11. Chapter 11

I hear the door before I turn around. When I do, Bear stands there, filling the doorway. He holds a vase of flowers, his jaw slowly lowering before he lets out a giant sneeze.

In the seconds it takes Bear to recover from his sneeze, I try to think of a way to explain how the auto shop has been transformed into a cat shelter.

Bear slowly lowers the flowers he's holding and scans the room, his jaw still open as he rubs his nose. Between his sneeze, running nose, and already watering eyes, it doesn't take a detective to figure out that the reason he hates cats is that he's allergic.

I just hope it's a mild allergy, because I already feel terrible about what I've done.

Would I like to say to him what I've been rehearsing in my head in case anyone showed up? Would I like to explain why there are cats jumping in and out of the open top of his Mustang and crawling on every surface in the shop?

Of course I would. I am sufficiently humbled by how poorly this has gone that I'm ready to confess and apologize.

Can I be heard over the sound of the meows and screeches echoing off the cinderblock walls?

No. No, I cannot.

"What in the…" Bear's face twists around the words he's trying not to say, until he finally blurts, "Sheepadoodle!"

Which is not what I expected to come from his mouth. I bite back my explanation for what's happening, but I can't keep a giggle from escaping. "Did you say… sheepadoodle?"

I work with many people who have no problem using every curse in the book, no matter who's around. So the fact Bear's go-to word when he's angry seems to be—say it out loud with me—sheepadoodle is maybe the most naively adorable thing ever. The fact he's a giant, bearded hockey player only makes it more adorable.

The angry shade of maroon currently spreading across his face, on the other hand? Not so adorable.

"Where did all these cats come from?" Bear's words rumble over me before he lets out a series of loud sneezes.

His deep voice and surprisingly high-octave sneezes drown out the cats for a few seconds, before disappearing into the cacophony of meows, hisses, and what sounds like it could be a bark, but there's no dog here.

"I can explain. I didn't know there'd be this many." I take a few steps toward him, but he stops me with a searing glare.

"You did this?" He goes still except for the lightning flashing across his face. Then his eyes go wide. "They're in the Mustang!"

Bear rushes past me, waving his arms, water flying from the flower vase, while yelling shoo to every cat he passes.

"Open the back door!" he calls to me, before dropping the flowers on the top of a tool chest.

I rush to throw open the door all the way, but the cats don't take the invitation. They only dart around the room, hiding under, behind, and on top of anything they can find. Bear opens the door of the Mustang, yelling for the two in there to get out, but they tuck themselves further under the seats.

Obviously, he can't touch them. Between his sneezes, I glimpse his red, swollen eyes. And he's coughing too.

Soooo, this is not a mild allergy to cats.

My bad.

My very big bad.

Bear gives up coaxing the cats out of the car. He whips his head around the room until his eyes land on a broom next to me. The same one I used to fight the mice.

He moves toward it, but three earth-shaking sneezes stop him.

While he tries to recover, I grab the broom and head for the Mustang. "I'll get them out!"

As I charge past him, Bear grabs the broom handle, bringing me to a sudden halt.

"You've already done enough." He yanks the broom closer, but I hold tight, which puts me and my hands inches from his chest.

"So let me fix it." My eyes lock on his. I try to yank the broom back, but he holds it tight. "You're … not okay."

"I'm fine," he growls, emphasizing each hard syllable.

Our chests rise and fall together.

"You don't look fine."

His face is bright red. Possibly because he's so mad, but that's definitely not why his eyes are watering. Or why he's wheezing.

I try to pull the broom away from him again. His grip tightens, and he yanks the broom, and—by default—me closer. The fingers I've curled around the handle press into his chest. Even though there's a layer of flannel and another of puffer vest separating me from actual skin-to-skin contact with that wall of stacked muscle, a tingle of excitement rushes through me.

Bear isn't the only one breathless now.

I let go of the broom with a gentle push that is as effective as a fly trying to go through a closed window. Only one object moves, and it's not Bear.

He smirks, then walks past me to the car. I follow behind, partly because I know I'm responsible for this mess, but also because I'm hoping he'll have to beg for my help so that we can get back to equal ground.

A few seconds later, I'm the one smirking when he's stopped in his advance by half a dozen sneezes. The sneezes keep him from using the broom, but they do the trick of scaring three cats out from under the car. The two inside, though, aren't going anywhere. One stays tucked between the front windshield and the dashboard, and the other is curled in the back seat, gnawing on a mouse.

I let out a nervous laugh. I've completely lost control of the situation. The cats are winning. None of it is funny, but it's also not not funny.

But then Bear has to bend over to catch his breath, and I'm not laughing anymore.

I grab his arm and put my other hand on his back to steady him. "Are you okay?"

It's a stupid question. Obviously he's not okay. I've had enough emergency training to know he's having an asthma attack. His breathing is labored and raspy, and his face isn't red anymore. It's pale and sweaty.

And it's my fault.

"Bear, you need to get out of here." I turn him toward the back door.

He's coughing too hard to resist me as I guide him outside. His wheezing doesn't slow until we're twenty feet from the shop. Even then, I don't let go.

"Better?" I ask as his breathing improves, although it still sounds terrible.

He stays folded forward and nods his head. "I think so… maybe."

Georgia's told me Bear is shy and a little awkward, and I guess that's one way to label the rudeness I've seen in him. But what I'm seeing right now is vulnerability. He is a big man. Strong physically and—I suspect—mentally. (Quiet guys usually are.) He could take out an entire offensive line.

And a herd of cats has doubled him over.

He coughs again, and my fingers curl around his upper arm. I slide my hand from his back around his waist to steady him, but holding him close, it's hard not to notice his muscles flex every time he coughs.

Not a thing I should focus on in an emergency, but I have long fingers and they aren't close to fitting around Bear's biceps.

The air snaps with cold and little flurries of dancing flakes, as though Mother Nature wants to make snow but is too tired. All I'm wearing is a sweater and jeans. I should be freezing, but the heat radiating from Bear's body warms my own.

"Do you have an inhaler somewhere?" I ask between his labored breaths.

He shakes his head, and slowly his breath returns to normal. With another deep breath, he tries to stand straight and shake off my grasp, but ends up hunched over again.

"I don't need an inhaler. I need those cats out of my shop. That's all," he rasps, narrowing his eyes into tiny, angry slits.

I bite back the apology on the tip of my tongue as I remember how we got here in the first place: Bear and his mice. I forget my sorry and put more distance between us.

"They wouldn't be here if you hadn't played Cinderella and invited all your mouse friends over." I smooth my hands over my ponytail and pull my shoulders back, which in his doubled-over state makes me taller than him for the first time.

With effort, Bear pushes himself up to his full height and glares down at me. I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something, ready to fire back.

"Why do you have to torture me?"

I open my mouth, but the only thing that comes out is a surprised breath. Wind picks up icy snow and tosses it in my face, along with my ponytail. I toss my hair back and move closer to Bear, jutting my shoulder forward the way I do when I'm face-to-face with hostile suspects.

"Torture you? What are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean." He leans in, unintimidated, and so close I can smell whatever deodorant or body wash he uses. Pine, leather, and a touch of cinnamon. Like Christmas morning and a ride on the back of a motorcycle holding onto a man wearing a leather jacket—two of my favorite things—all wrapped in one.

"No, I don't. Enlighten me." As much as I hate Bear, his smell draws me closer.

"You call me a perv when I try to ask you out. You charge me for a new shirt. You talk to me like I'm a little kid at my brothers' televised wedding. You try to kill me with cats." With each accusation, Bear leans further in until our shoulders nearly touch.

When he stops to take a deep breath, our chests are a hair's breadth apart. My brain tries to work out when Bear tried to ask me out while my skin buzzes with electricity being so near him.

"Worst of all," he exhales. "You're stealing my shop."

"It's not your shop, Bjorn," I snap back; a live wire touching water.

"It's more mine than yours." His eyes—red and swollen—twitch then deepen into a dark glare.

"Not for long," I bite back.

I don't know how long for sure. I'm still waiting to hear from the bank Zach referred me to, but Bear doesn't need to know this. I'm still closer to owning it than he is. Especially since Zach said he's expecting at least two offers soon on Lynette's property—including the pond.

Either way, this is a stupid argument. We're supposed to be sharing the shop for now, not fighting over it. But I'm not getting pushed out of this space the way I've been pushed out of my department, even if I regret that my retaliation went so wrong.

"Just get the cats out." Bear pulls back his shoulders, broadening his chest even more.

Then he's overcome with another round of coughing and sags forward. I step closer, but he waves me away before walking around the corner of the shop, breathing heavily the whole time.

I'm tempted to run after him to make sure he's okay, but I'm afraid what I'd actually do is ask him what he meant. I know when I called him a pervert, but is that when he tried to ask me out? When he spilled coffee all over me?

And I don't know if I want the answer to that.

So, I wait until I can't hear him coughing anymore before I get in my car and drive to the local grocery store. Hopefully that's not where Bear is headed too. His family owns it, so it's possible, and I'd rather not have another run in with him today.

I load up my cart with cat food. The good stuff that's wet and smells worse than barf at a bar. Fortunately, Bear's not there, but I can't avoid his dad, Pete Thomsen. He's the owner and the one clerk who seems to be working, so he's the one who rings me up.

"That's a lotta cat food," he says carefully after scanning the third box of canned food. "I didn't know you had a cat."

"More of cat problem." I blow out my breath and look everywhere but in his eyes. "I'm sure you'll hear about it from Bjorn."

"Will I now?" Pete presses his lips together, as if he's trying not to smile, and shifts slightly.

A case of allergy medicine behind him catches my eye. I nod to it. "Add a box of Benadryl to my order, please."

He scans the bright pink box, but I stop him before he adds it to my bag. "You should probably take that home to Bjorn."

Pete's face creases with concern. "How big of a cat problem are we talking about? And how does it involve Bear?"

"Just tell him I'm sorry, will you? I didn't know how allergic he is." I swipe my credit card, then grab my cart of cat food and run for the door.

If I don't leave now, I'll break down, confess everything to Pete, and beg his forgiveness for trying to kill his son. Which would be a huge mistake. I've watched enough criminals get nervous and confess to more than what we had evidence on them for. I know better.

I'm not a criminal, and I'm not serving more time than I should for retaliating against Bear's prank with one of my own. I didn't mean for it to go as badly as it did. I didn't know he was allergic. And I especially didn't know he was I-could-die allergic.

I'll do my time by getting rid of the cats and as much of their hair and dander as possible, so Bear can come back to the shop. If the Thomsens decide to hate me for doing what I did, I don't blame them, even if it is more punishment than I deserve. And I really don't want to be kicked out of their circle right when Paradise is feeling as if it could become my home.

I spend the next few hours coaxing all the cats out of the shop with a couple dozen cans of food. There are more than a few cat fights in the parking lot, but I'm hoping in the morning they'll find their way back to their regular homes. Or at least to the fields behind the shop.

I try not to think Catman may be really mad over me setting a dozen of his cats free. Even if he is, the city may thank me. His house has to be a health hazard.

Once the cats are outside, I go to work on the inside, starting with the Mustang. I find a shop vac and clean every square inch of the thing of cat hair, then I do the same with the rest of the shop. It takes most of the night, and I'm ready to collapse in bed by the time I finish.

That's when I see the vase of flowers Bear had with him tipped over on a tool chest. I set the vase upright and wipe up the water that's spilled. The flowers are a little damaged, but still beautiful. Bright red roses, because, I realize, it's February fourteenth. Or, at least, it was yesterday. I noticed the signs in the floral shop window next door, but I was too busy plotting against Bear to care.

There's a cute pink bear hugging the vase, wearing a t-shirt that says I'm sorry. And I get another peek at Bear and his vulnerability.

He's a man willing to apologize. I haven't seen a lot of that in my life and I wonder if I'm wrong about him being a class-A jerk.

I also wonder who the flowers are for. A girlfriend he's had a fight with? Someone he's met since last summer when he wanted to ask me out?

For half a second, I wonder how things might have been different if Bear had asked me out. If he hadn't spilled on me or I hadn't snapped at him.

But I quickly brush away those thoughts, along with the hope that maybe the flowers were for me.