered too many times at the station. The man had something in his hands, which he held out to me as he got close. Then his foot caught on a tree root. He stopped himself before he fell, but the drink flew from his hands and landed on me.

Iced coffee spilled down my brand-new white blouse.

I gasped as the cold liquid hit me, then began scooping ice from between my boobs where my bra had trapped it. When I looked up, the giant was staring at my chest.

“Eyes up, buddy,” I said, and his gaze immediately darted to my face.

“I’m so sorry…” he stuttered. “I… here…” With a fistful of napkins, he began wiping at the coffee from my neck down theopen space of my blouse, all the way to my cleavage. As if I didn’t already feel violated enough.

“What are you doing?” I grabbed the napkins from him and pushed him away. “Are you some kind of pervert? Keep your hands off me!”

I didn’t mean to yell loud enough for people twenty feet away to turn and stare, but they did. Ignoring their looks, I wiped frantically at the front of my shirt.

“Give me your shirt and—”

“Give you my shirt?” I kept my hand crossed over my chest and stared him down. “I don’t think so… and don’t tell me what to do.”

“I didn’t mean… I’ll pay for it.” His face lit up red and—possibly—guilty.

“That’s right, you’ll pay for it. I don’t know what you’re playing at here, but back off!” I said all the words to Bear Thomsen that I couldn’t say to Captain Markham when he pulled similar stunts to corner and touch me.

After I went back to LA, I sent Bear the bill for a new shirt, explaining the coffee didn’t come out of the other. And maybe my explanation was terse, but I really loved that shirt.

Over the next few months, however, I questioned whether I’d blown things out of proportion and taken my anger at Markham out on Bear.

I planned to apologize when, six months later, I came back to Paradise for Georgia and Zach’s wedding. I was a bridesmaid and Bear was a groomsman, so I figured I’d have an opportunity. But he spent the entire week glowering—glow-er-ing—at me, as though I’d ruinedhisfavorite splurged-for-item-of-clothing while—possibly—making a pass at him, instead of the other way around.

To make matters worse, at the wedding reception he muttered something under his breath about “entitled Californians and their hundred-dollar shirts.”

And, look, I am aware of the perceptions that people in Idaho (and every other state Californians are migrating to) have of us. But it still wasn’t nice.

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