Chapter 8 Imani
IMANI
Iwake up to silence.
The storm must have calmed down overnight, because the wind isn’t rattling the windows anymore. The room is filled with pale gray light from the frost-covered windows, and for a moment I just lie there, wrapped in blankets, trying to remember where I am.
Tolin’s cabin. Right.
The grumpy bear shifter who did my dishes.
I sit up slowly, pushing hair out of my face. My curls have gone completely wild overnight, springing in every direction like they’re trying to escape my head. I grab an elastic from my toiletry bag and wrestle them into a bun that I know won’t last more than an hour.
The cabin is quiet as I tiptoe down the hallway in my socks. No sound of movement. No sign of Tolin.
But when I step into the kitchen, I freeze.
The dishes are done.
Not just done. Put away. The counters are wiped clean, the floor swept, even the dish towel folded neatly over the oven handle. I left this kitchen with dirty plates in the sink and grease on the stove, and now it looks like no one ever cooked here at all.
He did this. After I went to bed.
I stand there for a long moment, trying to make sense of it. He was rude to me all evening. Told me he’d rather eat his mother’s food. Barely spoke during dinner. And then, what? Waited until I was asleep to scrub the pots and pans himself?
The man is paying me to clean. That’s literally why I’m here.
I shake my head and start the coffee maker I spotted yesterday. Whatever is going on in Tolin’s head, I’m not going to figure it out on an empty stomach.
The bathroom door opens down the hall.
I freeze, coffee scoop in hand, as heavy footsteps approach. And then Tolin rounds the corner into the kitchen, and my brain goes blank.
He’s not wearing a shirt.
Just low-slung pants that hang off his hips. His chest is bare, broad and muscled, the kind of body that comes from years of physical labor. Chopping wood. Hauling logs. Whatever it is bear shifters do on mountains.
And the scars.
They’re not just on his face. But there are others too. A thick ridge across his collarbone. A starburst pattern on his left shoulder. Claw marks raking down his ribs, old and faded but still visible against his deep brown skin.
He’s been in fights. A lot of them, from the look of it.
I drag my eyes up to his face and find him watching me. His dark eyes are unreadable, his jaw rigid beneath that well-groomed beard. He looks like he didn’t sleep well. Like he’s been awake for hours, stewing in whatever thoughts keep a man like him up at night.
“Morning,” I manage.
He grunts. Which I’m starting to think is his version of hello.
“Coffee?” I gesture at the machine, which is now gurgling to life.
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“Right.” I remember now. He prefers water. “There’s a fresh pot anyway, if you change your mind.”
He doesn’t respond. Just moves past me to the refrigerator, close enough that I catch the scent of him. Pine and woodsmoke and something deeper, earthier. It cuts through the chemical smell of cleaning solution that still clings to my skin and hair.
I must reek. Last night I only washed up, too tired to do more than splash water on my face.
I’d showered before leaving my apartment, but cleaning solution got on me while I loaded my car.
And today I’ll be deep cleaning—more solution, more chemicals, more of that sharp artificial smell that makes even my own nose itch.
Now he’s standing in front of the open refrigerator, all seven feet of him, blocking my access to anything useful.
Seven feet. Nearly seven feet, at least. I’m not short at five-seven, but next to him I feel tiny. He’s got to duck slightly when he goes through doorways. His shoulders are so broad they seem to fill whatever room he’s in.
And those hands. Massive. The kind that could span my waist with room to spare.
I look away before he catches me staring again.
“I’m going to start on the deep cleaning today,” I say, keeping my voice professional. “The living room first, then the bathroom. I’ll stay out of your way.”
Another grunt.
“Is there anything specific you want me to focus on? Or avoid?”
He closes the refrigerator and turns to face me, a container of his mother’s food in his hand. “Just do your job.”
The words are flat. Not cruel, exactly, but not kind either. A dismissal.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do that.”
He leaves without another word, disappearing back down the hallway. A moment later, I hear his bedroom door close.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and stand at the window, looking out at the storm.
It’s worse than yesterday. The snow has piled up overnight, drifts reaching halfway up the windows. The trees are bent under the weight of it, branches drooping toward the ground. I can barely see Tolin’s truck in the driveway, just a vague shape buried in white.
We’re not going anywhere today. Maybe not tomorrow either.
I take a long sip of coffee and try not to think about what that means.
The deep cleaning takes most of the day.
I start in the living room, dusting every surface, wiping down the windows, scrubbing the baseboards on my hands and knees. The solution smell gets stronger as I work, soaking into my clothes, my hair, my skin. By noon, I can barely smell anything else.
Tolin drifts through occasionally. Never speaking, never helping, just watching. He stands in the doorway for a few minutes, arms crossed, then disappears again. Returns an hour later to add wood to the stove. Leaves without a word.
It’s unsettling. The weight of his gaze on my back while I work. The way he seems to be fighting some internal battle every time he looks at me.
I don’t understand him. He hired me to clean, but he seems almost pained watching me do it. Like it bothers him to see me on my knees scrubbing his floors.
But he doesn’t offer to help. Doesn’t tell me to stop. Just watches, tension in his jaw, eyes dark, and then walks away.
The bathroom takes another two hours. I scour the tub, polish the fixtures, replace the towels with fresh ones from the linen closet. By the time I’m done, my arms are aching and my bun has completely given up, curls springing free around my face in sweaty tangles.
I need a shower. Desperately. But I push through, wanting to finish the main areas before I stop for the day.
By late afternoon, I’m exhausted. The cabin smells like lemon cleaner and pine. It looks good. Better than it probably has in months.
I expect Tolin to acknowledge it. To say something, even if it’s grudging.
He doesn’t.
When I offer to make dinner, he shakes his head and grabs another container from the refrigerator. His mother’s food. The venison stew, from the smell of it.
“I’m good,” he says, and disappears into his bedroom with the container and a fork.
The door closes behind him.
I stand in the kitchen, arms hanging at my sides, feeling foolish. Derrick told me to eat in my room. To stay out of Tolin’s way. Last night I thought we’d made progress, sharing a meal, having something like a conversation.
Apparently not.
I heat up some soup for myself and eat it standing at the counter, not bothering with a plate. The cabin feels lonelier now than it did when I arrived. All that space, and a man hiding in his room to avoid sharing a table with me.
Fine. Message received.
I clean up my mess, wipe down the counter, and retreat to the guest room.
My phone buzzes almost the moment I sit down on the bed. Derrick.
“Hey,” I answer. “Everything okay?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you.” His voice is warm, concerned. “How’s it going up there?”
I glance toward the closed door, lowering my voice instinctively. “He’s... weird. But fine. Just a grumpy bear. I can handle it.”
“Weird how?”
“I don’t know.” I lean back against the headboard, trying to find the words. “He keeps watching me clean like it’s hurting him. And last night he did the dishes after I went to bed. Like he didn’t want me touching them.”
Derrick is quiet for a moment. “That doesn’t sound like Tolin.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug even though he can’t see it. “Maybe he’s turning over a new leaf.”
“Or maybe he’s plotting something.” Derrick’s tone is light, but there’s genuine worry underneath.
“Listen, the weather is bad. Really bad. They’re saying this storm could last another two or three days.
Don’t try to leave on your own, okay? If you need out of there, call me. I’ll figure something out.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Everything is fine. He’s grumpy, not dangerous.”
“I know. I just...” He trails off, and I can hear him choosing his next words carefully. “I care about you, Imani. I don’t want anything to happen to you up there.”
The warmth in his voice makes me uncomfortable. I know what he’s doing. What he’s been trying to do since I started at Shadow Suds.
“I appreciate that,” I say carefully. “But I’m okay. Really.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Call me if anything changes.”
“I will. Goodnight, Derrick.”
“Goodnight, Imani.”
I end the call and toss the phone onto the bed.
I need a shower. Badly. I can smell myself now, the chemical solution mixed with sweat from a full day of scrubbing. My hair is a disaster. My clothes are grimy. I feel disgusting.
I grab my toiletry bag and head for the bathroom.
The hallway is quiet. Tolin’s door is still closed, no light showing underneath. Good. I can shower in peace without worrying about running into him.
I set my things on the bathroom counter and start arranging them. Shampoo, conditioner, the deep moisturizer my curls need after a day like today. Body wash. Razor. The works.
But as I reach for the faucet, I hear something.
A crackling. Popping. Coming from the living room.
The fire.
I left it burning when I finished cleaning, not thinking about it. But it’s been hours since anyone added wood. It should be dying down by now, not crackling like that.
I step out of the bathroom and move toward the living room.