It was once an average mid-century ranch, the front door opening into a sunken postage stamp foyer and the living room and dining room, a low half-wall separating the kitchen, a sliding door going to the backyard, and a hallway with the bedrooms and bathroom. Now, it’s been opened up, the walls taken back to studs and wiring, the floor nothing but bare subfloor, with a blue tarp covering the space where the sliding doors were. The sound of work is coming from one of the hallway rooms.
Panzer turns in three clockwise circles, one counterclockwise, and then lays down in the foyer, content that I'm allowed to be here; his duties done and scratches received, he goes back to his nap.
I follow the sounds to the bathroom. It's early summer now, and it's been pretty hot lately, in the high seventies and low eighties. The air in the house is still and stifling, full of dust and dirt—it's hot.
Therefore, it's not a surprise to see that Bear has taken off his shirt—he's tucked it into the back of his jeans to hang down like an odd white tail. His back is impossibly broad, his shoulders endless and cliff-like, rippling with layers of muscle and tapering to his waist. Sweat drips down his spine in glistening rivulets.
He has a giant sledgehammer in his hands, a yellow hard hat on his head, and he’s swinging the hammer at the ugly canary yellow tile on the bathroom wall like he hates it. His arms ripple, and with each crashing impact, tile shatters, and the wall disintegrates a little more.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, I'm frozen in place, riveted.
He uses his whole body to swing the hammer, his feet braced wide, massive thighs bulging as he moves, hips twisting, torso torquing—the huge, heavy hammer whistles through the air and smashes into the wall again and again and again, each strike precise, moving him along the wall with startling speed, leaving piles of shattered shards of tile in his wake.
I watch until he reaches the end of the wall, at which point he sets the sledge upside down on its head against the wall and yanks his shirt out of his jeans, wiping his face with it.
"Bear!" I call over the jarring racket of hard rock music coming from a heavy-duty industrial radio.
His head jerks up, eyes wide. "Noelle?"
As he turns to face me, I'm stunned speechless by the vision of him.
For some people, it seems like God just went a little extra, a little overboard. When he was making Bear, He seemed to have forgotten to stop adding muscle.
The man is profoundly mammoth. His pecs are like slabs of granite carved into the upper portion of his chest with an artisan’s chisel. I wouldn’t say he has a six-pack, which has never done it for me anyway. He has a definition, but his abs are more like massive blocks of stone, thinly padded. His tattoos ripple colorfully on his immense, sweaty, rippling arms, and his chest, stomach, and sides are mazed with scars.
Sweaty, out of breath, muscles swollen from labor, Bear looks like he could rip I-beams in half with his bare hands.
My skin tingles, my nipples go hard behind my sports bra, and my thighs clench together. It’s hard to breathe. Hard to think.
This was a mistake.
But good grief—I'm glad I came.
I unstick my tongue and look for something to say—arousal seems to have scorched the sense right out of my idiot brain.
"Bear. I…hi."
He wipes his face with his shirt as he shuts off the radio. "You're here."
"Sorry to show up like this," I say. "I…I'm not sure what I was thinking."
"No, no, it's fine. I'm just surprised to see you here." He grabs a gallon jug of water from the floor and takes several long, glugging swallows. "Want some?"
I grin, shaking my head. "No, I’m good. I just…" I swallow hard. "I wanted to see you. I thought maybe we could go for a walk at my house. I was gonna make pork chops."
He licks his lips and smooths his hand down his beard—he’s taught himself how to braid because his beard is clumsily braided in a single thick queue down his chest. His hair is back in a low ponytail. "That sounds great. I'm pretty much done here."
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "I hope it's okay that I came. I went by the shelter, and Gloria told me you had called in. I happened to know that Riley and Felix are working here, so I took a chance and just sorta…came over.” I’m babbling from nerves. Why am I so nervous?
Oh, right. Because I plan on kissing Bear. And…stuff.
Hopefully.
Maybe.
God, I'm a mess.
He gives me a small, quick smile, stepping close to me, a big hand drifting close to my face but stopping short. "Always glad to see you, Noelle. You're the best part of every day."
