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Whiskey.

But not just any kind. The expensive stuff. The kind my dad keeps in his office for special occasions, like when he wins a big court case or his best friend comes over.

When I was younger, I’d wait all day for him to come home to hear about his day. Back then, I didn’t understand what winning or losing meant at his job, only whether it was a whiskey day or not.

Some days, he’d scoop me up in a big hug, swing me around, and shake his head, whispering, “Not today, sweetheart.”

Other days, he’d do the same, but before setting me back down, he’d say, “It’s time for the good stuff, Bear.”

Those were my favorite days. I’d run off, squealing, into his office. Carefully, I’d pull out the thick, heavy glass bottle and, with his help, pour a ‘two-finger’ serving of liquor for him.

I’d always scrunch my nose at the strong smell, but the color fascinated me most. It was a rich, amber brown that seemed to change color depending on how the light hit the glass.

What sparked the childhood memory isn’t alcohol or winning court cases but rather a pair of amber-brown eyes staring at me. They’re framed by long black lashes and set in a very attractive face.

The kind of attraction that makes your faith kick in because suddenly, you’re praying you don’t make a fool of yourself in front of a hot stranger with whiskey-colored eyes and midnight-black hair.

God, he’s nerve-rackingly beautiful.

I bet he’s never taken a bad photo, not with those cheekbones and strong jawline. My eyes practically drink him in, and the longer I stare, the more I feel the heat creeping up my neck.

I was wrong—very wrong—in my earlier assumption that being cheated on would make the opposite sex unappealing to me. I just hadn’t met him yet.

“Can I help you?” The low timbre of his voice draws my attention to his full lips, and I notice the faded scar above his top lip.

Lighter than the surrounding skin, the scar tissue is a flaw on his otherwise flawless face.

Knowing he is human and not some reincarnated Greek god makes me oddly happy.

When he crosses his arms, I force myself not to stare at how his biceps strain against his shirt sleeve or the prominent vein running down one of them.

Focus Bear. Stick to the plan.

It was supposed to be easy-peasy, but suddenly, it feels more like hardy-tardy. I take a discreet breath, trying to slow my racing pulse and fight the ridiculous urge to retreat to the safety of my apartment.

Swallowing past my dry throat, I push the words out. “Uh, yes…hi…um.”

Ohmigod, I can’t even form a proper sentence in front of him.

I clear my throat and try again. “I’m looking for something of mine.”

There. That’s better.

Needing something to do with my hands, I shift my tote bag from one shoulder to the other and immediately realize my mistake.

His gaze follows the movement before dragging down the length of my body in a slow, deliberate perusal. I can’t explain it, but he’s not leering. It’s more like he’s memorizing every part of me. And unlike before, I find myself not hating attention. I like that he’s looking at me.

If my heart wasn’t in overdrive before, it is now. I’m surprised it hasn’t bolted from my chest and galloped down the hallway.

I force myself to step back, putting much-needed space between us. His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t comment on the move.

A strange tension lingers in the air. When I can’t take it anymore, he opens his mouth, snuffing it out with a single question.

“What exactly are you looking for?” His voice is rougher than it was moments ago.

“A package?” I don’t know why it comes out as a question, other than I’m feeling so off-kilter that I can’t think straight.

His mouth briefly twitches upward before he drags his tongue over his bottom lip.

Oh God.

I tighten my grip on the bag, silently praying the heat creeping up my cheeks isn’t too noticeable.

Needing to look anywhere but at his face, I drop my gaze to his torso, which isn’t any better. The black fabric pulls tight over his taut chest, hinting at the muscles underneath. I force my eyes past him, and my shoulders sag in relief.

“Uh, that looks like it.” I point to a familiar brown box sitting on his kitchen counter.

He turns slightly to glance back, and I take the precious few seconds of his attention being elsewhere to breathe easy.

“Oh, that,” he says coolly like he didn’t bring it in himself.

The nonchalant attitude sparks a flicker of annoyance in me. Or perhaps it’s because I can’t seem to control my body’s reaction to him. I feel like I’m barely treading water, and he’s floating on his back, completely at ease.

His gaze meets mine again. “Found it outside my door.”

“Sorry about that. I’m new and just moved in. There was a mix-up with apartment numbers.” I explain, offering what I hope is an apologetic smile and not a grimace.

He nods once before abruptly turning and heading into his apartment without another word.

I linger by the threshold, confused by his sudden shift in attitude but also slightly relieved. I can work with impolite and hot. Sweet and hot would be a deadly combination.

When he notices I haven’t moved, he raises a brow at me. “Well, are you coming inside?” A slow smile spreads across his face. “Promise I don’t bite.”

Ignoring the way my core pulses at his words, I keep my lips pressed together and deliberately avert my gaze as I step inside.

I take an inconspicuous glance around the room and am immediately struck by how tidy it is.

A plush gray sofa takes up most of the living room, with blue and cream throw pillows on either side.

Matching side chairs and a coffee table fill the rest of the space.

In typical guy fashion, a flat-screen TV hangs on one wall, with a gaming console set up underneath.

The one thing that seems out of place is the stainless steel dog bowl on the floor. It's odd, because I clearly remember reading in the lease agreement that pets weren’t allowed.

Done snooping, I rock back on my heels. Now that I’m no longer distracted by looking around, the sound of running water reaches my ears.

There’s someone in his shower.

Of course, he has a girlfriend. Someone who looks like him could only be single by choice.

I refuse to acknowledge the way the thought of him with another girl makes my stomach churn. Instead, I focus on why I’m here.

The only reason I’m here.

Clearing my throat, I aim for a polite approach and get to the point. “I’ll be out of your hair if you just hand over the box, please.” My smile feels strained, but it’s there.

“That depends.” His mouth curves up slightly at the corners. The small gesture is enough to send tingles across my skin.

What is wrong with me?

Maybe I’m coming down with something. The start of a fever, perhaps.

“Depends on what?” I croak.

“Are you Teddy Bear Miller?”

My smile slips from my face for the second time in his presence. There’s an undercurrent of mockery in his tone, and suddenly, my blood is boiling for an entirely different reason.

My name has always been a point of contention. Although I’ve grown to love its uniqueness, that wasn’t always the case—especially when I was younger. Kids can be cruel and have an uncanny ability to turn unique attributes into insults.

I haven’t had to deal with it for a very long time. But now, those old feelings resurface, and it’s like the first day of first grade all over again, with my name being tossed around like a joke laced with malice.

“It’s just Bear.” There’s an edge to my voice I don’t recognize.

Instead of apologizing, he looks amused. Which only irritates me further.

“Just making sure the package gets delivered to the right person this time.”

The smirk stays plastered on his face, making me want to smack it right off him.

The thought is like a bucket of cold water.

This isn’t me. I’m not the person who fights fire with fire. I don’t do confrontation.

Taking a deep breath, I focus hard on composing myself.

“It’s just Bear,” I repeat, feeling slightly better when my voice comes out steady and calm.

“Well, just Bear. Here you go.” He slides the box from one end of the counter to the other, almost like he’s daring me to get it.

I hate that I notice how his arm muscles flex with the movement.

Refusing to let him see me flustered, I stride over, meeting his gaze head-on. We’re not exactly at eye level—he's taller, but not so much that he has to look down at me. And I’ve never been more grateful for my height.

Unfortunately, my face heats under his scrutiny, and I’m forced to drop my gaze first, praying my tan hides the flush of my cheeks. But when I focus on the box between us, the box with my belongings, I notice the mismatched tape.

Someone opened it.

And I know exactly who that someone is.

“You opened it?” I snap, no longer caring about being polite.

Screw polite, and screw him for going through my stuff.

“I didn’t know what it was.” He shrugs in that infuriatingly casual way like it’s no big deal.

“It’s my private stuff!” I practically hiss.

“Then you should have been more careful about where you sent it.” His brow lifts, daring me to tell him he’s wrong.

I want to. I really do. But I can’t because he’s right. The mix-up was partly my fault.

I open my mouth to explain and apologize but snap it shut just as fast. He doesn’t need an explanation, much less an apology.

Feeling defeated and no longer interested in whatever this back-and-forth between us is, I silently grab the box and head for the front door.

A few steps in, my biceps are already burning under the strain, but I refuse to let him see me struggle.

I’ve just crossed the threshold when his voice stops me.

“Wait.”

That singular word freezes me in place. If it weren’t for the urgency in his tone, I would have kept walking, or that’s what I tell myself.

Turning, I face him again, and we’re right back where we started. Back when I was na?ve enough to think this would be a friendly encounter between neighbors.