Bear’s hand engulfed hers, warm and callused, and she was abruptly airborne. He hauled her up with the same care he might show a boulder—which was to say, not enough. She landed flush against his chest, the hardwood press of his pecs catching her off-guard. Six-foot-seven of solid muscle had no business smelling that good—like pine smoke and honest sweat—and she stumbled back, her hands flying to his chest for balance. It was like touching a furnace through his t-shirt, the heat of him radiating through the thin cotton.
King plastered himself to the back of Bear’s leg, the big shaggy menace watching the exchange like he had skin in the game.
He stepped back quickly, as if she’d burned him, and nearly went over backward when his heel hit King. He swore under his breath, something low and guttural, and caught himself.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She wasn’t sure if he was apologizing to her or the dog, so she brushed it off. “That’s some grip you’ve got there, Sasquatch.”
“Did I hurt you?”
He looked so genuinely worried that she almost laughed. Like she was some delicate flower instead of a woman who’drappelled down cliffs and dragged bodies out of avalanche fields. “No. I’m tougher than I look.”
“I know that, but what about the kayak?” he asked. “It hit you pretty hard. Are you hurt anywhere?”
“Just my pride.” God, he really was worried. The big, grumbly bear was worried about her. She found it oddly touching. “Thanks for the rescue, though.”
Atlas chose that moment to defect, trotting over to sit at Bear’s boot and lean against his leg like the traitor he was. The Lab looked up at Bear with such adoration that she couldn’t help feeling personally offended.
“Seriously, dude? Some loyal companion you are.”
Bear reached down to scratch behind Atlas’s ears. The dog’s eyes slid shut in bliss.
“Traitor,” Greta muttered, watching her dog’s betrayal with narrowed eyes. “After all I’ve done for you.”
Bear’s lips twitched, and he opened his mouth to respond, but King wedged himself between Bear’s legs and Atlas, nearly knocking the smaller dog off his feet as he claimed his spot next to his person.
Atlas gave King a disgruntled look before slinking back over to stand by her, head hung low.
“Wow, really feeling the love here,” she told her dog.
Bear’s expression softened almost imperceptibly at her comment. “Atlas is just being practical. Dogs know who’s got the good scratches.”
“Or the good treats. I’m guessing you’re the type who carries jerky in your pockets.”
“Sometimes. For King,” he added too quickly after a beat.
“Uh huh. Sure. For King.” She brushed more dirt from her hair. Tiny rocks worked their way down her collar, and she tried to wiggle them out, but it didn’t work.
Then she looked back up at him and realized her mistake. That wiggle had been more suggestive than she’d intended.
Oh… shit.
Bear’s eyes darkened as his gaze dropped to her chest, where her jacket had fallen open, then snapped back to her face with a flash of raw hunger that made her stomach clench.
“Gravel,” she said, suddenly breathless. “In my shirt.”
Bear didn’t respond. His jaw worked once, like he was chewing on something he wasn’t going to say, and then he looked away — out toward the street, the Jeep, anywhere that wasn’t her.
She used the reprieve to retrieve her thermos from where it had rolled under the Jeep, grateful for the excuse to put her face anywhere that wasn’t level with his. When she straightened, he was watching her again. Same way he always did. Like she was a problem he hadn’t worked out yet.
She tucked her thermos under her arm. “So. You’re really living across the street now.”
“Looks that way.”
Silence stretched between them. For nearly two years, they’d been crossing each other’s paths. Two years of her pushing his buttons and him growling back. Two years of that electric tension that made her skin prickle whenever he was near.
She’d been blaming bourbon for eighteen months, because she was usually drinking it when he was around. The bourbon wasn’t here today, and still every nerve ending was lighting up like Christmas.
