Gloria sets the clipboard down, looking at him. "You don't…you don't seem…"
"I just want to spend time with the dogs. I won't be trouble." He sounds…almost sad. Or resigned.
"I really do need the help. My last helper turned out to be terrified of dogs and quit after a week." Gloria looks down at the form, then at Bear again. "If Riley Crowe gives you a good reference, then that's good enough for me. I know Riley. He's had his share of trouble, but he's turned things around in recent years. And that program of his seems to be doing well."
Bear nods. "Changed my life. I owe him a lot."
"You're in the program?"
He nods again. "Three years. Got out a month ago."
Gloria seems to soften, then. "You like dogs?"
A shrug of one heavy shoulder. "Always wanted one. Cellmate used to be a trainer. Taught me some things."
"Wonderful. If you'd like to wait while I call Riley, you can start today, if you'd like." Gloria withdraws her phone, gesturing at a blue plastic chair in the corner.
"I'll wait. Thank you."
Gloria bustles into the back, phone to hear ear already. Bear doesn't move for the chair, I notice, although he does give it an appraising glance, clearly deciding not to risk it.
He looks at me, then. "Still here."
I blush. “Yeah, um…" I shrug, grinning. "I'm just nosy. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Bear."
That lip quirk again—like the start of a smile, quickly abandoned. "Just Bear."
"I almost laughed when she said that." I know I should go, but he's a fascinating person, and the tingle I feel around him is sort of addictive. "It's really your given name?"
He pulls a folded stack of cash out of his pocket, an ID on top, the whole held together with a rubber band. He shows me the ID—not a driver's license, I notice.
Bear Olaffson. It’s his real name.
"Wow. Pretty cool." I smile at him again, hoping to get another of those lip twitches out of him; no such luck. “Well, Mr. Bear Olafsson, I should go. But it was nice to meet you. Maybe I'll see you around?"
"Maybe, Noelle Harper." His eyes scan my face, flick quickly over my body and back to my eyes. "Hopefully."
I blush at his attention, his gaze—at the "hopefully."
"I play Trivia at The Cellar every Friday night with some friends," I blurt. "You should come. It's fun."
"Trivia?"
"Yeah, you know, random facts?"
He peers at me, thinking. "I don't drink."
I shrug. "No problem. A couple of my friends are sober, too. It's still fun." I grin at him. "You can just sit there and watch. Maybe that'll stop the randos from hitting on us."
"I could do that."
"See you Friday, then?" The tingle of hope and excitement is intoxicating.
There's just something about the guy. Despite his size, appearance, and whatever he wrote down on that form that rattled Gloria so badly, I don't feel even a hint of fear. The opposite.
He nods. "Friday."
I hold out my hand for another handshake, just because I want to feel his hands on mine again—it's a rush, how his massive, cinder-block hands are so gentle. He frowns, taking mine and turning it over to look at the palm.
