“Hey, I would have said worse at his age,” she offered, keeping her voice dry. “Probably with more profanity.”
Bear didn’t look at her. “He hates me.”
“Of course he does. You’re his dad, and he’s a teenager. Give him time.”
He nodded, still without looking at her. “I should go.”
“Oh.” She dropped her hand and stepped back. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
“Yeah.” He snapped his fingers for King, who reluctantly abandoned his belly-up position on her driveway. “See you.”
She watched him cross the street, King at his heels, and disappear into the house. Only then did she allow herself a long, shaky breath.
“Holy shit,” she muttered to Atlas. “This is not good.”
She picked up the scattered groceries, hauled the kayak to the side of the house, and headed inside. But instead of unpacking the groceries, she paced the length of her living room, gravel still embedded in her hair, the phantom press of Bear’s chest still warm against her palms.
She grabbed her phone and dialed Naomi, her best friend and the only person who’d understand the magnitude of this disaster.
“You knew,” she accused without preamble when Naomi answered. “You knew the giant was moving in across the street.”
A pause. “Which giant?”
“Sasquatch. Bear. Dane McKenna. The walking, talking redwood with the arms and the shoulders and the—” She stopped herself. “He’s across the street, Nomi. Right across the fucking street.”
“Oh.” A snort came through the line. “That. Yeah, Walker mentioned something about a rental on Maple. Must have slipped my mind.”
“He’s six-foot-fucking-seven. Nothing about himslipsanywhere.”
“Mm-hmm. And you noticed his shoulders.”
“Shut up.”
“And his arms, apparently.”
“Naomi.”
“I’m just saying. That’s a lot of detail for a man you don’t care about.”
Greta dropped onto her couch and stared at the ceiling. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You should’ve warned me.”
“About what? A neighbor?” Naomi was openly laughing now. “G, you’ve handled grizzlies. You’ll survive Bear McKenna.”
“It’s not that simple,” Greta said, dragging a hand through her hair and dislodging more gravel. “He’s got a kid. A teenage son who looks at him like he’s the devil incarnate.”
“Ah.” Naomi’s voice shifted, the teasing gone. “Logan.”
“You knew about him, too?”
“Owen told me.”
Owen ‘Ghost’ Booker was the enigmatic security expert at the Ridge who rarely spoke to anyone about anything— except for Naomi. She’d somehow slipped past all of his defenses, and they were now engaged.
“He said the kid’s mother died. Car accident in Denver.”
