Page 69 of Enemies in Paradise

I guess I should give him credit for that. At least he’s a gentleman when it comes to not looking at me when I’m naked.

“You only work in mice and squirrel sabotage? Is that it?” I’m sort of teasing, but that gets hidden in my frustration.

The drawers also fall victim to my irritation. I yank the bottom drawer from the dresser and find one pair of sweats that’s reasonably dry.

“The squirrel thing wasn’t my fault. They needed a new place to live. You told me there weren’t any cats left here.” Bear’s voice is gruff and defensive, which only adds to the anger I’m trying to keep at a low simmer.

“Oh, so it’s my fault?” I turn my back to him, kick off my boots, and yank on the sweats underneath my robe. I have no idea what to put on top. “Are you saying I should have known there were squirrels living in the shop?” I turn around with my hand on my hip.

I’m going commando. It doesn’t feel great, but at least I don’t have to worry about exposing my bottom half again. Plus, I’ve been pepper-sprayed before. I can take a little panty-less discomfort.

“That’s not what I’m saying!” His eyes are still closed, and I hate that it’s adorable. “But if you didn’t have that stupid cat, there wouldn’t have been a problem.”

“Cats live indoors,Bjorn.Squirrels don’t.” My robe is wet, and I shake with cold.

“Unless they’re babies who don’t have a mother.” His eyes fly open. “Then they have to live inside for a few weeks until they’re big enough to live on their own.” Bear says this as if it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. Baby squirrels living inside.

Then I remember: Bear will be motherless soon. Maybe he feels that way already from what I’ve heard from Georgia. Maybe we’re not really talking about baby squirrels.

Despite my best efforts, the robe slips open. I grab it before I expose myself a second time, but I can’t stay in this thing all night. I’ll have to throw it, and everything else, in the shop’s dryer once Bear leaves.

“You should go,” I say more gently than I’ve said anything else, but still not very gently.

Bear’s eyes narrow. Seconds pass, and he doesn’t move. Then he tosses the peas he’s still clutching to the counter and walks past me to the shop door.

He swings it open but doesn’t close it behind him. I follow him to see what he’s doing but stop in the shop doorway in case the baby squirrels are loose again. I hear their chirping, so I know he hasn’t found a new place for them, which means Willy Wonkat has to stay at Georgia’s another night.

I’m about to remind him of this when he comes back into the studio holding a hockey jersey that says Paradise Squirrels on the front.

“Put this on.” He tosses the jersey to me, then turns around.

I look from Bear to the jersey. It’s the same one he was wearing the other day at his hockey game. His name is on the back.

Even if I had another choice, I couldn’t resist wearing it. I turn my back to Bear, even though he’s not looking, take off my robe and slip the jersey over my head. The sleeves hang past my hands, the neck to the V of my chest, the bottom hem to my thighs. It drowns me with its size and its smell. Bear’s smell. Woodsy and citrusy.

I can’t help myself. I breathe it in, letting the warmth of Bear’s jersey blanket me with a peace I haven’t felt in a long time. I have something to wear. I’m not cold anymore. There’s comfort in knowing I don’t have to figure out at least one thing on my own.

“You ready? We need to go,” Bear says, his back still turned to me.

I come back to my senses, and the realization that the only reason Bear is taking care of me is because he has to. He’s the one who caused all this. He’s the reason I have no clothes.

“Go where?”

“My place. You can’t stay here.” Bear turns around and stares at me, swallowing hard.

His eyes are a blue flame, burning with the same intensity as the night we kissed. And I almost lose my senses again. His jersey is a reminder of just how much bigger he is than I am. He can’t take his eyes off me.

Which are all excellent reasons not to go home with him. Who knows how much stupider I’ll get if he does something as simple as open a door for me. Or make me dinner.

“I’m fine here.” I cross my arms.

“No, you’re not. There’s no running water,” he says so forcefully that I nearly listen.

Nearly.

“I don’t have to take orders from you,” I snap back.

Bear’s eyes roll back, and he lets out a long sigh. “Today you do.”

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